On a Clear Night

by Marnie O. Mamminga

  To paraphrase the great Wizard of Oz, “Pay no attention!”

  Apparently, some people only know how to pontificate about themselves, and after such a one-sided interview, your fun can quickly grind to a halt. Regardless, these classmates always add an interesting mix to the whole experience, so don’t take it personally.

  As my best friend from kindergarten likes to say, “I’ve got feet, and I can walk away.”

  4. SEEK COMMON GROUND. Once you’ve covered what people have been up to all these years, reconnect with a shared memory. One of my favorite moments came when a classmate greeted me with, “The O’s are here!”

  Four of us, because our last names began with the letter O, sat next to each other in every class and homeroom we shared in high school, right up to our graduation lineup. We always knew we were in the right place if one or the other of the O’s was on either side. His salutation provided that happy reminder.

  And as far as the present goes, many of us discovered we had more in common than we thought. We admitted we couldn’t hear as well, lacked the energy we used to have, and were taking care of elderly parents, but in our heads at least, still felt like seventeen-year-olds. Sometimes those connections make the best moments and bring the best laughs.

  So, find the folks who went to your grade school, belonged to your scout troop, attended your church, or played in your band. You’ll not only share some fine memories, but will most likely discover a new person among the old.

  5. BE GRATEFUL. One of the most poignant moments of my night came when a video displayed the pictures of classmates who had died. I was shocked to see how many were gone. And saddened to see those happy, beaming faces looking out from the pages of our high school yearbook toward all life had to offer. Tragically, their journeys were cut short. And for those of us in attendance, it was a profound reminder that this opportunity to be together was a blessing beyond words. All of those growing-up friendships influenced who we became, who we grew up to be.

  The best lesson of the night, however, came from two of our former teachers, one a renowned chemistry instructor and the other an outstanding basketball coach, who graciously took time out of retirement to visit with students from forty years ago. Icons of their era, they epitomized all the values that they had so tirelessly worked to instill in us: honesty, humor, hard work, goodwill, persistence, humility.

  We hoped we learned from their examples. For as the popular coach noted, it was unlikely that many of us would ever see each other again, and therefore, what could be more important than making the commitment to revisit old friends?

  He was right on target. It was the best reunion I’ve attended so far. In case you missed yours, here’s one final tip:

  6. GIVE AN OLD FRIEND A CALL. It’s never too late. You’ll be so glad you did. And next time, be there.

  Class dismissed.

  Old Friends

  We had been young together once.

  Now, seated in a dimly lit restaurant almost forty years since our college and newlywed days, the four of us all but failed in our efforts to discreetly observe how the others had aged.

  In fact, we could only stare. Our handsome husbands’ hair had thinned and silvered, and my brightly smiling sorority sister and I would not be slipping back into our bikinis for a rooftop sunbath anytime soon. Three of us pulled out glasses to read the menu. The fourth already had his on.

  Nevertheless, we were joyful to see each other again after almost three decades apart.

  “Gosh, you look great!!” we gushed to one another.

  And we meant it. After all, we were healthy, happy, and reasonably fit. It’s just—how did we get so old so fast?

  Weren’t we just girls in bell-bottoms with long hair? Weren’t the guys just slugging baseballs and running the court offense? Weren’t we four newlyweds just staying up way past midnight in a hilarious card game or planning a camping trip out west?

  Back then we were young, energetic, and inspired by life’s opportunities as we struck out on our own as young adults. But after spending our college and newly married days together, these close friends chose a career move that sent them out east to New Jersey.

  Although separated by thousands of miles, our lives continued to follow similar paths. We purchased homes, settled into careers, and raised children born at about the same time. Over the years we kept in touch with Christmas cards and were able to see each other a few times when they returned to Illinois to visit family.

  Flash forward thirty years. As we sat and stared at each other over dinner, we all wondered aloud, “Where did the time go?” We found it amazing to think that our children had grown up and moved away. (Two of our children were even married on the same day.) My husband and I were both caring for aging parents, we were soon to be grandparents, and our friends were retired and moving to Nashville.

  Retired? Nashville? Fewer taxes there, they explained, which launched us into a discussion of the many new things to think about as we hit our “autumn years.”

  Though life is good and full of promise, it seems to us that each day is picking up speed, and the world is spinning faster. We see someone in the grocery store with whom we worked on a school or church committee when our kids were growing up, and as we push our cart past and nod hello, we think to ourselves, Wow, he’s aged. Of course, that person is thinking the same about us. We’d greet him by name, but we can’t remember it.

  We drive down the street and swerve around some old guy on a bicycle, then realize that “old guy” was in our high school class.

  The clerk at the store checks our driver’s licenses and reminds us we’re eligible for the senior citizen discount.

  As the first batch of Baby Boomers to hit retirement age, we marvel that we feel so young inside, while we deal with graying and thinning hair, aging skin, and weight gain on the outside. We try to fight it with exercise, diets, makeup, and hair dye; some take extreme measures like Botox and cosmetic surgery. We even try to proclaim that sixty is the new middle age. Who are we kidding?

  Over the centuries, of course, many a poet has lamented the idea of fleeting youth. Perhaps the Psalmist said it most succinctly: “I am but a sojourner on earth.” The big question, of course, is: what are we Baby Boomers going to do about the time we have left? Clearly, it’s not a time to sit back in a recliner and watch TV. Rather, as the old scout motto goes, it’s a time to leave the campground better than we found it.

  As our evening with our friends drew to a close, we shared a final laugh over the campground experiences we shared on the crazy trip to the West Coast we’d taken together in our early twenties.

  Although we thought we were well prepared, much went wrong. In our youthful naïveté, we had crossed the desert with no water, traveled on a penniless budget, slept in borrowed canvas Boy Scout tents with no floors, snuggled in sleeping bags not warm enough for frigid mountain air, brought a Coleman stove that we could never get to work, and had our car broken into when we went off sightseeing.

  Yet looking back, what a joyous adventure it had been. Because our cameras were stolen, we have few pictures of that trip. But I still remember the night we camped on the pine-scented slope of Mount Rainier and watched as, one by one, the golden glow of other campers’ fires lit the forest like a string of mountain fireflies.

  Someday, I’d like to repeat that trip. (Maybe in a pop-up camper this time.) But in the meantime, I’ll cherish these lifelong friends, the memories we’ve shared, and the opportunities to keep in touch no matter how many miles separate us.

  Thankfully, some small measure of wisdom accompanies the aging process and, with it, the realization that lifelong friendships are beautiful gifts. Despite the busy nature of life, it is worth every effort to keep them going.

  For when we do, at least for one fleeting moment in time, our hearts feel young again.

  Comfort and Joy

  The smell in the bone marrow transplant wing is unsettling. Three close friends holed up in the dim and dreary i
solation room of a teaching hospital try unsuccessfully to ignore it.

  Two of the women are in visitors’ chairs; the third sits propped up on a bed as mega-doses of chemotherapy drugs drip into her veins. It is two days before Christmas, but we are not merry.

  Ravaged by breast cancer, Nancy has already endured a mastectomy, radiation, and six months of chemotherapy. Because the cancer has infiltrated her lymph nodes, she has chosen to undergo a risky experimental bone marrow transplant that she hopes will provide a cure.

  Once a striking woman with thick, raven hair, a petite figure, and an energetic smile, she now lies bald and listless on the bed, her body puffy, her skin covered with the beginnings of an angry purple rash.

  Just a week ago, the three of us sat in Nancy’s cozy living room, enjoying drinks, hors d’oeuvres, and lively conversation with our husbands. The room was filled with the soft light of the fireplace and the glow of the Christmas tree. We were all dressed in festive attire and, despite her wig and pale skin, Nancy looked radiant. Blocking the upcoming hospital ordeal from our minds as best we could, we all concentrated on sharing a wonderful evening together.

  But now the Christmas future we held at bay that night is upon us, and Jan and I sit awkwardly in the bleak isolation room trying to think of pleasant things to say. Shocked by Nancy’s appearance, we try to make light of our own. In deference to Nancy’s weakened immune system, we are sheathed in sterile hospital gowns, booties, gloves, and masks. We look silly, for sure, but our attempts at humor are weak and uninspired. Beneath our masks, we grow hot and sweaty.

  Jan is Nancy’s longtime neighbor, and I am Nancy’s childhood friend from Sunday school. As second-graders, we received our Bibles together on a warm June morning in 1954. Although Nancy moved away in sixth grade, our paths crossed again some twenty years later when we ended up joining the same church as young mothers in a different town.

  Who would have guessed back then that our paths would lead to this place?

  Desperate to make conversation, Jan and I discuss our Christmas plans, which visiting relatives are driving us crazy, our dinner menus for Christmas Day, the hectic last-minute shopping and wrapping still left to do.

  To Nancy, of course, all this is meaningless. Her Christmas plans are the same as today’s: more chemo, more nausea, more depressing isolation. I wonder if we are only making her feel worse. But she maintains a stoic and cheerful interest in our Christmas chatter.

  Suddenly, Nancy politely excuses herself and vomits the remains of her lunch into a bedside pan. Ever the gracious hostess, her immediate concern is not her own comfort or embarrassment but the possibility that her guests may be sickened by the sight.

  Apologizing, she tries to clean herself up. Jan assists with tissues and sips of water while I stand helplessly at the foot of her bed, numbly patting her foot.

  Too soon, we are reminded by the fading gray light coming through the room’s single window that it is time to go: Jan and I back to the warmth and love of family Christmas celebrations, Nancy to her solitary suffering and an unknown future.

  Rising to leave, Jan and I fumble awkwardly over parting words. Guilt over our own good health and waiting families makes “Merry Christmas” sound so hollow. How can we even say it? Should we?

  Suddenly, the tension is too much. Nancy, who normally keeps her emotions very private, begins to sob. It’s a merciful release, and abruptly Jan and I break down as well, finally relaxing as warm tears soak our paper masks. I realize that, although we are the best of friends, we have never seen each other cry.

  In a season of holiday giving, in a room where worldly presents are neither allowed nor useful, the only gifts we can offer are those that flow unbidden from our hearts. Normally unspoken words of love, encouragement, and hope now pour forth spontaneously, suffusing the room like soothing music.

  “We love you, Nancy.”

  “You’re hanging in there so well.”

  “I’ll be praying for you every day.”

  Truthful, simple words. The only gifts we have.

  Finally, we move toward the door. We do not say goodbye, just “Merry Christmas.” It doesn’t sound hollow at all.

  In loving memory of Nancy Lee Sayers, 1949–1998

  Windy Day Wreckage

  No one stopped. The wind howled across the open prairie as we surveyed the damage. It blew the dirt into gray mists of dust. It rocked our truck, already parked at a listing angle on the side of a gravel ditch. It snapped at our hair, clothes, and bodies with such strength that we struggled to keep our balance.

  Before us lay shards of broken glass and the upside-down remains of a 1930s Amish oak-and-pine bookcase we had just purchased from a dealer at a country antique show.

  For some time, I’d been looking for just the right bookcase for my writing studio in hopes that something big and serviceable would combat my lack of organizational skills. Finally, I’d found it.

  On this beautiful spring morning with green, fuchsia, and yellow flowers sprinkled across the farmlands like confetti, my husband and I had driven across country roads in eager anticipation of the year’s first outdoor antique market.

  After a long, cold winter, we were looking forward to strolling beneath the ancient oaks that lined the fairgrounds and browsing in the sunshine and warm breeze as we made our search. For us, a day at an outdoor antique market is like a day at an art museum with nature as its backdrop.

  Ambling past a variety of booths, we scanned the merchandise for pieces that might serve as a bookcase; buffets, china cabinets, and, of course, actual bookcases were all possibilities. Yet, as in “Goldilocks and the Three Bears,” some were too big, some too small, and some were just not practical enough, lovely as they were.

  We headed over to a dealer from whom we had purchased several unique items in the past in hopes that his winter searches might have turned up something interesting. They had. Sequestered at the back of his tent stood a charming four-shelf cabinet with three deep drawers in its base. The dealer told us it came from an Amish kitchen, and it was easy to surmise that the bottom bins might have been used to store flour, sugar, or other goods.

  The imposing five-by-seven-foot frame was made of quarter-sawn oak and the shelves and backing of plain pine. The Amish tend to use or recycle whatever wood is at hand, and the contrasting, patchwork result looked beautiful and strong.

  I loved the original silver-toned handles that opened the cabinet’s glass doors, and I didn’t mind a variety of water stains on the shelves. They added character and hinted intriguingly at the cabinet’s past life. A narrow shelf separated the cabinet on top from the bins below—a perfect ledge for my work. The dealer had recently refinished the entire piece to a beautiful patina, and, without looking any further, we both knew it would be perfect for my writing studio.

  We asked for his best price. He came down a bit. We countered. He recountered. Sold.

  Handing him a still-significant check, we said we’d be back in a bit to load up. The day was early, lovely, and warm, and we wanted to scout around awhile, intrigued by what else might be out there.

  As we sauntered down the lanes lined with antiques, we couldn’t believe our good fortune at finding want I’d wanted so early. It was my lucky day.

  Suddenly, the sound of breaking glass caught our attention.

  “Boy, it’s getting windy!” I said.

  “Looks like the booth over there just lost a whole shelf of cookie jars,” my husband answered.

  Heading back, we once again heard the crash of glass and watched as dealers scrambled to secure their treasures. The wind was increasing.

  My husband retrieved our truck and met me back at the bookcase booth. Separating the top half of the cabinet from its base, my husband and the dealer struggled to lift and wedge the two heavy pieces into the back end of the truck. Having secured the two pieces tightly together with a strong rope, we felt we were safely on our way.

  But back out on the country roads, surrounded by fresh
ly plowed open fields, it didn’t take us long to notice that the brisk breeze had escalated to a wild wind, and then to a raging gale. Having been protected by the trees and buildings at the fairgrounds, we were shocked at its sudden force.

  Looking back at the top half of the bookcase, I was dismayed to see that it had swayed and shifted.

  “It’s OK,” my husband reassured me. “The base and top are tied firmly together, and they’re both really heavy. It’s not going anywhere.”

  Nevertheless, he slowed the truck down from an already cautious speed. The wind blew straight across the truck’s side like the breath of a giant. We were miles from our turnoff with no relief in sight.

  With the bookcase angled back across the base, I scanned the horizon for anything that could break the wind. We passed a farmhouse and barn that offered momentary relief, but as soon as we were back in the open, the wind punched us with ferocity.

  “There it goes!” my husband suddenly shouted. “I can’t believe it!”

  Turning to look, I watched in disbelief. As if in slow motion, the cabinet slipped out of its ropes, flipped up into the air, and with a bounce landed upside down in a steep roadside ditch.

  I won’t repeat the swear words.

  We pulled off the road and jumped out of the truck to survey the damage.

  Holding my breath, I approached the wreckage. I told myself if the three glass doors were broken, they could be easily fixed. They were. Large shards of glass were everywhere.

  Since it was lying on its front, I hoped that the rest would not be so damaged.

  “Let’s see if we can flip it over,” my husband said.

  Pushing against the gale, we struggled to get a grip and maintain our footing on the steep grassy slope. As we lifted the bookcase up, it was plain to see that much more than the glass had broken.