It must be one of those peculiar quantum physics phenomena that allows you to have friends for a lifetime yet not to have aged even half that long. Speed of light, space/time compression and all that.
”Who are we visiting today, Dad?” Rosie queried.
“We are visting Marcy and Laird. I have known Marcy longer maybe than any other friend.”
”Wow, “ she gasped. “You mean even longer than me?”
”Rose, you and I are new friends. I have knows Marcy since I could know anything.”
Rosie thought about that a while before adding, “You mean like before Vermont was a state? That’s a long time ago, Dad.”
”Don’t be ridiculous. I am not that old.”
”I don’t know, Dad. Sometimes you think you are older than dirt, and dirt is older than Vermont.”
”Oh look! We’re there”
Sometimes I think having a talking smart aleck dog is worse than when a 2 year old learns “Why?”
I have known Marcy my entire life. We were born the same year in the same town, in the same hospital and lived on the same small community on “the hill”, where our houses were about 300 yards apart. Our parents were the best of people and the best of friends, albeit from as different backgrounds as you can imagine. The common bond that made them friends was that they were good, honest, genuine, gentle Vermonters, and neighbors.
Marcy’s mother guided me down the Allen Trail at the Middlebury College Snow Bowl for my first time. This is a Black Diamond trail and the most difficult one at our local ski area. She was, as was her way, kind, gentle and patient as I ever so slowly found my way down the steeps and narrows. Her father, known to us and Mr. was about as Dr. as a person could be. A brilliant economist at Middlebury College, he was just Marcy’s dad to us, sitting on the back steps of the Pittsford farmhouse shucking corn picked from their garden. I miss them as I miss my own parents.
I have known Marcy’s husband, and my friend, Laird since before high school. I remember riding with him around town in his (I’m guessing here) 1965 silver Mustang. He can correct me, if he wants. I also remember the kindness shown to me by his brother the doctor when my father passed. That memory will be with me always.
We spent a wonderful afternoon at their new (to them) home, near their parents old farmhouse, eating delicious Marcy-made blueberry muffins with berries they grew themselves, while impossibly trying to catch up on all the years that have passed under the bridge. Walking through their garden, comparing crops and lessons learned from our various vegetables, while sharing failures and successes, shed years lost during those brief moments today.
Marcy, and her sister Kim, remind me so much of their mother my heart weeps.