In retrospect, it was amazing that her parents had given her permission to accept our invitation. Having no clear picture of who I was aside from a grocery sack full of my letters, which I might add, they were not allowed to read, Sherry's trip was prefaced by a great deal of anticipation; her parents coached her, and a long-necked neighbor preached doom and despair, while friends queried about the need to visit "some hick girl in the corn fields." She carried the anticipation with her as she approached our airport terminal; it was inscribed on her face next to the wary smile and suspicious eyes. I, too, had been nervous, but by the end of the day, our misgivings had been washed away by a flood of chatter. When we once again stood in the airport terminal, tears welled up in our eyes; we were parting not as pen-pals, but as friends. The days ahead seemed a little more empty because we could share no more time together. As I prepared to fly to New York, I fostered nervous qualms, yet my anxiety did not reflect upon Sherry or her home; I was hoping wildly that we would still "get along." Letters did not fill the gap that had appeared after meeting Sherry; before we had been pen friends, but now we were friends who wrote to each other. It was somehow quite different, and it was I who felt in need of a shield. Conversation was slow at first, with each of us uncertain as to which topics would spark the most interest. I began to wonder if I had made a mistake in coming. Her excitable nature sometimes startled me, and when she told of incidents wherein she had screamed her rage at local friends, I cringed in silence, hoping that I never would evoke such fervor. As the evening crept away, our tongues relaxed and I felt somewhat relieved. I could be no one but myself, and I seemed to feel I was being accepted; within I experienced a mental sigh of relief. Looking at the clock, we discovered the hour was near 4:00 a.m. and thought it would be best to go to sleep. "Before we can do anything tomorrow," Sherry said, "I have to pick up the kitchen and pick up the living room. . ." I snickered and exclaimed, "Gee. . . you must be strong!" Any remaining tension broke under our laughter; humor worked miracles. The following three weeks passed in a flurry of activity, talk and laughter. I fell into the role of second daughter and was pleased that my temporary home proved so hospitable. Whether joking over evening popcorn or sudsy dishwater, it was obvious that I was no guest, but a welcome member of the tribe.