It's about six in the evening and, oh, no, the phone rings. The dreaded phone. "If they ask for me, I'm not here," my mother yells from the other room. No big deal. I'm used to this. I answer the

phone. The person calling says hello, but it sounds like "AAllo, is Naancy thaare?" Why would someone with an English accent be calling here? I decide not to take any chances. I lie and say my mother is not here. The mysterious caller doesn't want to leave a message. When I tell my mother about the strange phone call, she nearly faints. She knows who it is. It's David, her long lost pen

pal. "Who?" I say. It's time for some explanations.

When my mother was about nine, her aunt married a young man from Liverpool, England. That young man had a nephew who was a year older than my mother. The nephew, David, came to America to visit his uncle and his uncle's new bride. That was when my mother and David first met, eyeing each other from across the room, each thinking "Wow, he/she is really strange looking." My mother strange for her blue jeans and pony tail, and David strange for his suit and skinny legs. Not exactly a wonderful first impression. They met again when they were 13 and 14. This time the two spent more time together, and got to know each other better. One night while babysitting some cousins of my mother's, David convinced my mother to eat a sardine. My mother told me she will never forget the mischievous grin David had on his face while my mother cringed and vowed that she would never again touch anything that even remotely resembled a sardine.

A couple of years after this visit, the two decided to be pen pals. They wrote to each other for about a year and a half. Then, suddenly, my mother's letters got no response. She assumed that

David had grown tired of writing to her, and thought nothing more of it.

Years passed, children were born, husbands died, marriages crumbled, and memories resurfaced. Then that mysterious phone call. There have been many more phone calls since the first. In one of those conversations, the explanation for many unanswered letters was given. As it turned out, David's grandmother, whom he lived with, did not like the idea of her grandson writing to a young lady in the United States. She was afraid he would leave her. Consequently, whenever a letter from this young lady arrived, it was promptly taken and hidden. Why she didn't just destroy them, I don't know. It must have been fate stepping in. Anyway, years later, Granny died and the letters were found.

For three long years, David had been trying to contact my mother. After hitting brick wall after brick wall, and being assured that "No, I don't think that Nancy would want her phone number given out," his perseverance paid off. Both of them thought it would take an absolute miracle for them to find each other. They are to be married next year. I believe in miracles.