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in issue six
Scintillations
Real Friendship
Letters To My Younger Self
My Friends And Me
Real Dream Interpretation
More Real Dreams
Surviving Friendship
Grateful For That Kiss
Supportive Friend
Moody Girl
Making Friends
  With My Inner Critic
Low Speed Chase 
  To Power
Periodic Friend
Life Based Upon A Word
Follically-Challenged 
  Friendships

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Dana Ehrlich

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future issues
Issue Seven: Trust
Issue Eight: Power

previous issues
Issue One: Change
Issue Two: Balance
Issue Three: Spring
Issue Four: Goddess
Issue Five: Bravery

A friend of mine asked me to write an article about friendship.  I would never have agreed to do it, except she’s a really good friend.  I thought I’d write about times  when I felt I was being a really good friend, and times when I thought someone had been a really good friend to me .  All this introspection made me start crying.  Friendships can do that.

Once my best friend since the second grade was sick in bed with pneumonia.  I was living in Boston, working two jobs, studying for my masters degree, driving a disposable car and pinching pennies to pay rent.  She called and sounded horrible on the phone.  I knew I had to do something.  I finished cleaning my second house Saturday mid-morning, drove 45 minutes to my friend’s house in Worcester, stripped her bed, washed her favorite night gown, did all her laundry, wiped down the bathroom, jumped in my car, drove back on Mass Pike, and got back to Boston just in time for my last house cleaning job.  She never forgot it.

This past holiday season caught me off guard.  I don’t know what happened to November, but December got here way before I was ready.  Armed with 14 rolls of last year’s on-sale wrapping paper, I just couldn’t find time to pull it all together.  It’s three days before school vacation.  I’ve got my big package on its way to Holland ($79 to ship); two teachers’ gifts wrapped and waiting on the counter; the elementary school sales items ready to distribute; Mrs. Nextdoor’s special order candy hidden from the kids; a $10 work grab bag gift wrapped; my husband’s quilt pinned and, completely unfinished; and a bulging closet of toys waiting for some serious midnight wrapping.  I’ve made my last batch of brownies and am getting ready to sit down when the phone rings.  It’s my soul mate from New York.  She’s just as frazzled as I am and her list is longer because she has more kids.  She’s reading off her to-do’s and half-dones, and all of a sudden this frightened voice asks, “You didn’t get ME anything, did you?”  I laughed out loud.   We both started chortling and snorting, enjoying the exhale of the moment. No, I didn’t buy her a gift.  Not this year.  Not when they take November.

Recently I was giving a small birthday celebration dinner for  a loved one who chose the night before to hurt my feelings so deeply that I still can’t even think about it without feeling sad.  The day of the dinner, another dear friend came over early with her husband because she said I didn’t sound too good over the phone.  She hung with me in the kitchen while I recounted my story and tried to convince myself that the birthday person smiling in the other room could really have caused me all this hurt.   She listened quietly and heard my pain.  She felt my frustration because the birthday man really is just a wonderful, kind person who made a horrible mistake.  She let me say wonderful things about him and curse his insensitivity at the same time.  She didn’t remind me what a kind and loving person he is, what a great father he is.   She didn’t tell me that sometimes I make mistakes and we are all human.  She didn’t judge me when I said petty things to somehow lash out at him.  When I started to cry the second time, she quietly walked into the living room and asked her husband to take him out for a coffee before the rest of the guests arrived. They left and she made a pot of tea.  She helped with dinner.  She helped clean up.   She took home the extra quiche that no one ate.  She hugged me and said she’d call me the next day.  She called me the next day.   She held me together. 

I’m 42 years old and I woke up the other day and decided I didn’t have enough local friends.  How do you make friends at 42 years old?  Maybe I run an ad :  “Hi, do you want an out-of-shape, know-it-all friend from the East Coast, who thinks everything is funny with a bit of sarcasm on top?  Need a control freak to plan your outings and make you eat pumpkin pies on the beach?”   Or I could telemarket:  “Is this the woman of the home?  Are you a staunch feminist with a traditional upbringing?  Can you talk on the phone while cooking dinner, supervising homework and babysitting the neighbor’s lizards?  Do you have extra time to spare, and don’t mind getting to know a complete stranger?”  What about the safety issue?  In a world where we are continuously reminded that people are not quite what they seem, who is going to invite an unknown into their lives and their homes for this friendship nobody has time for?  And where would I meet these people, in the grocery store?  “Oh, I see you’re buying medium brown free range chicken eggs.  So am I.  Want to go for a double latte?”  Or maybe the library, “Gosh, you need a second copy of 1040 tax forms?  Me too.  What a coincidence.  We sure have a lot in common.  Want to be my new best friend?  Can I call you and bore you to tears with my latest heart break?  Can I borrow your camera for Saturday’s party?  Want to come for dinner and watch the game?”

Good friends are years in the making.  They need time to season and mature, like fine wine.  Years of experience goes into each one, carefully packaged with its own label:  buddy, confidante, teammate, colleague, sister, friend.  All relationships have special rules and memberships, limitations and taboos.

Our friendships form the safety net beneath the high wire act of our life.  They span the distance of where we’ve been and where we are going, and help hold our hand while we balance through where we are today.

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