Twenty one years ago I moved eight miles east. I left behind the home where I reared my young children, the pink blossoming Crepe Myrtle tree out on the front parkway where my kids climbed, and the huge backyard, covered alternating seasons with gardens or weeds. We left behind priceless and some forgettable memories of life’s ups and downs.
Yesterday I received a call from a dear friend, now 84 years young. I promised to stop by and visit on my way home from work. When I walked into her home, little had changed in the two decades. My guess is that little had changed in her neat-as-a-pin home since the sixties. The maple coffee table with curly-q legs was protected by a sheet of glass. Colorful candy dishes held dark chocolate squares and Jordan Almonds. A grandfather clock against the wall was lined by dishes mounted on the wall. On the other side of the white brick fireplace, an out-of-season Santa and a Spinet piano. The piano, my guess not played much these days, displayed more family pictures.
We reminisced about those who had moved or passed away, sharing fun memories. “How are your kids?” Betty asked. “The one who fell down all the time was my favorite. What was his name?”
“That was Cheezy, the youngest,” I said.
“I’d been so afraid for you to take him on that group camping trip on the cliffs at San Clemente State Beach,” she recalled. Even more frightening, though I didn’t say, had been the time a young pediatrician threatened to report me, because I’d brought Cheezy into emergency three weeks in a row. He was clumsy. All but the memory of the threat vanished when Cheezy raced and banged into a door jamb as the doctor commanded him to walk to him. “I told you,” I said, “he’s clumsy.”
We’d all survived somehow.
We laughed about Jane, one of our friends, who had confiscated filled plates at a church funeral in order to reduce the portion size to accommodate all in attendance. Jane wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything. She’s the one who sat out in a lounge chair early in the morning to shoot pesky gophers that ate her gardens.
“Not long ago, Jane called me,” Betty continued, ”said she’d been having a bad day, and you just showed up at her door in Utah. She was so happy to see you. I know when you drop by here unexpected, it makes my day.”
Woody Allen said, “Showing up is 90%.” I need to do it more often.
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Gosh, this is so true! I am the queen of making plans but always talk myself out at the last minute. I have good intentions of visiting people or going places, but I always think it’ll take too much time or I won’t know what to talk about. You are a true example. Thank you for inspiring me with this.