Old Friends

I am lucky to have friends from my childhood  days, friends from my early teens, friends from high school, from work, from church and from everyday life.

I spent some time a couple of weeks ago with two of them, one of whom I had talked to but not seen for more than twenty years, the other I see not often enough. When we waxed nostalgic over stuffed pepper soup, a fresh-from-the-garden salad and blackberry pie it, was like we had never been apart.

The conversation was easy, the hugs were genuine. This is friendship.

I have other friends that make me feel like this, and I hope you do, too. They bring back memories of carefree days of summer, walking home from school on a windy day, picnics in the park, walking along the water's edge. The unhappy feelings seem to melt away in their presence. 

Often on Facebook one sees the question, "which of my 268 'friends' would be there for me if I needed them?"

I can tell you without hesitation who would be there....they are the ones who know me well--my secrets, my foibles, my insecurities, my needs. They are the ones who remember the most insignificant things, like my Betty doll, playing hide 'n' seek in the pampas grass, playing with buttons or paper dolls, sipping Cokes at the old Mason's store--and turning them into everlasting memories.

I hope you have a friend like this. When I need them, they will be around.

Things Unseen

I hear people say that they believe in nothing.

How can this be possible?

We believe in things unseen every single day.

You say you don't believe in magic, but you've felt falling in love. You've seen a child's face when Santa's name is mentioned; what is more magical? You've seen the majesty of autumn leaves and experienced the Milky Way on a dark, still country night. You've held hands and kissed under a full moon. There is no better magic.

You say you don't believe in miracles, yet you rejoice in your new heart, or your friend's cure from cancer. Ah, yes, you say. A perfect example of doctors and science. But how was the science set in motion? Only a few become surgeons; only a few have the skill and tenacity and compassion to learn those skills. The thing is---you believe in the doctor. 

Yes, you believe in something.

You believe, without even realizing it, that you will awaken each day, that your needs of hunger and shelter will be met. You believe that the sun exists, that the moon shines at night and that the stars hang in the heavens.

Yes, you believe in something.

You say you don't believe in God, or Allah, or any Supreme Being. You have witnessed a birth, a sunrise, the dying each winter and the recovering breath of life each spring. You know it will happen; it always does.

Yes, you believe in something.

Do you believe that someone loves you? Do you believe that your child or your spouse, grandchild or your big, goofy canine depend on you? Do you believe that you'll feel better if you have ice cream or chocolate, or a cold Miller or a good night's sleep?

Yes, you believe in something. You have faith that you didn't recognize, for faith is the belief in things unseen.

Yes, you believe in something. 

Annual Meeting Report

The ninety-second annual meeting of the Flibbertygibbet family was held at the home of Zelda the Cousin on June fifteen. Also present (besides me and Zelda) were twelve first cousins twice removed, fifteen second cousins three times removed, a whole bunch of shirt-tail relations and some who aren't blood at all, but who think they are and nobody's gonna tell them anything else. It is pure conjecture that there were spirits of bygone aunts and uncles in attendance, but knowing this family there probably were several.

The purpose of said meeting was to dispose of the property of Great Granduncle Grossno Moss. He came to an untimely end while traveling to Tahiti with his fourth wife (Lotta, nee Bumm) on a sailboat made from Popsicle sticks.

The bone of contention is that no one wants the stuff, not even Lotta, who is willing to give it all to surviving wives two and three just to get out of this wacko family and get on with her fifth husband, Hugme Tite.

The problem is that at the forty-first annual reunion, some of the family lawyers, notably the firm of Shyster and Gimme, decided it was best to incorporate the relatives and make any holdings one-for-all. For this they got hefty dues and cauliflower ears. Nonetheless, the contract that was drawn up was unbreakable. (Those who married outside the group, like me and Zelda, were at least able to retain some assets, but Groamier and Pfister weren't so lucky. Another story.)

So the reunion became a corporate meeting, complete with election of a board and Roberts' Rules until I volunteered to take notes a few years ago. At least now we have gone back to pot-luck instead of day-old from the Fantasy Meat franchise in Goober County.

I digress. The meeting was called to order at 6:15 by President Biteme Finch, minutes were communicated and old business disposed of. After a statement of the clan finances by Mr. Shyster, a fight broke out in the porta-john. This was stopped by Phew Higgins, who removed the offenders (and the porta-john) with his front-loader.

After much discussion about the legality of the disposal of the  property, Mr. Gimme declared a free-for-all and everybody piled into their cars at Zelda's estate and headed toward Figleaf, Kentucky like a bunch of loons looking for cornbread.

Disappointment was rampant. Nobody, except wives one through four, a couple of concubines and an occasional Grand Pyrenees had ever set foot in the Moss house. Grossno was well-known for his addiction to frozen confections, large canines and women of shape, but no one suspected what his fortified mansion held.

At last count, according to the accounting firm of  Shotgun and Grabbit (fourth cousins, blood to Zelda but nothing to me, thank you, powers that be) there were four million, eight hundred seventy-six thousand, nine hundred and two Popsicle sticks, six hundred eight tubes of model airplane glue (explains a lot), seven bolts of sailing cloth, the entire contents of a Home Depot nail and screw department that he bought out in 1972 and thirty-seven cents in pennies from the couch cushions.

A brief discussion revealed that none of the bunch wanted anything, except the three-inch wood screws and the one-eighth washers, a pound of roofing nails and the thirty-seven cents.

The meeting was adjourned when it was agreed to cook hot dogs over the coals of the balsa in a pit made from upholstery tacks.

A wonderful time was had by all.

Respectfully submitted.