Not Everything That's Not Alike is Dissimilar

I've often wondered how seemingly disparate ideas or persons or "things" come together. Some are strange bedfellows—alienated on most issues, but united on one issue. Proximity accounts for some coupling, happenstance plays a part, and even fate plays a role.

I recall sitting next to a complete stranger on a New York City bus—a city noted for its rapid movement and frenetic pace. The woman sharing the seat with me was engrossed in a book—even underlining passages. She noticed me looking her way, perhaps staring at what she was underlining—even though I couldn't read the words. I'm an underliner and note taker. I even trace over the letters of a passage that is particularly noteworthy—to me.

"Ever read Flannery O'Connor?" she said.
"One of my favorite authors."
"I bought this book for twenty-five cents."

And we began talking about our favorite stories and what that might mean.

"She wrote" she said, " of the Christ haunted south."
"Everything she wrote is ultimately about redemption."

Now we weren't exactly two people who might have a conversation—she had a cloth bag between her legs stuffed with clothes. I was aware of a musty aroma—and the smell of her being around too many chain smokers.

We talked nonstop for five stations—never about ourselves, just about Flannery O'Connor.

She loved "The River" and I loved "A Good Man is Hard to Find."

"My station," she said, "is coming up. Maybe we'll meet again."
"I hope so. Do you like Eudora Welty?"

As she stood and gathered her belongings—the canvas bag, book and a blanket tied with a rope— she said, "My name's Flannery. Changed it when I read the book. Next week, if I get hold of Eudora, it will be Eudora."