Old Friends

As I sat alone on the front steps of our new house, I saw a girl about my age walking down the street wearing a crisp white middy blouse and tan Bermuda shorts. I was surprised to see her turn into my yard and walk toward me. “Hello, my name is Cheryl. I live three houses down.” A jaunty sailor cap covered short brown hair.

I was eleven years old when my family moved into a new neighborhood, only ten blocks from our old. I transferred to East Ward Elementary on Beach Boulevard in the middle of sixth grade. East Ward was only two or three miles from my school of five years, North Central Elementary, but it seemed a universe away. North Central was one of the poorer school districts in Gulfport and, although my dad worked as a cable repairman for the telephone company, we were rich by North Central standards. My mother made the plaid cotton dresses I wore to school, but at East Ward, most of the girls wore dresses from Northrup’s, the most expensive store in town. Some went to New Orleans every season to shop for new wardrobes. I was surprised to learn that Gulfport had a yacht club and that kids hung out there in the summers, sailing their sunfishes around Gulfport Harbor, and going to Ship Island on private yachts. The children at North Central had taught me compassion for those who had less than I. Now I was the one who had less, but with Cheryl’s help, I made new friends. During the summers, when the others were at the yacht club, Cheryl and I made up our own fun.

I spent a lot of time at the Rose house. I noticed that Cheryl’s family had problems similar to those in my own family, but shame kept us from talking about such things as our fathers’ anger and my mother’s drinking until many years later. Today we would call our families dysfunctional, but back then, before Oprah and Dr. Phil, family problems were secret. Old friends know where you came from.

On summer evenings, a few window air conditioners purred, but mostly the rumble of attic fans muffled the squeals of children playing outside. Summer was rerun time, and there was no cable TV. People didn’t stay inside all the time, and neighbors knew each other. On hot afternoons, kids played softball on the empty lot and, on summer nights, we chased each other around the neighborhood, playing hide and seek. Any adult on the block could be trusted to watch out for the whole gang.

Neither Cheryl nor I had sisters. Her three brothers felt like my own, in good ways and bad. I remember riding bicycles down twenty-fourth street after a “make-over” session while our brothers ridiculed our bright blue eye shadow. Cheryl’s big brother Jim rolled his eyes at brush rollers covered with pink lacy caps and then charged after us like Frankenstein through the dark house after the Dr. Shock late night horror flick. Cheryl remembers my long blonde ponytail. I remember her bouffant hairdo and mini skirts. Old friends knew you when.

Most of all, I remember most is the giggling! One day, while Cheryl and I smeared oatmeal masks on our faces in my bathroom, men working on the back of our house told my dad “they sure do laugh a lot.” Each summer we would devise beauty plans and declare, “We’re coming out of our cocoons!” We would vow to get a boy friend the next school year. Then, of course, we’d giggle. Through high school and junior college, we giggled. We still do. Old friends have lots to laugh about.

Cheryl and I were both “good” girls. We did our share of sneaking around and doing things we shouldn’t, but our antics were tame and lame even by sixties standards. We were terrified of being caught. We strattled the fence between hanging out with the popular crowd and our own goofy brand of nerdiness. When we first began driving, someone taught Cheryl how to make skid marks. “Riding around” was our favorite activity. When she stopped at the gas station in mother’s grey Studebaker, she told the attendant, “fifty-cents worth.” On deserted streets, she rolled backwards, and then jerked the car into drive, the tires screeching and leaving rubber. I didn’t dare try such a thing with our 1959 Ford because my dad drove a telephone truck. It seemed that either he or one of his friends saw anything and everything my brother or I tried to do on the streets of Gulfport.

If either Cheryl or I dated a boy, the other usually dated the boy’s best friend – the double dates lasted through college and until my wedding when Cheryl, my maid of honor, dated the best man. Though Cheryl stayed in Gulfport and I moved to Baton Rouge, she was my sounding board when my mother was sick and dying. She supported me as I raised my children and rejoiced with me over the birth of grandchildren. When I complained about my “boss from hell,” she chimed in and ranted with me. Old friends stand up for you.

In January 1992, my brother walked into my widowed dad’s house on a Sunday afternoon and found him dead. Cheryl, who was visiting her mother on the street, heard the sirens and ran to my dad’s house. Once she saw what had happened, she stood alone in the yard while the coroner arrived and then left. For more than an hour, she stood in the cold until Daddy's body was taken away. She said wanted to be there because I couldn’t. I remember Cheryl in her sailor outfit, but mostly I remember her standing alone in my dad’s yard that January day, standing in place for me.

Almost exactly a year later, I stood in Cheryl’s place. Her brother Jim had a heart attack while visiting Baton Rouge. I rushed to the hospital to find that Jim had already died at age 45. I called Cheryl with the tragic news. I met with the coroner and stayed until family arrived. I was honored to be there when Cheryl could not—to stand in her place. Old friends stand in for you.

Old friends cannot be replaced.