Friends And The Best of What Was.

Just after lunch every day, she pumped past my house on her new bicycle. She was on her way to play with our friend. Not me, though, I was stuck in the house.

My old bike lay on its side in the yard, looking as forlorn as I felt.

That summer, I was sure there was no fairness in life. At 9, and a year older than my childhood friend, I had to take a nap each afternoon while she was free to go play. Envy is a childish emotion, but I was, after all, a child.

It was the year of the polio epidemic, or the one I remember, anyway. My father, being a great believer in resting during the heat of the day, had ordered the naps as a precaution against polio. His theory? It can't hurt.

He put the pallet by the front door to catch the breeze and I was sure she knew I could see her pass by. Otherwise, why didn't she go around the block the other way?

We all know that unfairness doesn't begin or end at nine. For one thing, I had to take naps again the next summer. My father had a long memory.

During those years we were bosom buddies one minute, mortal enemies the next. In a small town, as in all neighborhoods, that can happen as seldom as several times a day, if your lucky and if your parents stay out of it. Most of the time, we were and ours did.

Later on, when we began driving, her parents had a newer car than mine did and more money for gas and new clothes. You know, all the essentials of a teenager's life. She didn't gloat and, by then, I'd outgrown the envy. And, no longer, were we mortal enemies, even for a moment.

Funny about life and fairness, it evens out if you look at the overall picture. We've both had our joys and sorrows. Though we've each moved several times over the years, to big cities for our livelihoods, and to small towns...perhaps drawn by the best of what was.

Lookin' back I can say, I never had polio and she's made one of the finest women I've every known. When I sent her this column, she had her husband make a frame for it and a picture she had of the two of us on our bikes that first year we had them. It's hanging here in my office and I treasure it along with the memories it brings forth.

No Rest From The Searching

I was looking through the filing cabinet where I kept the receipts for clothing and gifts. All the ones from the past two Christmases were there, in a special folder. In the kitchen drawer, there was a stash of grocery coupons, dating back 10 years. Hey, it was a deep drawer. I confess to a compulsion to save receipts and pieces of paper of all kinds. Not just save them, but know where they are should I need them. My search came because I needed to exchange a pair of pants. Guess what? I couldn't find it. Not right away at least. I decided I needed to reduce what I kept and change where I kept the stuff in the drawer.

That was seven or eight years ago. The drawer has dish towels in it now. The important receipts are in those folders in the filing cabinet. I've quit keeping grocery receipts. I tell you, I feel like I deserve a slot on the Today Show to discuss my success.

My dreams are fraught with futile searches for lost receipts and lists, misplaced paperwork, my wallet--especially my wallet--and such. The other night, I dreamed that I was scheduled to sing on Broadway and couldn't find the paper on which I'd written the words of the song. I asked if I could sing "Memory" from the play "Cats." That one I seemed to know by heart. I belted out the first few words and the notes rang loud and true. But, no, they wanted me to do the scheduled song. It seems, "Memory" didn't fit in this play. So I searched. Don't believe that bit about how dreams only last a few seconds. I know I searched all night for that paper.

I must tell you that, outside this dream, I can't carry the tune to "Happy Birthday." My husband insists it wasn't a dream, rather a nightmare--at least for all the people who had plunked down good money to see the Broadway play.

Why do I do this? I don't have a clue, unless it's because my mother didn't save very much and, what she did save, she couldn't find. When my father died, they'd been married 40 years and all their important papers fit in a shoe box. The Erma Bombeck columns I've kept wouldn't fit in a bushel basket. That may be stretching it a bit but, I haven't looked in my Bombeck Save Box in a while so I can't say for sure.

As a kid, I recall feeling anxious when my dad asked to see last year's income tax filing. I knew my mother was going to scurry around looking and, chances were, she'd thrown it away. And if she hadn't, then she'd put it in a new "better" place, so she could find it easier next time. Of course, "next time" had come along and it was the same old story.

Me? I know right where to lay my hands on those old Christmas gift receipts. My system is better than when I was looking for the one for those pants. Doesn't keep me from dreaming about losing them, though.

Lookin' back, I wonder if anyone ever told my mother about the old adage, "a place for everything and everything in its place?" As for me, if I start making alphabetical lists of where my "save stuff" is filed--and, yes, I've thought about it--I might need to start heeding another old saying, which is, "lighten up."

Send Off

During the beginning of Desert Storm, my television was dark and silent. The same was true when the U.S. went into Afghanistan and Iraq. I tried to watch, but I couldn't. There were, and still are, so many scenes of families being parted and the memories those scenes bring back are too painful to bear.

At the beginning of World War II, my father was in his mid-30s and married with two children, but it was his occupation that kept him from being drafted. He was a farmer.

His brother, Bryan, wasn't as lucky. He got his notice just after high school graduation. My dad fretted, his concern a sorrowful thing to see. They weren't just close as brothers often are, despite the age difference, they doted on one another.

I remember when my uncle came home on leave after boot camp. He had orders to Germany. There were family get-togethers with big meals, lots of visiting, and laughter. All of it made me nervous, but it was the latter that held the most ominous clue. For a family that was quick to embrace fun and gaiety, this laughter was short, loud, and forced.

It was a warm fall day when my uncle dressed in his uniform and packed his bags. We were all standing outside at my grandparents' farm, waiting to give him a sendoff, and he went from one to the other of us saying goodbye.

When he reached my father, the last in line, they lurched toward one another and hugged. I was about six and, to this day, the horrible sound of their sobbing still echoes through my memory and brings tears to my eyes.

My uncle came home, safe and sound. He too became a farmer. He and his wife eventually had three children, and my parents added another one for a total of three.

And the two brothers continued to be exceptionally close.

Lookin' back, I should have known they wouldn't be content to be separated for long. My uncle died when he was fifty-one. My dad followed four weeks later.

The Stroll

LOOKIN' BACK

I've been for a stroll. It's a lot more strenuous than I remember. I find myself just a little out of breath. Of course, sneakers and a carpeted hallway aren't as conducive to strollin' as white leather loafers and the hardwood floor at the community building were.

I bought a Fats Domino's Greatest Hits cassette a few years back and every time I play it I wallow in nostalgia. When Fats breaks into "I Wanna Walk You Home," I can't help myself. Next thing I know I'm strollin' down the hall. Hey, it's like sipping through a straw, you never forget the technique.

For those of you who don't remember, The Stroll was a popular dance in the 1950s. Ah, those were the times. The times of the poodle skirt and the poodle hairdo, pedal pushers, Jamaica shorts, and crinoline petticoats.

I have the volume on the cassette player--yes I have one--turned up to full blast. Maybe my mother was right all those years ago and loud music ruined my hearing. Or, perhaps, I'm just addicted to hearing rock and roll at maximum decibels. Anyway, I'm jammin' out.

When my son called and I told him what I was doing, he wanted to know what I was jammin' to. He laughed when I told him it was a Fats Domino cassette. First he laughed because it was a cassette and not a CD, then he laughed and said he thought maybe I'd broken down and bought "Rock That Body" by The Black Eyed Peas. Not likely, I informed him, listening to those guys will make your hearing go bad. I'd say I've never heard of them, but I have. However, I have to question how good can their songs be if they can't come up with a better name than a vegetable? I risked having him laugh at me again when I asked if I could "stroll" to their music. I think he's still laughing.

Whoops, excuse me, there's "Walkin' to New Orleans" and I'm feeling an urge to take another stroll.

Lookin' back is so easy when you set the mood and Fats Domino does it for me like no one else. I'm trying to imagine a teenager of today--when they get to be my age--reflecting on the music of The Black Eyed Peas band, then trying to convince their children it was "cool" at one time. And wait until that teenager of tomorrow asks, "What's a CD?"

They were Sister, Little Sister....

They were Sister, Little Sister, Boy, and Prissy and their mother let them run wild, to my father's disgust. But playmates were scarce on the farm and they lived close by, in the house reserved for our hired hand.

On this day, I ran as fast as I could, but Sister was bigger than me and Little Sister recognized the danger before I did and got a head start. So, I trailed those two as we circled our house, screaming in terror.

Boy was chasing us with a very large butcher knife. Thank goodness Prissy was at home with their mother. She was just a toddler. He'd have gotten her for sure.

Every time we reached the door to our screened porch, the one in the lead would peal off and gain sanctuary. There wasn't time for all of us to crowd through, Boy was gaining on us. He'd said he was going to scalp us and we didn't take it as an idle threat.

My mother heard the ruckus and came to investigate. Was I ever grateful, I hadn't made the porch yet. When she took the knife away from him, he threw a tantrum. Mercy, the words that kid knew. He might have been only three or four, but he had the vocabulary of a drunken sailor.

When my mom took Boy home to his mother, the only concern she expressed was for her favorite knife.

I was about 5 years old and spent a lot of time trying to understand about them. Sister and Little Sister had light brown hair and freckles. Next came Boy, who was an Indian and cute as he could be, then came Prissy with tight blonde curls.

Momma told me, when I asked why they didn't look alike, that Boy was from another marriage. That explanation didn't help a lot, because I didn't know what "another marriage" meant. I never questioned the lack of originality in their names, because names were way down on the list of what was odd about that family. To me, anyway.

As was often the case with hired hands and their families, they moved on in a few weeks. Long before I'd figured them out.

Lookin' back, I often wonder if anyone rescued Boy before he used that knife and think, perhaps, it was already too late the day he chased us around that old farm house.

Runaway

When he came seeking help, he captured our attention with his blunt refusal to give us his name or any other data. He captured our hearts with his spirit.

Some times he came to us for help on a regular basis, which we encouraged, but most often it was a hit-and-miss situation. He never had money and all of us, including him, pretended payment wasn't necessary.

He said he had a place to stay and family to help. If so, it didn't extend to the zipping of pants and tying of shoes. Probably, he didn't have relatives, but he didn't need them. He collected caring, sheltering friends like a magnet.

We didn't press him for too much information for fear that he might not come back. The first fact he gave us was his name. The next time, he told us he was a runaway. And then a few weeks later, he quite proudly gave us the telephone number of the home from which he had run.

His room hadn't been a comfort, for all its niceness, he told us. It had been a holding place; it held him from freedom. He'd watched from the window until he had been sure of the schedule and saved his money until he'd been "near about" sure he had enough.

Then, and only then, he packed his suitcase and walked to the corner. Within minutes, a Greyhound Bus appeared. How he got from there to us, we never knew. Whether it took more than one bus ticket we didn't ask and, at the moment, he wasn't divulging any additional details.

When I called the home where he'd lived, the man in charge said, "He's a charmer." Then added, "I'm glad he's safe." They knew he hadn't wandered off because his suitcase and clothes were missing.

Our Emergency Room staff continued to treat him for his diabetes and, each time, they called me to come from the Business Office to approve his free care. After a while, he gave us his social security number and then we knew, for sure, who he was and where to find him. And where to bill for his care in the future.

Lookin' back, I wish he'd been more inclined to talk. I wanted so much to know what strengths I'd need to run away from a nursing home at the age of 82.

My Best Friend

Always, she was my best friend. Some times the only one.

She was older than me, nearly twenty years, but she's the one who shared and kept my secrets. She listened to me talk about my fears and never belittled them. She let me whine about the class bully, the teacher who just didn't like me, and she celebrated my successes with me.

Best of all, she understood how teenage disappointments could truly be heartbreaking.

In turn, she shared vivid accounts of her life. Such as the poverty she had experienced during the 1920s and the Great Depression. She was the second oldest of nine children and told me she felt like a hired hand as she milked cows on the family dairy farm before and after school while only about eight years old.

She talked about how unappreciated she'd felt caught between an older brother who was the favorite and a younger sister who was a hair-pulling hellion. Her comfort came from mothering several younger siblings. She told funny stories about the "little ones" and their adventures.

I moved away. She didn't, but our friendship endured. She had as many pictures of my children as I do. I'm godmother to her youngest daughter and her son is one of my best friends.

Our relationship endured difficulties. At the time of my dad's death, she was newly widowed and needed my attention most when I was in the depths of grief myself. During the worst period in our lives and friendship, we couldn't comfort each other. But we continued to love and respect one another.

Along with her son and daughter, I helped plan a surprise party for her seventy-fifth birthday. We were excited and the event took place in our hometown in Oklahoma. A crowd of about fifty people gathered to honor her. Two of her remaining three siblings were there, along with her children and most of her grandchildren. Two of her sisters-in-law came, along with their children. They came from as far south as Houston and as far north as Oklahoma City.

Seems they all loved her as much as I did. The year was 1993 and she lived another nine years. At 84, I let her go, not because I was ready, but because she had given up the fight.

Perhaps you've guessed this great lady was my mother and her children are my brother and sister.

Lookin' back, I've said it before, but it bears repeating, "I love you, Mother. As I told you every time we talked, you were the best Mother and Memie anyone could have. Thank you for that."

It was the most fun I ever had. I promise.

We were in my grandfather's 1936 Ford car slowly bumping across the pasture when Peggy, my cousin who was 13, said she wanted to learn to drive.

I was only seven, but old enough to begin having misgivings right off when Bryan, our uncle, quickly agreed to teach her. For a 19-year-old, I thought he could be an old fuddy-duddy at times, however, I also knew he could be a daredevil.

The car was 9 years old and looked 30. It had hauled hay bales, hogs, and baby calves and been used to push-start everything from tractors to stubborn bulls. Wrecking it wasn't a worry. Evidently, neither was concern for life and limb.

From the back, standing on the hump in the floorboard, it looked to be a wild ride, so I grabbed hold of the front seat and hung on.

Once situated behind the steering wheel, the first thing she did was kill the engine. The first thing I did was get the giggles.

"Give it more gas," my uncle yelled over the roar of the motor. But she popped the clutch, killing it again. That move threw me down onto the back seat, from which I arose laughing and hoping she'd do it at least once more. She did.

"Let the clutch out slower," he shouted. That was easy, but she forgot to give it more gas. We bucked across that field as if we were bronc riders, me laughing harder with every bounce.

Here's where my misgivings proved insightful. When she got it started again, he stuck his foot on top of hers and on the gas pedal. Straight ahead we went like a shot.

She was screaming and begging him to take his foot away and I was giggling so hard I could hardly stand on my perch. Even Bryan was laughing.

The lesson the next day was the best of all, if only for the anticipation.

Lookin' back, I think my memories of that summer are so vivid because of the shared joy of those wild rides. And, too, it was the last summer the three of us got to spend that much time together.