Reflections: Childhood friendship
Friendships pass through our lives as if on parade. Some march through with a flourish, like a band complete with horns and drums, only to have their sound change the further away from you they move until they can no longer be heard. Others are lively and colorful, immediately grabbing your attention, until you realize there is no substance beneath all those feathers and bangles and their sound, too, passes until it can no longer be heard.
But the float in that parade that makes you smile, the one you know took a long time to build, the one that isn’t all dolled up with imitation, is the float you will always remember and can hear no matter how far away it rolls. That is how it is with a true friendship.
I cannot look at a Fresca on the grocery shelf without smiling because it reminds me of my friend Diane, my float in the friendship parade. When she arrived at our Catholic school in second grade as “the new girl” there were no fancy pom-poms or crepe paper roses or streamers attached to her. She was the quiet, skinny, freckle-faced Irish creative type and I was the loud, athletic, deep-toned Italian competitive type.
We spent our elementary school years together, inseparable, until graduation day. We skateboarded until the soles of our shoes were worn. We had our first sleepovers together. We always volunteered together to put up the bulletin boards at school. We both took piano, though my forgetful rendition of “Chopsticks” paled in comparison to her amazing interpretation of “Spanish Eyes.” We hugged and kissed our pillows, pretending they were our grade-school crushes. We bought and listened to albums together (yes, albums). There were times we almost got caught, should have been caught and were really sorry when we did get caught doing things that our parents thought weren’t too wise. (Note to self: sneaking boys in through the basement window, not a good thing.) When we got locked out of my house, we went to the neighbor’s to wait. She offered us Fresca. Yes, Fresca. I’m smiling as I write the word. We had no clue what it was, but it tickled our noses and made us laugh. We would sit on the front porch of her house and talk about the boys we were going to marry and what we were going to be when we grew up.
She moved after grade school. Not too far, but far enough that we wouldn’t be able to share our high school years together. The float was pulling away, but we had built it well so it still roared in the distance. We kept the engine running by calling weekly, visiting monthly, even attending each other’s school dances with blind dates. Some were good, some were better left relegated to the “What were we thinking?” memory book. Many of our hairstyles went that same route too many bad ones to count. College was a bit tougher, but in the days when we used to still hand-write notes, we kept in touch regularly via the USPS and celebrated during the breaks. We have stood up in each other’s weddings, have been there for the births of each other’s children and comforted each other after the deaths of immediate family members. Our memorial services will be rocking parties for sure.
It is now some 35 years later and she is still the quiet, slim, freckle-faced Irish creative type and I am still the loud, athletic, deep-toned Italian competitive type. Though the distance between us now is the greatest it has ever been, we still keep in touch, as we always have and will continue to do.
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Tags: Bangles, Basement Window, Creative Type, Second Grade, Sleepovers