I lay down on the sofa one afternoon for enough of a snooze to shut everything out of my mind, falling into a deep, mindless slumber. An hour later I was startled awake by an apparition of Alice Bjornquist, a girl I knew in fifth grade, appearing suddenly in my mind. There was no question it was Alice, although I hadn’t seen or thought of her for more than sixty years.

In our town Alice’s last name was synonymous with “ne’er-do-well”.  She looked exactly as she did the last time I saw her in the flesh so many years ago. Why had she appeared in my  mind so suddenly? When I knew Alice in school she was ten, the same age as I, a dejected little girl with straggly, uncombed blond hair, her mouth perpetually open, a vacant expression on her pale face. A too-big, wrinkled cotton dress hung on her slight frame. I never saw her smile or show expression of any kind. A sad sort of aura hovered around her.

Many of the ten or so children in Alice’s family were two years behind in school. Alice was in third grade, the same class as my brother Jim, although she should have been in fifth grade with me. Her brother Albert, who was twelve, belonged in seventh grade with my sister Katherine, but had been held back, so was only in fifth. I often saw Alice on the playground, but never spoke to her. I had no idea what to say to a girl so different from me.

The Bjornquists lived just outside the city limits, but too close to take the school bus. The  children arrived in their father’s rattletrap old truck, wearing faded, worn out clothing. Their inability to do their schoolwork correctly or on time was more fodder for ridicule. In so many ways, they didn’t fit in.

That fall of 1946, we had returned to Fergus Falls after moving many times during The War. My sister Katherine would attend seventh grade at Fergus Falls Junior High, while my eight-year-old brother Butch and I walked a few blocks down Mt. Faith Avenue to Jefferson Elementary. I had always been the shy one. Before the first day of school, Katherine lectured me: “If  you want to make friends, you need to show some gumption and talk to people!” I listened earnestly, determined to be more outgoing.

It was customary for the children to stay on the playground until the bell rang, waiting for a turn on the long steel slide …… with an exciting bump in the middle. Then we’d run back for another turn. But Alice always hung back, waiting in the background. Too timid to push her way ahead, she seldom got her turn on the slide. When the first bell rang we formed a line outside the heavy school doors until the second bell, when a teacher would direct us into our classroom.

Unfortunately for me (I thought), Albert Bjornquist, Alice’s brother, a tall, clumsy youth who badly needed a haircut and wore ragged bib overalls, had been teasing me on the playground, trying to get my attention. I ignored him. As the bell rang and we began to form a line, Albert pushed in behind me, poked me in the back and gave a yank on one of my pigtails.

Katherine’s pep talk the evening before, urging me to be more assertive, still echoed in my head. I turned around with my fist clenched and popped Albert in the face! When he saw the punch coming he opened his mouth in surprise, my fist hitting the edge of his front teeth, inflicting a wound on one of my knuckles that hurt more than I would have admitted. I regretted my foolish response, embarrassed by such a childish reaction.

What a terrible way to begin the first day of fifth grade, I thought. The gash on the back of my hand from colliding with Albert’s teeth hurt for a long time. Worse yet, I couldn’t get the astonished look on his face out of my head. To make matters even worse, I could tell he had a crush on me. Compounding everything there was a shortage of lockers, and the teacher, Miss Miller, had assigned Albert to share his locker with me. I was mortified. Fortunately, Donna Mae Lundgren, a very nice girl, saw my unfortunate dilemma and came to the rescue, offering to share her locker with me, thus saving me from a year of misery.

All these memories flashed through my head as I lay on the sofa that day, bewildered to find myself thinking about such long ago incidents, and wondering why Alice Bjornquist had suddenly come to mind after more than sixty years. My gosh, I thought, could Alice still be here in Fergus after all this time? I wondered how she was doing and whether life had improved for her over the years. With an aching sense of remorse, I wished I had reached out and been kind to her those many years ago.

I put the matter out of my mind, got up from the sofa and went outside to bring in the mail and Daily Journal. Back in the house, I sat on the sofa, flipped through  mostly junk mail and glanced at the slim newspaper. My eyes settled on the obituaries. Scanning the column, I read about the death of a woman named Alice who was born the same year as I, knowing instantly that it had to be the Alice Bjornquist I had known as a child.

The account began, “Alice was born in Fergus Falls in 1936” (the same year as I)…married in 1954, (the year I graduated from high school), and had four children. The article gave their names, followed by a list of places where she had worked, the church she belonged to, committees she had served on, and activities in which she had taken part, her hobbies, interests, and names of children, grandchildren, and other relatives.

At the end of the article it gave her maiden name, Bjornquist, with information about the funeral service and memorials. I was stunned. I sat there for a while wondering what my sudden awareness of her life could mean.  After long moments of reflection, I found myself wishing I had been kinder, more understanding, and had been able to reach out to her when she was so in need, those many years ago. I regretted my inability to do so as a child of ten.

Pondering the meaning of  my other-worldly encounter with Alice, I could think of nothing except to say in my heart, “Goodbye, Alice. I’m glad you had a good life. I wish you well, and hope we meet again someday.” Tears welled in my eyes as I put the paper down. The tears were for me, not for Alice.