Blog 14 - write about a photograph

My friend Vinnie stands tall and relaxed outside his home. He looks into the camera. His curly blond hair is long the way it was worn in those days. He wears a flannel shirt and jeans and stands with his hands behind him. The black and white photograph has the year 1971 written on the back in my handwriting. That is the year that both of us were 19.

That summer, we would ride around in his red Datsun station wagon or my red Oldsmobile convertible with our friends looking for something to do. Sometimes Vinnie would take us on one of his “shortcuts.” When he did, we knew we were in for a long ride. One time, he drove us around on dirt roads for a couple of hours. He just kept making left and right turns. We didn’t know where we were. Vinnie knew, of course. Then all of a sudden we came out onto a highway we all recognized. Not only that, but we were across from a Native American trading post. What fun! We went inside. There was nothing there that we could afford. We felt as though we were in a museum. After a while and because it had gotten late, we took the highway home. It only took us about 20 minutes because actually we were only two towns away. This is a typical “Vinnie” story.

Eventually, we all went our separate ways. Vinnie married and had two children. I moved back to New York. Years later, we were reunited. I don’t remember who contacted whom, but I learned that everyone was getting together. Vinnie looked and seemed the same, just older. His hair was still curly, but grey and shorter, and he was still his laid-back self. He is now divorced, his children are grown, and he has a granddaughter. We remain friends and have the same nice connection.