24. Auld Lang Syne
Should old acquaintances be forgot — nope — but one of the sad facts of life is that we meet lots of people along the way, then lose contact with most. Sometimes, we even lose friends — people we really loved hanging with and sharing our deepest, darkest secrets and fears with.
I thought I’d lost a few of those tighter-than-tight friends, but I’ve come to learn that I didn’t lose the friendships — they were simply put on pause. For whatever reason – I went one way, and they went another.
During our separations, we did some really big things — got married, raised kids, bought homes, built careers, lost parents, and had grandkids. Mostly, we did a bunch of little things, the day-to-day crap that can be the death knell of friendships — or so it could seem.
A little background story. When I emerged from my full-time-stay-at-home-mom-stint, I took a part-time job at the local newspaper in its advertising department. All I had to do during my 15-hour work week was slap on a headset, listen to customers describe what they wanted to part with, type the ad, and be done with it. I quickly discovered I had three learning curves on my new job: 1) push the correct flashing light on the console phone, 2) push the correct button on the computer system to save and not delete the ad I’d just typed, and 3) sort out the rapid fire, Irish-brogue spewing from the worker to my right — the one I asked repeated questions of.
My, “What? What? What?” was not a back-to-back-to-back request for clarity about phones and computers, after all I’m not as daft as a mule, but the back-to-back-to-back, “What?” was because I couldn’t understand HER words – the ones delivered on a stream with nary a breath between. I’ll admit that on occasion my semi-daftness about phones and computers got her Irish up, causing her to toss her headset upon her desk and come push the damned button on the console or the computer. Whilst she was pushing this and that button — I feared I was pushing hers a time or two too many.
It wasn’t long before I deciphered the lilting spew of the Irish One. I found I really enjoyed her turn of phrase, and her sharp wit. We buddied up at lunch on the common, and before long I’d found myself a friend — a really good friend from across the pond.
Jennifer Lane was a bit younger than I and had a way unto herself. She was Irish-pretty, with reddish-brown hair and fair skin, and she wore her clothes really well. I think she was the first person I ever knew who wore Doc Martens, and she wore the hell out of them.
We became thick as thieves in no time at all and spent a few years telling tales of childhood and sharing dreams of adulthood — and then came the pause.
Another little background story. When Hannah was in second grade we took her out of Worcester Central Catholic elementary school and put her into a public school in our neighborhood. We thought it best for her to meet the kids who lived nearby and figured the best way to accomplish that was for her to go to the school a few blocks away.
I mentioned the change to Joyce McTigue, the wife of Tim’s cousin John, who lived across the street from us. She suggested I introduce myself to the Gagnon family further up on Wildwood because their daughter, Amanda, was Hannah’s age and they’d probably be in the same class. I took Joyce’s advice and called Debbie Gagnon. I explained the situation and asked if the kids could meet. She invited us to her house and told Hannah to bring a suit for a swim in the pool.
The kids got on great – and the moms did, too. Amanda and Hannah spent that summer doing the things kids do: biking, swimming, and having sleepovers — and Debbie and I spent that summer doing the things moms do — shooting the shit. In retrospect, I think I did the majority of the talking. Debbie did a lot of listening and a lot of laughing.
She had a great laugh, the kind that caused a few laugh-lines at the corners of her eyes. Those were the only lines on that woman’s face. Debbie Gagnon is one of those women — the really pretty kind who needs no makeup and looks dressed up in a pair of chinos and a button-down blouse.
Anyway, we became really good friends and though we lived a stone’s throw from one another, we tended to burn the phone lines with marathon gabfests — about this and that — and sometimes about more serious neighborhood goings-on.
When Hannah and Amanda headed to different high schools, Debbie and I had plenty of things to share and compare. And when they went off to college, our relationship waned a bit — and then came the pause.
Back to Jennifer. A few weeks after my blog hit the internet, I received an email — the subject line read: It has been at least 25 years! And just like that, the unpause button was pushed. Jennifer was back in my life — and we picked up right where we’d left off — except for the cancer shit, that is.
We emailed some and then we talked by phone. It took me a few minutes to sort out the rapid fire, Irish-brogue spewing over the line, but it was positively wonderful hearing her voice.
And seeing her face.
A little sidestep here. One of the things about sitting 24/7 in a chair is that you tend to lose track of which 24/7 day it is, but a day or so before Christmas there came a knock on my door and there stood Jennifer, half her face covered by a mask, and handing off a wrapped gift to Tim.
A little more background. On occasion, I’d looked for Jennifer on FB and learned a bit, like she’d gone gray, as I have, and that she’d become an artist — quite the artist. Seriously. Jennifer had beautiful snapshots of her work posted on her FB page — the few messages beneath tipped me off that it was her work. Who knew?
Anyway, back to my story. The knock came, she handed a package to Tim, then stood in the doorway while Mr. Wonderful and I pulled back taped paper wrap. To my utter surprise and total delight was the painting I’d made reference to in one of our back and forth emails. I thanked her for her kindness and, as soon as she slipped into the dark of night, I asked Tim to take my favorite van Gogh (Peach Trees in Blossom) off the wall and hang hers in its place.
Back to Debbie. The day after Christmas there came a knock upon my glass storm door. Standing in the cold was Debbie. She opened the door to the wave of my hand, and just like that, the unpause button was pushed. Debbie was back in my life — and we picked up right where we’d left off — except for the cancer shit, that is. “A banana bread,” she said as she handed the bag to Jessica who deposited it in the kitchen and headed upstairs.
The two of us started rambling — I was saying things like, “Come in. Sit down. It’s so good to see you.” I think she said something like, “I was at Amanda’s house and she asked if I’d heard anything about Sheryll O’Brien, and then she gave me your blog to read, and I read a sentence — maybe two — then left her house saying I was going to your house and she said I couldn’t just drop in without calling, so I brought a banana bread, I hope that’s okay.”
I’m not sure of the order of things, but I think that was the gist of it. She sat in the chair I pointed to and just sort of sank into the cushion, pushed down by the enormity of why we were together again. The pained look on her face made me sink inside, too. When her eyes filled, I pushed my emotions deep and said how happy I was that she stopped in. She said she had to stop, she just couldn’t walk past my house to get to hers.
Debbie said she’d only read a few lines of my blog, so I filled her in on everything. I could almost see my words layer upon her like bricks. Before she suffocated from the weight of it all, we swung around to talking about things we talked about before our pause — husbands — kids — and now grandkids.
Debbie was one of the people who used to read my stories before I became serious about writing books. She was thrilled to learn I’d published 23 novels, and positively glowed with happiness because I ended up doing what I always wanted to do. I gave her my last series, the Stony Beach trilogy, and she said she’d read them — I know she will.
I wish more of my friends, the ones who knew about my book publishing and my lifelong dream, had taken the time to read my stories or simply given some feedback on this exciting part of my life — a text, a call, an email, or even a thumbs up on social media would have been so appreciated.
Writing is such a lonely, isolating process — hearing from people about the work and getting a ‘congrats’ on pushing into my dream was wonderful and very needed. And when people who I hadn’t heard from in years, like high school classmates of mine, Karen Flynn Larson Gouin, and Sue Leblanc Rohr, reached out with enthusiastic support, it was just so thoughtful.
So, to those who brightened my day and life with a painting, a banana bread, or a thumbs up on Facebook, I thank you — and I hope to hear from you in the New Year.