In August of 1984, I was at the River Bourgeois community hall with my mother, watching the festival princess pageant. During the intermission, a man asked my age, and I replied that I was five years old. He said he had a little girl who was also five, and that she would be in my class when school started the next week. He brought her over to say hello, and that was that.
That man was Arthur Doary, a man who’s house I would spend countless hours and days at over the next decade. And that little girl was his daughter Amy, the girl who would be my very best childhood friend.
Amy and I were pretty much inseparable all through elementary school. We were in every class together, sat beside each other, and played outside every recess. On weekends, our rendezvous point was usually church; either I had already spent the day at her house and went home after Mass with my grandparents, or I arrived at the church with Grandma & Grandpa but left with Amy since I was spending the night.
We spent so many afternoons and evenings eating her mother’s cooking, I’m getting fat just thinking about it.
Henrietta’s specialties weren’t just special , they were something I looked forward to and, later, something I missed. She’d make us vanilla sundaes with homemade chocolate sauce and brownies you’d be wise to trade your pancreas for. Make no mistake, for a skinny gal, that Amy could put away a fistful of peanut butter cups that would scare you to death.
One of the best parts of being friends with Amy all those years ago was the fun we’d make. We were girly-girls, but not your run-of-the-mill ones exactly. Instead of playing Barbies, we’d make up our own secret language, or maybe write acceptance speeches for awards we planned to win when we grew up, or even start a dance group.
Yeah, that’s right – the Amy I speak of was none other than one-third of the community-renowned Awesome Threesome, a travelling dance trio we founded when we were 11 years old. I can’t tell you how many hours we spent in her basement planning dance routines, lip-syncing to Bananarama, and memorizing Janet Jackson videos. We were going to be stars. Skinny, kind of awkward-looking ones with unfortunate taste in performance costumes, but stars nonetheless.
It was hard to imagine, back in the day, that Amy and I would ever be anything less than the very best of friends. We never had a falling out of any kind, but, as isn’t unusual, we started running with different crowds once high school started. We both made good marks, participated in lots of extra-curricular activities, and were even on the student council together, but we just weren’t in the same clique. I suppose it’s normal for people to drift apart somewhat as they get older.
It wasn’t a clean break, to be sure. As I grew up, I thought of Amy often and always wondered what she was doing, sending her good thoughts in the process. She was the friend that, even though I had gone away to school and trampled through the house with a million friends since, my grandparents would ask about on a regular basis, and who I would always be happy to hear news of through the grapevine.
It’s been over 25 years since I first met Amy, and I’m happy to say, I just got home from a nice visit at her house.
The best thing about Facebook is how I’ve gotten back in touch with old friends, her specifically. It’s so easy to get lost in the chaos of life, and good intentions of staying in touch can be lost to the changes in your own world. Yet here it is almost 2010, and earlier today I was greeted at one of my favorite houses by a blonde-haired 30-year-old wearing a chic Argentinian shawl, smiling that same smile, serving me some of those same peanut butter cups, and chatting with me as though we were back in 1987.
We’ve made it a habit to get together for one of those chats every time she comes to Cape Breton on vacation from her fancy-schmancy job in Toronto. We talk about careers, marriage, kids, old friends, and we laugh – a lot.
I’m so glad we’re still capable of that after all these years, and I can assure you that, Facebook or no Facebook, I’ll make it a point to stay in touch with Amy. Many have come and gone over the years, but this one’s a keeper.
See you next Christmas, friend.
No comments:
Post a Comment