I close my eyes, only for a moment, and the moment’s gone
All my dreams, pass before my eyes, a curiosity
Dust in the wind, all they are is dust in the wind.
– Kansas (sung by Kathy Spillane at our 8th grade graduation)

Girl your eyes have a mist from the smoke of a distant fire
– Sanford Townsend Band 1977

Dear Bernie –

The hardest part has been accepting how much I’ve forgotten. I remember having such a good memory. I’ve recovered some glimpses of you, hunted up old photos, talked to old friends, but there’s so I no longer recall.

We met in Sebastopol, California at Pinecrest School in Mr. Martin’s 6th grade class. (Did we ever see each other anywhere outside of Sebastopol? I don’t think we did.) Pinecrest was a half an hour walk from my house. I chose it over a closer school as a fresh start. I’d had too many problems with kids at my old school and hoped that a different set of kids who make school a less painful experience.

I don’t have a first memory of you, no meet cute. We wouldn’t have talked much. The first half of the year I got this insane idea that boys were supposed to go through a stage of hating girls. Since I hadn’t gone through that stage yet I figured it was time to start. If Mr. Martin seated his class alphabetically then you and I spent a lot of time near each other. I doubt if you had to suffer through any of my girl hating. Poor Kathy Spillane ended up doing that. I was horrible to her. I’m pretty sure she’s forgiven me long ago. I still haven’t forgiven myself.

That fall you and I both won prizes in a Bicentennial essay contest. My essay was about Washington crossing the Delaware. I didn’t believe a word of it and I won second place. It was a valuable lesson in doing well at school. In December 1975, as part of our prize, we toured the American Freedom Train during its stopover in Sacramento. How did we get there? I don’t remember.

Mr. Martin was nothing if not ambitious. The class spent a good part of the year fundraising for a trip to Utah and back. We did car washes and bake sales to raise money and got McDonald’s to donate two buses for us to travel in. We toured for a week, hitting Hearst’s Castle, Las Vegas, Bryce and Zyon National Monuments and the Grand Canyon. Sometime before we left on the trip I decided that girls were okay. I distinctly remember thinking that since I would probably marry one someday I might as well start liking girls now. And somewhere along the way I remember drawing pictures for the girls I liked. Do you remember the portrait of a horse I drew for you? It’s the only drawing I specifically remember doing. I remember it because I had a little crush on you.

I would say that the crush faded but here I am writing to you over thirty years later.

For 7th and 8th grade we attended Brookhaven. Brookhaven consisted of 6th, 7th and 8th grade classes. It was Brookhaven I’d avoided attending the previous year. Now I was back with some of the kids that I’d played so poorly with back in 5th grad. I’m sure we had classes together although now I can’t tell you which ones. I remember you being best friends with Diane James. I remember because I had a crush on Diane. You were voted a student of the month both years although you were only photographed for it in 8th grade. We were both on the honor roll.

It was at Brookhaven that I started hating school less. Less. I still hated it but I’d begun to develop a cheerfully nihilistic attitude. I’d been called a weirdo for most of my childhood. Sometime in 7th grade I decided that if I was going to be called weird I might as well be weird. With enthusiasm.

It helped also to have a varied set of classes with electives that I was interested in. The school day was divided into seven periods (plus homeroom and lunch). I was never stuck with one set of kids for too long. And there was Drama, a place where being weird was encouraged. I’ve assumed that you were in Drama but maybe not. I barely remember the shows I was in (Trial by Jury, Christmas Carol, HMS Pinafore – all condensed versions of the originals) much less who else had parts. I didn’t find you in our Yearbook Drama Club photo.

How did you survive Brookhaven?

We graduated. I discovered pot in the summer of ’78. That got me ready for being a freshman at Analy High. Analy is where most of my memories of you begin.

Passing through, passing through
Sometimes happy, sometimes blue
Glad that I ran into you
Tell the people that you saw me passing through –
Folksong by R. Blakeslee (though it’s always Pete Seeger’s voice I hear in my head)

It’s finally over and I survived –
1982 Yearbook quote from Bernice Jinkerson

Bernice Jinkerson
15 December, 1963 – 23 September, 2006

Dear Bernie –

I’d hoped to some day talk to you again, to catch up. To find out what your life was like in the years since I’d seen you last. To tell you how much I appreciated knowing you. Instead I’ll write the things I might have said here. I’ll probably say more here than I would have if we did actually meet. I’ve gotten far better at (knowing and then) saying what I’m thinking than I was back at school but I still take a while to warm up in a conversation.

I love the internet. It’s great for looking up old friends. I regularly run searches on the names of old acquaintances, classmates and co-workers. I’m curious to see what they’re doing with themselves. Sometimes I’ll contact the people I find. Most of the time I’m just satisfied to find out that someone is still alive and kicking.

I didn’t have much luck finding you though. So I posted a notice in my blog on January 23rd, 2003 –

And because one never knows who might be reading – I’m looking for Bernice Jinkerson (or perhaps Jinkersen). We both attended the same high school in Sebastopol. Last I heard she was working for Bill Graham Productions but that was over 15 years ago. I’m not sure that there still is a Bill Graham Productions any more. SJ and I have been wondering whatever became of her. Anyone who might have a clue what’s become of her, please contact me at chaosunit@aol.com . I get a tedious amount of spam so be sure to mention Bernice in the subject line.

The years went by and I kind of forgot that I’d put up the notice. Every so often I’d do a search for you but nothing showed.

The news came on January 14th, 2008, as news often does these days, in an email. The subject line read –

Bernice

Hi, Just wanted to let you know Bernie passed away in September 2006 from liver disease. As you most likely know she had a drug problem when in her teens which was brought on by parental abuse (dad). She beat the drug deal and had a good life until she died. When in the drug scene she got hepatitis the bad one which was the cause of her liver failure. We lived in Costa Rica for four years which she loved. She was a great person and I miss her a
lot.

I was at work. The morning had barely started. I suddenly didn’t have enough air. Everything got very quiet and I wanted to be anywhere other than where I was. But work is work and I’m a tedious machine. I took a deep breath, wiped off the tears and spent the next seven hours taking care of customers.

Fuck.

I’d posted that notice because I wanted to hear from you again. I didn’t need to hear much. I just wanted to know that you were out there living a good life. That you were well. Hopefully in 2003 you were.

I didn’t have more details than what was in the email. I still don’t. The writer responded to one of my emails, the one with old photos, but didn’t respond to my last. And why should he? I didn’t recognize his name. For all I know Bernie never mentioned me to him. I appreciated that he took the time to write at all.

Most people go through life oblivious to the impact they’ve made in the lives of those around them. They don’t realize that they’ve been missed.

I spent the next few weeks chasing old memories, looking for what I remembered of you and finding your memory in others. It was frustrating. We knew each other from 6th grade to 12th and I couldn’t find as many memories as there should have been for all those years. I looked up old friends and passed on the news. I wrote letters and I talked. When I could find them I reread the plays we’d been in together. And thought. Wrote and rewrote this letter. Many times.

I’ve learned that you can only climb a mountain one step at time; that difficult projects are best attempted in pieces. And getting started has been so hard. I’ve wanted to be poetic. Profound. Meaningful.

Ah well. This is the best I can do. We’ll have to call it enough. We’re not done. This is just part one.