Fingers of One Hand

July 30^th is known as International Friendship day.  Yet it is not recognized in the US and is recognized only in a handful of countries.  The probable reason, to critics and consumers alike, since the celebration was originally proposed by Joyce Hall, the founder of Hallmark cards in 1919,  was to reject the effort as too obvious a gimmick to promote greeting card sales.    Well, I for one am glad that they succeeded, the critics and consumers that is.  We don’t need yet another benchmark day to make us feel guilty.  Don’t get me wrong.    Hallmark is wonderful.  Their cards put into words tear-provoking sentiments that people feel but can’t express.   But, as with other celebratory days, we would be more likely to pick up the card with just the right sentiments, put it in the mail and then forget for 364 days that we should live those sentiments.   Thankfully, friends don’t expect such affectations.  So Joyce Hall, thanks but no thanks for the effort. 

 I have no brothers or sisters, biological that is, but my life has been blessed with sisters, and a brother here and there, of my choosing, who to my good fortune have also chosen me.     And often I wonder if perhaps the bonds forged by choice equal or surpass those forged by biology.  I don’t know, and it really doesn’t matter.  I’m just grateful that those bonds exist, because my friends are my Other Family.

“God gave us our relatives.  Thank God we can choose our friends.”  Ethel Watts Mumford

A long time ago I heard someone speak about one of the signs of a successful life.  He described it as one in which, at its culmination, you would be able count one true friend for every finger of your hand.  I was quite young when I first heard this, and I don’t even remember the person making what seemed to me a profound statement, nor the occasion.  Eventually I rooted out the source, and the words have resonated with me far into my adult life. 

Long ago my father placed his hand upon my head
As he laid each finger down he Smiled at me and said
Some day son when you're a man you will understand
You'll only count your true friends on the fingers of one hand

(Lyrics by Charles Landsborough)

My parents both came from large families; my mother the oldest of 14 and my father the middle of 11.  They were raised in a small town, where everyone knew everyone else and many were related if not by birth then by marriage.  Friends were “BUILT IN”.  You didn’t need to go out and make friends.  For my parents, anywhere you turned “they” were there.  This was particularly so for my mother, whose father was a staunch authoritarian who felt that you didn’t need friends when you had family--and of course this fit the norm for the place and time during which my parents were growing up.  An integral part of my mom’s psyche, which she expected me to embrace, was that you must be wary of outsiders (meaning someone not related to you in one way or another): they were to be regarded with suspicion.   Yet, she was the nicest and kindest person I have ever encountered and the most loyal and generous of friends.  Her disposition, however, made her very selective of whom she allowed into her private sanctum.   Perhaps she had a fear of betrayal or suffered with a heightened sense of privacy.   So, while she didn’t outwardly discourage me from making friends, she didn’t encourage it, nor did she nurture my efforts.  My mother hadn’t needed friends.  With six sisters and six brothers and a myriad of cousins with whom she had shared her childhood and with whom she stayed extremely close, who had time for others?    She expected the same for me.  She forgot one thing: I didn’t have any brothers or sisters, and being the eldest child of the eldest child, I was without peer. 

 I didn’t have a best friend until I was in 7^th grade.    Why?  I don’t know.  Instead, I had lots of pals, but not one best friend.  I always got picked to play on the team, albeit the last one;  the one who always got invited to a party but was never expected to be the life of the party, and I always managed to be in the school play, although after a frightful Mary in the Christmas story, I was never the lead again.  It didn’t bother me too much as long as I got picked, as long as I was included.   Plus I was smart, made very good grades and was a favorite among the parents.  They all wanted me to be their child’s friend, thinking I would be a good influence.  No one minded being friends with the “smart” girl.  Those were the glory days when being a nerd was not embarrassing.   But the concept of best friend eluded me.  Actually, I always felt more comfortable at arm’s length, preserving my privacy…even at a young age.   In junior high school I finally got a best friend, and I must say, coincidentally or not, this became a truly happy time in my life.  For the first time I experienced the joy of shared secrets,   of prolonged phone calls filled with nonsense about the things we had done and seen in school just hours earlier.  To have someone who could tell you things you didn’t want to hear but told you anyway; to have someone who would tell you things that no one else should hear -- that was real.  That was friendship.  That was best friend’s type of friendship.    It was a warm and comfortable and wonderful, and it was exclusive.

“A friend, one who knows all about you and loves you just the same.” 

E. Hubbard

After Junior High, my high school years were not particularly memorable.    I found adjusting to high school painful.  I was pretty enough, smart enough, friendly enough, but I was overwhelmed with the size of the school, the number students.   I was also consumed by the usual angst and insecurities of most teens where one look, one word could turn a day from glow to gloom.    The pretty girl in the morning’s mirror was a horrid mess in the afternoon shadows. 

“Why didn’t I wear the blue dress?  Why did I say “that”? There’s something wrong with me.  I just don’t get Algebra.   Does he like me, does she like me.”

 So it stands to reason that during moments of unjustified despair I should hear those words from my childhood again—those words about filling my hand with friends--and wonder if I was doomed to die without even one of my digits populated.  Those words echoed throughout when, I never had another best friend.  My junior high chum went to a different high school and while we remained good friends and saw each other as often as possible, it wasn’t the same.  And as I glided through the halls of high school, I made friends.  I didn’t belong to a clique or a cohesive group of friends.  Instead, I gravitated among circles.

Friends and wine should be old

– An old Spanish proverb

Over the years, a lot of friends have come and gone.  Every once in a while, though, I can’t help but glance toward my hand imagining who’s there.

I’m in my third third now.  Decades separate me from those anxious years.  I feel secure in the realization that it doesn’t matter how many friends you have at the end but how many you have encountered along the way.   Perhaps, because I’m fast approaching a time of my life during which certain things should not be left unsaid, I am trying to give voice to my emotions and pay tribute to those who have by choice of happenstance joined “my other family”.

As years passed marriage, family, children, work took a disproportionate amount of time out of daily living.  Most friendships forged during those years were only vested in the casual hi’s,  how are you’s and the occasional social event that brought people into closer contact.    Even when an encounter brought you close to someone with whom you wanted to stay connected and with whom you might want to  pursue a deeper relationship, chances were that the whole encounter would be relegated to the “I will give you a call later” dumpster.    At least that was how it was for me.  Life became a series of priorities and some things just seemed to move lower and lower on the list.    Having had children a little later in life than most of my peers, I also moved into the realm of taking care of grade school children and elderly parents at the same time.   It was a decade after starting on this path that I heard the term “sandwich generation” for the first time.  I remember, figuratively speaking, jumping up and down and shouting.  “Hey that’s me. Let me tell you about it.”    What little time I had for social outlets were confined to those “must do” events – school functions, funerals, and a wedding here or there.  Friendships?  Well they went farther down the list of priorities.  The later in “I will call you later” became never.   There was no time at the end of the day for that phone chat, a much longed for “talk over wine time” became an illusion.  

Today, kids run in groups. And while there is safety in numbers, it is hard to imagine that any one of them engage in meaningful conversation with one another.   Every once in a while I watch Say Yes to the Dress, a TV show highlighting the trials and tribulations of a bride deciding on the ultimate wedding gown.  I marvel at these brides and the number of bridesmaid to whom they have granted the honor of attending them on their wedding day.  For some brides, the number of attendants  would populate a small junior college.    Don’t they have Best Friends anymore?

A friend to all is a friend to none.

-Aristotle-

I’m kidding of course, but here’s my point:  During that time of my life I would have abandoned home and hearth for a few hours with one friendly soul, much less half a dozen.

Long ago my father placed his hand upon my head
As he laid each finger down he Smiled at me and said
Some day son when you're a man you will understand
You'll only count your true friends on the fingers of one hand

Some friends do come into your life, stay for a while and then by design or circumstances, depart, often taking a little of you with them.  Others just become a blip on your memory’s radar.  Others leave an indelible mark on your life, never to be forgotten and ever to be cherished.  Yet, all are friends reside somewhere with us, forever. Their entities are etched on our very soul, to be carried within us for all eternity.

How do I love thee, Let me count the ways.

-Elizabeth Barrett Browning-

And as I look back on my life I am not counting the ways, but the people that have touched me profoundly, infinitely.   

Delia, my high school chum: tiny as a mite; near and dear to my heart during 50 plus years.   Unwavering and encouraging; unafraid to dish out an occasional dose exactly when I need it.

 Martha, my high school buddy who gave me a glimpse of what the all-American childhood and home-life was all about.  Unfortunately, it was through her that I realized that my family was poor, or more politically correct – economically distressed.    Our friendship ended when she went away to Mercer, and I went to Community College. 

Sandy: complicated by an early life filled with dysfunction, but sweet. Kind and supportive, especially when I needed her most.

Patti: tall and elegant, wise, pious; unwaveringly in touch with her faith, warm and engaging.  She made me want to be a better me.

Margie, my companion during the lonely early hours of the first shift at the Miami International airport where we both worked.  She was fun, cheerful; a frown never crossing her brow.  With a personal life a tad complicated, she had vowed to never let it get her down.  She made working through dawn fun, even for an inveterate night owl.   

Dottie: soft and gentle; mothering and nurturing even at the tender age of 16.  Sweetness and kindness then; sweetness and kindness now.

Joyce: charming, captivating, gracious; and what an incredible sense of style – made all the better by a generous and kind spirit.

Bonnie: a burst of sunshine with wit, intelligence and elegance.   Friends then, today and forever.

Debbie: fun loving with a quick wit, sometimes a bit …umh…risqué.  And she doesn’t hold back.   Strap yourself in and hold on. 

Then there is Lou, the quiet, shy girl sitting across from me in 10^th grade science.  It’s the first day of high school.  There are 4000 students at this school; I know not a one and I’m terrified.  She looks over at me and smiles; she has never forgotten my birthday.

Mike: the little brother I never had.

Ron: so shy yet so funny;  so intelligent; so detailed; so diligent;  he not only taught me  much of what I needed to know to do my job well, he also kept me in check;  he kept my impatient spirit from taking shortcuts;  he stopped me in my tracks.  When I said, “good is good enough”, he said, “you can do better”.   

Some not all.   I look at my hand again.

As life progresses it becomes more complex and tragedies begin to intrude.  Your friendships begin to be defined by tragedies rather than triumphs.  Visits to doctors to hear bad news; trips to funeral parlors to make final arrangements.  Your friendships begin to be cemented more often than not by those moments of despair, of loss, of pain.   Adversity does not diminish the friendship, it just takes it deeper, to a more visceral level where it is either pounded out of existence or cemented for eternity in the hopes that once the tears of despair dry, tears of joy will again surface.

“When you laugh the world laughs with you, when you cry you cry alone.”

Never was a statement less true.

 It took a tragedy that profoundly altered my life, that made me realize how desperately lonely a life can be without friends.     I lost my spouse.  He died and the grief and loneliness were paralyzing, terrifying. But in the depth of my grief I knew instinctively that my children had lost a father and did not deserve to bear the weight of my own sorrow.   And only during these days through blinding tears and emotional incapacitation could clarity reemerge with the help of a friend, then another, then another.  Those, whom I had relegated to the background, to the bottom of my priority list, began to resurface.  Through them and with them I found strength to see some of the most precious blessings of my life.

Later I lost a friend, not to death, but just lost.  Tragedy struck her, and when she emerged from her pain, she disappeared, for reasons only known to her.   I can only surmise that she had to run away from anything and anyone who reminded her of her pain.   I didn’t understand.  I still don’t.  

“A Friend in Need is a Friend indeed.”

My hand, I look at my hand.

Those that for years resided on the side lines emerged when I needed them; and without having to be called.    In my need, at the deepest point of despair, they came forward; they embraced me, sustained me, and are with me still.  

Bobbie suffered with me and for me.  She held a hanky while I wept; she lay with me and held my hand when sleep would not come to ease my wounded soul.   After the acute pain of loss and despair waned, she filled the empty chair at the dinner table, at ballgames, at music recital, to help me endure the fact that the father of my children, my real best friend, my husband, had died.  And she at least filled the physical emptiness to help dull my pain.

Annie:  That’s not her real name, but that’s what I call her.  Beautiful inside and out, but deplores her curly hair, which by all accounts is lovely, calling herself little Orphan Annie for the curls that emerge when the temperature hits 80.   She is unconditionally accepting and loving through good and bad times, and she truly is the sweet sister of my deepest wish.  

Renee: my shot of adrenalin.  I have never seen her tired, or unwilling to go that extra mile.  She’s taken my hand and guided me through some of the best places in Europe, taught me more about pro sports than anyone has a right to know and now shares my passion for orchids.  And her loyalty  never wavers. 

Carol: weeks, months go by, but a single phone bridges the passage of time and distance.  Talks linger for hours –politics, children, travel, books…the wonder of it all.  A Southern belle who loves Cuban food and salsa (the dance). that's my friend Carol.

Sue: my dear, dear sister-in-law, the best cook this side of Venus; who has created a strong, beautiful family; who lives a faith strong enough to move mountains and who inspires me to be better.

These are some but not all who have impacted my life.  And in between there have been so many others.  That they came into my life, stayed perhaps only for a moment or two and then moved on, does not diminish that while we shared the same earthly space, we were held together by bonds of kinship, loyalty and affection.    I have either been very lucky or very smart for I have been surrounded by people who have given me so much more than I have returned.  

My father once said to me, “Surround yourself with people smarter than you; then you will never stop learning.”

I will add to that...surround yourself with people that care and you will never walk alone.
 
 I should write a book describing these people; I should write a book about how they, not only touched but enhanced my life.  I should write a book to thank them.  But I can’t.  Instead, I dedicate this essay to them.   

To Those friends present, those friends gone, and those friends yet to come.