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In a manner of speaking

The first time it happened, we weren’t even married. Bill and I were on the top of Cadillac Mountain, at some ungodly hour that defied chronological time. Waiting in the dark for that magic moment. Waiting for the sunrise. Waiting for those first tremulous rays to touch North America.

The raccoons invading our campsite in Acadia National Park had functioned as our alarm clock. And the “we’re up — we’re here — we might as well do this” attitude had propelled us into the line of cars snaking to the mountaintop.

In the darkness, we intently stared east into the gradually brightening sky. From the groups of strangers around us, a voice called out, “Hey Bill.”

It was Neil Johnson, the legendary wrestling coach from SUNY Potsdam.

“Hey Neil,” Bill responded, and their conversation continued — 420 miles from home, in the wee chilly hours of the morning, Bill ran into someone he knew. In the intervening years, this situation has played out hundreds of times.

Whether it’s a hockey arena, a hotel lobby, or an amusement park Bill runs into a connection wherever we travel. These encounters occur with such certainty that my family places bets on when the inevitable will happen.

In fact, it happened on Saturday. After a bike ride in Tupper Lake, we grabbed a bite to eat. While waiting for our order, I hear, “Hey Bill, is that you?” Sure enough, it was Fawn, a Paul Smith’s coworker from 30 years ago. She no longer lives locally, and Bill had never been to this restaurant before, but I wasn’t surprised by the encounter. If he was shipwrecked on a desert island, lost in the Canadian wilderness, or kidnapped off the Orient Express, I am confident Bill would be rescued by someone he knew.

This doesn’t happen to me. Being a quiet, nondescript woman affords me a certain degree of anonymity, as I am easily forgotten. On the flip side, it makes me approachable and non-threatening, therefore I meet a curious collection of characters and kind souls.

It started when I was a teenager. Imagine my horror when an old lady positioned a negligee against me in the middle of a K-Mart.

“Do you mind, honey?” she asked, without pausing for an answer. “You’re just the same size as my daughter-in-law, and I want to make sure I pick out the right one.”

In shock, I stood red-faced while passing shoppers chuckled.

A tug on my arm in New York City — attempted pickpocket? No, someone seeking a steady guide as she crossed the street. Crystal healers, pirate impersonators, drunk ladies on tourist trolleys — they have all sought me out and I’ve conversed with them all.

Recently in Aldi’s parking lot, I met a friendly gentleman from Elizabethtown. Small talk turned into a long conversation. It turns out, almost 100 years ago, his mother was born then orphaned in Saranac Lake. All her attempts to locate any family had failed. Although she had passed away a while ago, her unsuccessful search still piqued his curiosity.

An address exchange followed. Later, I was able to follow enough public records to piece together some of his family tree. My Elizabethtown friend was thrilled to receive a portion of his roots, but I received unexpected gifts as well.

The most obvious is that I acquired an interesting pen pal. While we corresponded, I rushed to the mailbox in anticipation of a handwritten letter. Remember that feeling? I had forgotten that simple joy.

Additionally, unraveling a mystery is satisfying in itself. Each night I spent tracking down inconsistent spellings and dates proved to be a great diversion from all the things that I should’ve been doing. After all, what’s a sink full of dirty dishes when I could be sleuthing through census records?

But the most significant and least obvious gift came through the raw data of public records. Early death from tuberculosis or childbirth afflicted more than one branch of the tree. Second wives and families came as a result of the first wife’s death, ending with the older children becoming servants in others’ homes. The stark reality of the daily struggles and the brevity of their lives shone through with clarity. In contrast, it’s hard not to appreciate modern life.

My Aldi’s acquaintance may have been grateful to uncover some mysteries of his ancestry, but I am thankful that this chance encounter filled me with a renewed appreciation for the life I lead.

Yo Yo Ma once said, “Good things happen when you meet strangers.” And I am blessed to be a stranger magnet.

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