When I was younger, I had the certain impression that close friendships looked a particular way, followed a particular (nearly predictable) pattern, were cast in a similar mold…and that the presence of these signposts in a friendship meant that it was true and good and close and significant. So, for instance, a good friend was one whose house was always open to you…you could simply stop by on your way home from the supermarket for a cup of coffee…or a glass of wine…and a chat. You checked in by phone daily…first thing in the morning perhaps, just to see how the day was shaping up for the other. And you grabbed the phone immediately if there was a personal crisis at hand, if only to offer up into the receiver that wail of anguish that you knew would send the friend running at once to your side for a full debriefing and requisite hand-holding. That was pretty much my vision of close friendship. Perhaps it still is.
Problem is, none of my friendships resemble that vision. Not one.
I did once have a friend who worked in the same English department, whose house was always open to me. It was located half-way between the college where we taught and my own house, and I often stopped by for a glass of wine on my way home. I even knew where she kept the wine glasses: lovely, green depression-glass goblets, which sat on the top shelf of her china cabinet in the dining room when not in use. We would sit at her kitchen table surrounded by her mustard-colored appliances and three of her five kids (the two oldest stayed with Dad) and go over our days. It was noisy and disjointed and bitchy and wonderful. But it wasn’t usual, and, in this instance, the friendship didn’t survive my move to another state and her new boyfriend.
The trouble with my youthful vision of friendship is that it insists on a few factors that very rarely enter into the equation for me anymore: geographical proximity, for instance, and phone time. Not a single one of my good friends from earlier times in my life lives anywhere near me–not even in the same state, or in the same region of the country–and, in at least one case, not even in the same country–and I don’t talk on the phone to any of them, except on the rare–like once a year–occasion. My friendships are conducted online and by post. And they all require the ability to pick up where we left off–in other words, on a certain amount of trust, on a certain amount of felt continuity, either because we’re poor correspondents, or–in the case of friends I’ve come to know online–because in most cases we’ve never actually met.
This year has been one, however, in which I’ve had the opportunity to re-connect with many of my closest friends…when I was home at my parents’ house this summer (for the first time in almost a decade), I spent time with my two good friends from graduate school, and with my oldest friend of all, whom I met in the seventh grade. And next month, R. and I are taking The Bee to Key West, to see my college roommate, whom I last saw in 1995. And last weekend, Sophie, my best friend from college, came to visit the ranch…all the way from India, where she lives (and was born).
I thought I’d share some photos of Sophie and myself through the ages, so to speak. I last saw her in 1998, when I visited India for two months but hadn’t really had exclusive time to talk with her since 1988, when I graduated from college, and we backpacked across Scotland and England together.
SBird and Sophie here, circa May 1988:
There was a tradition at our college, where you handed off your graduation robe to another, younger, student…Sophie was a year younger than I was, so here I am, just after picking up my diploma, handing the thing off to her…I have no idea where it is now, but it would be nice to think someone’s still using it and passing it along:
Here we are in July of 1988, eating a picnic of honey and bread on the island of Iona, off the coast of Scotland:
Here I am in India, in December 1998…Sophie took this picture, but we have very few of ourselves together from that visit…
and you can see how poor the one we do have turned out:
And here is Sophie up on the mountain last weekend:
What age has taught me about friendships is not to plan them too closely…not to depend on the idea that you know what they’re supposed to look like…and to assume that what unfolds will surprise you. Looking at these photos of Sophie and I, I realize that our friendship has occurred in glumps of time…moments where we touch base, catch up, and then move on again. And that certainly is one version of friendship, even if it doesn’t fit my earlier program. Moreover, some of my most regular friendships these days occur exclusively online…and the internets–blogs, email, newgroups–didn’t even exist when I was certain I knew what friendships looked like at the age of 20-something.
This year was marked by motherhood for me, of course, but it also has turned into a year of friends–several of whom stop by regularly for a chat, if only virtually.
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