My birthday is this week, another trip around the sun in trendy parlance. A good time to reflect or at least put out into cyber space some random thoughts that pop into my mind regarding my many trips in that orbit. While I was giving thought as to what I would write, I remembered an event from a few years ago that I felt was “column-worthy”.
The story that comes to mind falls into the category of what a small world it is, or perhaps more accurately, how social media can connect us. For all its evils and de-sensitization and invective-promoting excesses, at certain times the internet age and social media can bring people together and put a smile on your face. This is a story of one of those times.
Now, to me, a baby-boomer, social media means primarily Facebook. I hope it qualifies and that I’m not even more out of tune than I think. I tried Twitter/X but it was way too much and not how I wanted to spend my spare time, and I haven’t used Instagram or any of the other similar social media platforms. My law firm set up a Linked In account for me, but I have rarely used it and as I wind down my career, I haven’t tried to keep it up to date. I’d prefer to let our younger lawyers attract new clients and contacts. When I retire to the islands, I don’t want to get messages from people asking me if I could handle a reverse triangular merger for them or whether something they want to publish is defamatory.
So, it’s been Facebook for me. Ridiculed or mocked by many who call it Fakebook or worse, I have found it a fun way to re-connect a little with old friends and acquaintances from Christiansburg days and college days, and to keep up with happenings in the lives of current friends (I don’t need to know what happened to you at Walmart today, but if that’s what you like to post, go for it). I fall into the category of those who believe you can’t have too many friends – my daughters say there are only three degrees of separation in my life.
Also, if you have lost your life partner and live alone, and grow tired occasionally of arguing with your cat, and believe that television is only for sports, it is a welcome relief. As they say, the first step to recovery is to admit your problem – well, I am “on” Facebook, not excessively but regularly. I’m not an addict. I swear.
When I look at those who have “friended” me or those whom I have “friended,” they fall into four distinct categories – Christiansburg friends, college friends, law school friends, and Steptoe & Johnson (my law firm) friends (those whom I would not know but for my career choice to join S & J 45 years ago). These are the four special parts of my life, timewise at least, clear lines of division, and “but for” my connection to town or school or job or work, people I would never have known.
When it comes to Facebook, I have certain ground rules that I follow. First, posts should only be used for pictures of kids and grandkids (of which I have a wonderful supply), pets (my cat Scarlett’s column has a loyal following) and special travel and social gatherings. Occasionally you can remember lost loved ones or departed friends or big events. The platform should not be used for politics or personal attacks or selling things in my opinion (although I must admit, I did some of my Christmas shopping on the basis of “Reels” this past holiday). In fact, I challenge anyone to determine my political or social beliefs from my Facebook page (or this column). Too many friends on each side of the spectrum of this crazy world. I like to paraphrase one of my favorite poets, Rod Stewart, “do what you like, just don’t do it here.”
Back to this story. As I teased above, a few years ago I had one of those experiences that makes you appreciate the possibilities of social media. Through the “friend of a friend of a friend” thing, or perhaps through one of the Facebook pages established for those of us with Christiansburg ties, I received a contact from an 88-year-old lady living in Florida. She saw my name and wanted to find out if I was related to the “Evans King and Katie King” she had known from her days growing up in Cambria. She told me that Katie King had been one of her first teachers and that Evans King had been her principal at Christiansburg High. I will call her “Imogene,” because that’s her name. Haha (I hear LOL is no longer used by the cool kids).
I responded of course and told this lady that I was in fact Evans and Katie’s son. Mildly interesting you say, but when you were raised by school teachers in a small town and had as many connections to the schools as my family did for as long as it did, this is hardly surprising. Sadly, with the passage of time it happens less and less frequently, but at one point in my life most residents of Christiansburg had been taught by one or both of my parents or one of my aunts or uncles or cousins or had been in school while my Dad was principal or superintendent. It is now a significantly depleted group of Christiansburgers I hate to say.
This is where this story gets significantly more interesting, at least to me. When I was “messaging” with Imogene, always happy to share histories, particularly with those who knew my parents, she told me that in January of 1953 she gave birth to her daughter, at Jefferson Hospital in Roanoke. My mother was in the “maternity ward” with Imogene giving birth at the same time.
Imogene then asked if maybe that was a sibling of mine. I said “nope, that was me.” She said she hadn’t been sure (must have been that my youthful appearance on Facebook made me look too young to be her daughter’s age – I reject the other possibility). So, we exchanged a few more emails and she told me that she saw my Mom and Dad in the hospital with me shortly after my birth, and she showed them her bouncing baby daughter and they showed me to her. A poignant mental image for me, my parents showing me off in this 1950’s style maternity ward of this long-gone tiny hospital in southwest Roanoke.
Another endearing aspect of this story – I was born on my mother’s 40th birthday. Per my crack mathematical skills, Imogene was 20 years old, half my mother’s age, when she gave birth to her daughter. God bless them both for their efforts.
Imogene told me she never saw my parents again. She left the hospital before my Mom did and she apparently was no longer living in Christiansburg at the time. In other words, she didn’t know the “rest of the story.” She didn’t know that I was the first and only child born to Evans and Katie, a last-ditch effort still under review as to whether it was a success.
I cherish this story and am very happy that my Mom and Imogene were able to reconnect through this column. And the wonders of social media.
