Kinsler: The old ranger tells his tales

Sometime around Christmas I received an email inviting me to sign up for “My Story.”

“And just what is that?” someone (e.g. Natalie) might ask, and it would’ve been nice if I’d had a coherent answer, which I didn’t. Apparently, it has to do with my being old enough to still be fond of Kukla, Fran, and Ollie.

The idea was to have young people somehow preserve my precious ancient memories, lest my intimate knowledge of Pinky Lee vanish in the dust of ages. It’s actually a good idea, I think, as long as there’s something to discuss. For M Kinsler, whose mother once observed that I could talk a hole in a brass monkey, this is not an obstacle.

When the My Story people discovered that the Ohio Bureau of Investigation lacked interest in me, I was ‘matched’ with a “Reminiscence Guide.” Her name is Shay, which she adopted on coming to the United States because her real name is something long and in Arabic because she’s from Khartoum, Sudan. We were assigned to talk every Thursday at 5:30, and we usually both remembered.

Shay is an absolute treasure. At 23, she works as a substitute teacher (we shared horror stories about that) while she finishes a public health degree at Virginia Commonwealth U. And she is charming, and funny, and probably drives her academic parents crazy. She was given some sort of a list of questions, and occasionally we used it.

She would also talk to Natalie, and make her laugh. After she finally admitted that there was a boyfriend in her life, our joint parental antennae immediately deployed. Okay, kid, we asked stiffly. Just who is this hoodlum you’ve found? Shay laughed, and described a nice guy, a math major. We suspect that he may be afraid of her, so good.

Sudan was a British colony, and thus lots of folks speak English, which is simply miserable to learn. Shay’s was flawless. I’ve sent her pictures of the two of us, but the picture she posted on Facebook shows approximately nothing. I asked her about her home. She misses the food and the friendly neighbors who, by custom, feed everyone. She cannot understand why none of our streets hold communal meals. My response was that we’re all scared of each other for no reason, and that we’re kind of dumb.

We had ten discussions altogether, and we both miss her.

Mark Kinsler, [email protected], lives in a safe house on a safe street in a safe city with Natalie and the cats, guarded by dedicated state and local police and concentric radar nets manned by our soldiers, sailors, and airmen who insulate us from invasion and peril. Yep, we’re lucky.

This article originally appeared on Lancaster Eagle-Gazette: Kinsler: My Story helps me learn her story