Frick and Frack

I met a friend for lunch yesterday.  We became friends after finding out how much we had in common — our first grandsons born one month apart (we long ago agreed to disagree on whose was the cutest), both mothers suffered from Alzheimer’s (where every day for them is a new adventure and they never leave home), we have similar feelings about food and laughing (we like them) and politics (we don’t like them), and admittedly, we both claimed the same number of years (too many). 

We gave each other a hug.  I think we were glad we recognized one another.  We sat on the patio enjoying the warm sun and soft breeze.  The waitress served us hot-from-the-oven rolls — two garlic for my friend IBoops (she’s not employed right now) and two plain for me (I am).

We split an order of soup and salad.  I divided the soup into two bowls (I gave her more) and she doled out the salad (she gave me the most). 

“I found this great over-the-counter cream for dry heals,” IBoops shared.

That perked my interest.  “What is it?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Send me the name in an email,” I said, “when you get home.”

“Okay.”

“Mom’s so cute.  She tells me she is so tired and when I ask what she’s been doing, she says, ‘Oh, I’ve been busy’.  ‘Doing what, Mom?’  ‘Oh, the usual, you know’. Okay.”

“They cover pretty good for themselves,” I recalled.  “My mom used to invite me every day to watch John Wayne and Maureen O’Hara in The Quiet Man with her.  She’d say, ‘I found the cutest movie.  Have you seen it?’” 

Our conversation continued.  We chatted about grandkids and friends we liked.  We compared ex-husbands and family.  Most likely we’ll share them again with one another.  We might have solved a few of the world’s problems.  We won’t remember afterwards.  At least any secrets we shared are safe.

The food was gone and my lunch hour up.  “Don’t forget to send me Jeanne’s email,” IBoops reminded me.

“Okay,” I said.  “What were the two things you were going to send me?”

“One was about the heel cream,” she said. 

“Oh, yeah,” I answered.  “What was the other?”

“I don’t remember,” she admitted. 

We both stopped talking and stood still next to our table.  I look down at my feet, mentally walking up my body from the dry cracked heels up.  IBoops was recounting our conversations.  “Let’s see.  There was my brother, my mom, my grandkids, long term health insurance…”

We laughed and laughed.  “Well, I don’t remember.”

“Me, either.  It’ll come to us later.”

“Maybe,” I said.  “Sometimes now it never comes back.”

In the dark of the night, I opened my eyes and shot up.  “Hawaiian Bread Pudding, the recipe.  That’s what I wanted her to send me!”

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1. What they don’t tell you about growing old
2. Memory lane
3. Game night for seniors
4. You won’t believe it