My Oldest Friend

Now I don’t mean the friend I have known the longest – I mean my oldest friend literally- that was until she died at nearly 99. Funny, how we met, I was writing my monthly article for the newspaper on people from our community who gave of themselves and their time and her name was recommended to me. I had known her in passing to wave and say hello- but our time together sealed the deal-and we became fast friends. I must say I loved her and that is not a word I throw around loosely.

She was a marvel-her memory sharp as a tack, her independence inspiring, her heart as wide as the sea. She was wise beyond her years – if that was even possible – and she didn’t mince words but cleverly patched her thoughts together to help steer my ship without offense. Her memories were filled with color and detail remembering the ingredients of chicken soup made some 80 years ago and who sat where at the table to eat it. Her life was filled with an honest love-not sugar coated but real and candid and forthright. She filled my ears with some of the kindest words I’ve heard and affirmed within me the person I’ve always hoped to be. She saw the best in people and because of that she was surrounded by friends and countless social engagements. I think it was her love of life that drew people to her and each time I visited the phone rang off the hook with folks eager to speak with her. I used to joke that she was the most popular person in town and we would laugh, but I honestly believe it was true. She had a notepad by her recliner where she would list the people she needed to call back once I left-and her handwriting was a work of art.

Born in Brooklyn, her wish in life was that she could live in Sag Harbor. When that wish came true, she never wanted to leave. Simple pleasures were hers- her favorite food group was hotdogs and bologna sandwiches-she loved a measured spot of Scotch at night with seven ice cubes. She liked pretzels but cut down on them because of the salt content. Occasionally I would bring my small dog over for a visit and she would have a little plate of cheese already prepared for him. She was forgiving but she didn’t placate or work too hard to mend fences-she let them mend themselves naturally with time and space and she didn’t let those things keep her up at night. She did whatever the doctor ordered and followed a very healthy protocol-only having a bologna sandwich on occasion.

She greeted you at the door with a smile -hair done, earrings on, looking like a million dollars. Her house was neat and tidy and holidays brought out her collection of decorations curated throughout the nearly century she lived. She never forgot a birthday or an anniversary and you could count on her cards arriving in the mail way ahead of time. Her clothes ironed, organized and neatly hung, dishes sorted, bills paid, bed made. And if there was ever a problem with home repairs, yard work or appliance mishaps she took care of them with the help of her dedicated friends and local handymen. It seemed to me that she had perfected the life she wanted to live-each thing expertly placed. I remember she told me she never left dirty dishes in the sink overnight in case she didn’t wake up in the morning- she didn’t want anyone to think any piece of her life was in disarray.

I don’t believe that she ever complained about growing older-she took everything in stride and was grateful for each day. You didn’t hear much about aches or pains or worry. She was filled with a positive life force and spirit that kept her enjoying each day.

I think it is a good idea to have friends of all ages and find something to love in each of them. What an absolute treasure she was to me and she filled my life with a gentle goodness that will always remain with me.

The one challenging thing about older friends is they often have a way of getting to heaven before you (not to assume I’ll be heading in the same direction). Each day I feel the space created by her absence-I remember our time sitting in her recliners-our feet up, our hearts open. Ninety-nine years just weren’t enough. I miss her-I will always miss her.