Note. The following is all true and happened a couple of years ago. Each of you will take away something different from it.

Cue the theme song from The Twilight Zone:  De de de dum. De de de dum. De de de de deeeeeeeeeee.

    A few summers back Nancy and I both suddenly found ourselves with a few days off from work, so Nancy suggested we go off for a quick golf vacation. As she was heading out for her final day at work she told me she had left out a brochure of a place in Maine she thought sounded interesting and suggested I call the resort to see if we could get a room at the last minute.

    I called and was thrilled to find out they did have a room available, and very inexpensive at that. When Nancy got home I told her I had booked us a room.

    She looked at the brochure and asked, “Where did you get this? This isn’t the place I meant.”

    “What do you mean? You said you left the brochure out on the table. It was on the coffee table.”

    “I did, and here it is.” And she picked up a brochure from the kitchen table. “This is the place I meant. I’ve never seen that brochure before,” she told me, “I have no idea where it came from.”

    De de de dum. De de de dum. De de de de deeeeeeeeeee.

    After a short discussion we decided we’d try the place since I had already booked it. When we arrived we found our room to be more than satisfactory and the golf course looked in excellent shape.   

    The meals at this resort were all inclusive so that first night found us in the main dining room eating with a group of other guests. They told us they loved the place, came every year and always booked a year in advance because the place always filled up so quickly. No one would believe me when I said I had called up the day before, during the peak tourist season, and had managed to acquire one of the nicer rooms.

    The next morning Nancy and I headed out to the golf course, also having managed to book an early tee time.

    While we waited our turn to tee off, the starter, a senior citizen in his eighties, shuffled over and started talking to Nancy.

    “Where you folks from?”

    “Hudson, New Hampshire.” She told him.

    “Hudson? I know where that is, I use to live in Nashua.” He told her, pretty much ignoring me, which was fine because I was already getting bored with the conversation.

    “Oh, well, I just live in Hudson now. I really grew up in Billerica, Mass.” She explained, going into far more detail than I felt was necessary. I also thought it strange because she hadn’t lived in Billerica in over thirty years.

    “Billerica! I grew up in Billerica!” He told her. “I lived on Talbot Ave.”

    “I lived on Talbot Ave.” Nancy answered back. Now it was starting to get freaky when she told him, “I lived across from the Post Office.”

    “I lived across from the Post Office! In the blue house.”   

    “I was in the brown house!” They both stared at each other for a second before Nancy said, “Connie?”

    He stared back, “Nancy?”

    They had been neighbors in Massachusetts over forty years ago and suddenly met again now, on a golf course in Maine. He explained how he had retired and moved up here because he knew the owner. He lived across the street and helped out mornings at the course to keep busy. He went on to tell us that his daughter Cheryl, Nancy’s close friend as a child and someone she had played with every day, had recently passed away.

    De de de dum. De de de dum. De de de de deeeee.

    He asked us to stop by that night so that Nancy could visit with his wife.

    That night we had a very nice visit with Connie and his wife, Ruth. They showed us old pictures and swapped stories and took us out into their garden where their daughter’s ashes had been spread. We could see how much our visit was cheering them up.   

    The next morning when we showed up for our tee time, there was Connie waiting for us, his face beaming with joy in anticipation of our arrival. Nancy decided to skip the round of golf and so she and Connie sat under a tree and cheerfully gossiped the morning away. We visited with them again that night and their grandson, Cheryl’s son, stopped by and Nancy had us all laughing telling him about some of the crazy things she and his mother had done as kids.

    The next day as Nancy and I drove home after a thoroughly enjoyable vacation, we both agreed that the experience hadn’t really been for us, but for Connie, Ruth and their grandson. Somehow, we had become part of their healing process.

    De de de dum. De de de dum. De de de de deeeeeeeeeeee.