Some have many friends. I can count my friends on one hand; and no matter how many years between visits or conversations, when we get together it’s like we were never apart.
And that’s the way I feel about Becky and Diana. Flute players. Band friends. When you’re in the school band you spend a lot of time together. There was a ridiculous day in high school–I think it was called Friend’s Day—when everybody partnered up with someone, dressed alike, and spent the day together. In the box of memories stored along with my flute in the attic, there’s a picture of Diana and me wearing colorful overalls and big smiles—she was dark, I was blond; she had long bones and I, sadly, was stocky like my grandmother. And Becky and I—oh my—right under the band director’s baton, scribbling silly notes on our music folder. Sometimes we got to laughing so hard that tears ran and we couldn’t control our snorts.
These days Becky and her husband, Bob, live in Switzerland and plan to retire there. They’ve spent their teaching careers in international locations. In our overseas lives we met up with them occasionally—once, a dinner in Bangkok; and they visited us in Singapore a time or two. Bob teaches math and music, and Becky is a school counsellor. Every once in a while they come to the Texas Hill Country to visit family and I appreciate that they always make time to stop by. Since I’ve known her, Becky’s been in a constant state of evolution. Currently she’s vegan, has taken up running, and is learning French.
Toward all this self-improvement, I’m ambivalent. How admirable. How exhausting.
Diana shares her time between a home in San Antonio and a house on Lake LBJ. There was a twenty-five-year period when I had no idea where she lived or how her life was going—but when we met up again eight years ago, it was like we’d never been apart. It turned out she and I had followed similar paths—neither of us had pursued careers and we both had two sons of similar ages. We acknowledged that we were lucky. Few people on the planet get to spend their lives making their own schedules and pursuing good times.
When Becky lets me know she’s coming, I plan a small reunion. Also invited are common friends, MaryAnn and Nonie. Nonie also went to Amarillo High but wasn’t in the band. I didn’t know him back then, though Becky did. Oddly, I became acquainted with him through my husband, David, as he’s a Waldo family friend. Small World.
Anyway, seven of us are around the table and I am deeply content. True friends. If they’d move into the cul-de-sac and learn how to play Mahjong my life would be perfect.
Mostly the dinner conversation is a combination of high school memories and what’s gone on since. Nonie’s a storyteller and he tells how, when he was fifteen, he got arrested over something stupid—a rambling wrong-place-wrong-time sort of deal that has us all laughing. I’m also a storyteller and I share the one about the woman in front of me in church who had a tiny spider making its way from her hair, along her shoulder, into the neckline of her dress, out again at her nape, up into her hair again, and back out. Believe me, I heard none of the sermon that day. The wine flows and the food’s great. We move out to the back deck for our pie and cognac.
Later, after everyone’s gone and all in the house is quiet, I take time to think about how the years have changed us and how we’ve stayed the same.
For one thing, it’s been years since Diana and I have touched our flutes. I exchanged mine for writing long ago. Becky still plays. She’s in their town band.
Here’s a thing that hasn’t changed about Becky: A few years ago she showed up at our flat in Singapore with some random guy at her heels. There’s always been something about her that causes guys to follow her around—her attitude? Her smooth walk? Her sly snickery laugh? I never figured it out, but there’s no denying it. As to other qualities she possessed then that are with her still—she’s open-minded, big-hearted, and empathetic. I think, though, that she used to be someone who followed and now she makes her own decisions.
Diana. Well, her journey’s been a spiritual one. Her plans were shattered due to a crushing and indefensible betrayal, and she’s having to deal with that. Digging for strength when you don’t have the energy to do so; achieving peace in solitude when you don’t want to be alone—well, it’s been hell and I pray for her daily. The thing about her that hasn’t changed is that she fits in everywhere and in all circumstances. Since David and I have moved to the area I’ve hosted many get-togethers filled with disparate, sometimes difficult guests, and no matter how offensive some can be, Diana is never offended and she never offends. The perfect guest, she easily begins conversations with strangers, which is uncomfortable for me but doesn’t faze her. It’s her gift.
As for myself, I remember being annoyingly self-righteous during those high school years. I abhorred hypocrisy, rationalization, breaking rules, behind-the-back whispers, thoughtlessness, and cruel jokes. Yeah, I’m not like that anymore. I no longer get ruffled about things I can’t control—though I still have very little tolerance for stupidity. Like, if someone has lung cancer and as soon as the treatments are over they start smoking again. Or when someone believes that a nurse is injecting a microchip along with the vaccine. Or when someone deliberately hurts themselves just so they can post it on YouTube. Or when a driver is so unaware of where they are that they sit through a green light. Or when a mature human being barks at a dog. So I still enjoy a good rant now and then because there are lots of stupid people in the world.
As to old friends, they’ll always be my home.
Here we are. Good times then, good times now.
