Now that I am approaching 70, and recovering (I hope) from a back injury that has limited my mobility, Karen suggested that, rather than lying on the couch feeling sorry for myself, I should take this opportunity to go thru many boxes of miscellaneous stuff that I had, for some reason, saved and forgotten about. In other words: time to commence The Purge.
Amid all the old photos, letters, receipts, documents and assorted memorabilia (some of which I did not simply recycle), I encountered one letter that I was amazed to have saved, since it represents My Alternative Life That Didn't Happen. Here's the tale.
In 1982, a multi-year relationship had ended, as she returned to her east-coast life and family, and I remained in Portland - 30 years old, unattached, and drinking cheap wine.
My father died in 1983. I had spent many weeks that summer, sitting with him in a hot hospital room in our home-town, listening to the horrifying sound of bubbling liquid with each labored breath. He never spoke, but only moaned when the staff had to turn him, or pump out his lungs. It was gruesome and, after it was over, I was a shell of a person.
By early 1984, I was ready to feel like a human being again. At my local REI, I saw an advertisement for a small-group bicycle tour to New Zealand, and that sounded right. I requested and was granted a month leave-of-absence from my programming job, and that trip, in April 1984, was very good. In my files, I found a batch of memorabilia and photos (including a postcard I had written and mailed to myself from Picton, New Zealand, that said "Hi guy. You had a great time and I'm here now.", which I had not seen all these years). It was a watershed trip.
Back in Portland, I was ready to embrace Big Change.
One day, while scanning ads in Computerworld, I saw my chance. It was a notice from the Hopi Nation, seeking a programmer to move to Arizona and live with them, and help with their data-processing needs. I wrote to them, explaining that I was the Perfect candidate: I had lots of programming experience, no attachments to Portland, and, above all, great respect for their history and their ways.
The only hitch was that they sought someone experienced in the C language. I carefully explained that I was not genuinely experienced, but I had taken a C class, and had done the basic exercises. I further explained that I was very good at learning new programming languages (this was true), and had total confidence that I could be quickly productive for them.
Subsequently, they wrote back saying that they really did require C experience, and had offered the position to someone else. With that door closed, I proceeded to work on changes in Portland.
By the beginning of August, change had happened.
I had quit my job, and accepted my first assignment as a Contract Programmer.
I put a personal ad in the local 'alternative' weekly, and received several responses from interesting women (one of whom turned out to be my companion for the next 3+ decades - that's a "whole 'nother story", as they say).
I was on a new journey.
Then, postmarked August 17, 1984, was a follow-up letter from the Hopi Nation. The gist of it was (as you no doubt suspect), "the guy we accepted for the position decided he didn't want to move to Arizona - are you still interested?"
So, one day in 1984, I took that letter, shoved it into a file cabinet with other papers, and mostly forgot about it, until this morning.
Life is all about timing.
