One morning in July 2009, as I sat at my computer enjoying a cup of black coffee in Zushi, Japan, I began to think about my high school days in Arlington, Virginia.

I wonder what happened to Julie Case.

We had gone steady the whole year, when I was a junior and she was a freshman.  With hair the color of honey, blue-green eyes, and a smile that invited, she was the epitome of vivaciousness and good health, and a cheerleader.  Although I wasn’t good at sports and didn’t take much interest in them back then, I attended all of Julie’s football and basketball games and track meets, just to watch her perform.

When she didn’t have cheerleading practice, we studied together at her parents’ apartment or mine.  Every Saturday night without fail, we went to the movies at the local theater in Fairlington Shopping Center, a few blocks away.  Then almost every Sunday we caught the bus for Washington, D.C.  One day we explored the National Gallery of Art and saw the Mona Lisa when it was on loan from the Louvre.  On another outing we visited the Smithsonian Institute to marvel at the reconstructed skeletons of dinosaurs, not realizing what gargantuan beasts they had been.  In the spring we rented paddleboats on the Tidal Basin and picnicked under the cherry blossoms.

The middle of April Julie broke her foot during cheerleading practice.  For six weeks she hobbled to class on crutches with me carrying her books.  In May, with my Junior Prom approaching, I asked her what she wanted to do.

“Of course, I expect you to take me,” she said.  “My mother has already sewn my gown.”

In a black-and-white photo I still have, Julie’s strapless gown looks white, but is actually a subtle shade of pink.  On her right foot is a pink high heel; on her left, a bulky plaster cast tied with a matching pink ribbon.  That night at the Prom we danced all the slow numbers as we clutched onto each other.

Soulmates is an apt description of our relationship, and both of us knew we’d get married someday.  But that dream came crashing down after school let out in June.

“My father has been reassigned to Headquarters US Army Alaska,” Julie told me.  “We’re moving to Anchorage August first.”

I was devastated.  “Anchorage is 5,000 miles away!”

We parted with many hugs and kisses, and promises we would be reunited once again.  During my senior year we wrote to each other—at first two or three times a week, then less frequently—until finally our letters of undying love stopped.  I graduated and went to the University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill and never heard from her again.

Over the years I’ve thought of Julie often, as people do about their first love.  Periodically I checked Classmates.com for her name at Anchorage High School, but never found it.

Now that my 50^th high school reunion was coming up in October, I had another idea.  If I do a Google search for Anchorage’s reunion, I might be able to locate her.  Although their reunion won’t take place until 2011, they might’ve already set up a website.

I input the words, Anchorage High School 1961 Class Reunion, in the Google search box and hit Return.

There’s a link!

I clicked on it and a well-designed orange & black-colored website appeared onscreen.  I clicked the menu item for “Our Classmates.”  First, a list of “Found Classmates” came up.  I looked for the name, Julie Case, but couldn’t find it.  Then I checked the list of “Missing Classmates” and her name wasn’t there either.

It’s strange.  Maybe she didn’t graduate in 1961.  Or maybe she moved away from Anchorage before graduating.  In that case, I’d never locate her.

Then I noticed the “In Memoriam” box.  Reluctantly, I clicked it and checked the list of names.  When I saw Julie’s name, I froze.

That’s impossible—she was two years younger than I!

I sat there in a daze, staring at her name on the computer screen.  I felt the tears welling up inside me.

I’m too late.  Now I can’t tell her I never stopped loving her.

That evening, after the initial shock of her death had abated somewhat, I realized that except for the year we were together, Julie’s life was lost to me.  I’d never be able to hear, firsthand, her triumphs and sorrows.  Then I thought about my own life.

When I die, all my experiences will be lost too, unless I do something about it.

That’s when I decided to start writing my memoirs.

– Andy Barker

Note: Once again I’d like to thank Ron Thorne and Ken Odsather for getting in touch with me after I asked assistance in supplying information about Julie Case.  Also, I want to thank Douglas Dunham and Joel Wight for their help in piecing together the life of my first love.  Frank Morton, recently deceased, was also instrumental in supplying the e-mail address of Julie’s only child, Kristine, who I continue to be in contact with.