Last night I had dinner with my friend Lora. It has been almost a year since we have shared a meal and caught up in our lives. Oh, we've talked on the phone, had brief encounters between meetings, sick parents, kids, and family . . .but to have a little time to ourselves is very rare. Like most rare things, it's very valuable.
Lora and I met in 1973. We worked together in a trendy, hip restaurant. We were both in our early twenties, and arrogant as only young know-it-alls can be. It was the '70's and we shared all the temptations that the '70's presented to us. . . sex, drugs, rock 'n roll. We explored alternative lifestyles, and were strong advocates in the rights for women, as long as it didn't mean giving up our make-up.
I remember that I fell in love with her, in the way that a friend knows another friend . . .it's an innate sense of radar that pulls two people together. I have found this "friend radar" to serve me well though-out my life.
I moved to an apartment across the hall from hers and I cooked while she went to graduate school. I was carrying 21 hours in undergraduate school and working three jobs. We didn't have much money, but most every night we had dinner and conversation. We learned to make tomato juice and can it (in anticipation of elegant Bloody Mary brunches we never quite had.) I got my first cat, because of her cat. . . a long line of cats though-out the years. We had our first feeble attempts at home decorating. We thought we were independent, but we depended on one another.
As we became a little more prosperous, we pooled our resources and moved to a swanky apartment, in a not-so-swanky part of town. Lots of parties, lots of men (I was always convinced that my boyfriends were there to see the beautiful Lora , whose image graced the fashion page of the Tuesday Enquirer often.) The years in that apartment became a long history of memorable meals (especially the night she served steak tartar to her 80 year old grandmother) more laughs, dancing without provocation, learning to wallpaper, better decor and more talks than can be remembered. What I do remember is that we were never at a loss for words and there seemed to be a lot of very important things to discuss about the world, and how our lives would fit into that world.
It was at this point we both were clear on our need for moisturizer and "more make-up", her love of upscale parties and my love of beer. She was the mysterious temptress and I was the earthy, smart-mouthed, beer swigging, laughing girl . . .and guys were fascinated by both. We knew our power and we played with it like the sirens in tales of Orpheus and the Odyssey. (In hindsight, I realize we were more powerful and seductive than we imagined.)
When we entered the "professional" phase of our lives, we decided it would be more grown-up to have our own apartments. However, we never lived more than a mile from one another. Now there were dinners out together, three or four nights a week . . . and, of course, they were never quiet. There were new men and new focus. . . we were becoming serious. The party days were slipping behind us and we had the nagging feeling that we had to get on with our lives. We had plenty of fodder for introspection and we used one another as sounding boards. By now our hearts had been severely broken, and at times life didn't not seem as promising as it did in our 20's.
At one point in time, I entered a depression that would test any friendship, but this one never faltered. I remember her holding my head in her lap as she spoon fed me yogurt, talking gently, hoping that I might find a flicker of hope to want to live. I don't know if I talked much during that time. I do know that I cried . . . buckets and buckets of tears. The crying didn't stop for quite some time. She held steadfast through it all.
I introduced Lora to her husband. Soon after they were married and she moved away to Detroit, had a daughter, moved to Chicago, then lived on a sailboat for several years. During those early years I felt a huge hole in my life. I married, my career took off, bought and sold houses, got divorced. . . and looked for friends who could fill that void. Lora and I seldom shared meals, and had fewer long conversations . . .but the quality didn't seem to change. It was always like we were together yesterday.
Lora moved back to Cincinnati a few years ago. We had gotten used to being apart. We now have the family responsibilities and the careers we worked so hard to create . .they take up most of our lives. One can see that we're a bit more tired than we used to be.
We admit that we miss those talks . . .the sharing of our lives as we grew from young women into adulthood. Somewhere along the way, we became more humbled, perhaps a bit less hopeful about the years ahead.
But last night, we sat for hours . . .the conversation never waned, we talked about our kids, our dreams, our disappointments, the challenges and blessings of lives. We spoke of past relationships that held drama and how attractive we found them to be in our youth. I remembered how fiercely protective she is of me. She knows she is one of those people for whom I would "take a bullet". We were lucky enough to share the day-to-day minutia of each other lives for so many years . . . without judgment . . . with caring and commitment.
I still have my friend who speaks her truth to me and lets me know what she thinks of my opinions and decisions. She's never been afraid that I'll get angry or love her less if she disagrees. She still has a friend who shares her opinions openly, gives unwanted advice, and knows that I'll be there in bad times, as well as the good.
In a lifetime, if a person can have just one friend like this ...they've been given a gift. We have reached the place in our lives, were we know that the rest of our time here is short. We are grateful for every day that we feel good, still have our friends and family with us, have lots of things to laugh about, and are able to remember more than we forget. When the time comes and one of us leaves this planet first, I know what the other will miss . . . the conversation.
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