The Evolution of *my* Friday Nights

I have a friend (M) who makes me laugh.

She also makes me feel the biggest goober alive.

She picks on my choice of radio station (National Public Radio all day long), she can throw down three glasses of wine to my one and still hold a serious conversation (wait a minute, she's never holding a serious conversation), and she successfully sports heels that rival those of the exotic dancers I used to live with (another story for another time) while I slump around in my very flat flats.

Last Friday she wrote this post describing the morphing of her Friday nights throughout her life. It made me laugh (as usual) but not just because of her sense of humor, but because it made me realize how extremely different we are. If we hadn't worked together for almost a year we would never have met; we run in different circles. She is eight years younger, 4 sizes slimmer, and 87% funner than me.

Here is a run down of our Friday nights over the years:

When she was eight she and a bunch of other little girls were having slumber parties and watching scary movies. When I was eight once in a long while one friend would sleep over. We didn't even have a TV in the early 80s, let alone a device that allowed for watching movies, and as I wasn't even permitted to watch Star Wars as a child, our entertainment was more likely a re-reading of Anne of Green Gables.

At 16, while my dear friend was secretly getting drunk in some sand pit I was driving to Friendly's with my three best friends and getting "drunk" on silly jokes and piles of Mocha Chip Ice Cream. This was only after I had satisfied the family requirement of the after-dinner Bible readings (I'm not kidding).

21 found M drinking legally and figuring out her love life. I was home in the office off my bedroom researching and writing about the French Revolution, Renaissance costumes, Rousseau, and African agricultural progression. I had yet to get drunk, or even close to it, smoke a cigarette, or have sex. I was, however, also figuring out my love life.

M is now 28, mother to a little boy, a homeowner, and almost wife. She has already lived a very full, exciting life and is consequentially full of life. I'm certain the Hannah Montana party she attended this past Friday night was made even more entertaining due to her presence.

By the time I was 28, the brief episode of going out on a Friday night, drinking (but never to oblivion, just to singing very loudly) and surrounded by "friends" was already over. I was home alone watching TV while my fiance worked the 2nd shift. How pathetic!

I am now two months away from 37. Most Friday nights involve attempting to get the kids to bed before I dissolve into a pile of fried nerves and frazzled patience. If I'm lucky, Friday night sometimes includes a walk downtown to the summer street festival to argue over whether the Dora popsicle or hot dog is the best choice for an evening snack. Sometimes Friday night means a "walk" after work with M - we walk all the way to the back deck to share a much-needed bottle of wine while the kids splash in the pool. Once in a while it means an evening with another couple with whom we share conversation and good food. Other times it is a very rare night out alone to the theatre or a restaurant with Hubby. And other times it is a trip my parent's oasis in the country to join with family to talk, eat, play with the chickens and frogs, and just be.

While I don't regret not ever drinking in a sand pit and running from the cops, I do wish I had had more confidence in my former years to get out and have fun. I would like to be more playful, especially with my children. But thanks to M, I am getting to enjoy life in a less serious way once in a while. My life pales in comparison with her "crazy" life but we balance each other out. While I have got her blogging and considering her true dreams, she has taught me to tolerate more than one glass of wine in one sitting. And most importantly she has given me the best gift - laughter!

Making it Home

They say, Location. Location. Location. I say, Community. Community. Community.

We live in a small town; it's called a city but anyone in any state other than Vermont would laugh at that. 17,000 people gathered in one place is just a mall in some places, but here we call it our second largest city. We haven't lived here long and when people ask how we like it, both Hubby and I respond, "getting used to it." And we are. I don't groan quite so audibly when driving along the main strip and I have been known to have moments when walking downtown when I feel a slight spring in my step.

The town has its gems, like the beautiful new bookstore with the grand staircase that leads to a balcony scattered with cozy chairs, and the holistic wellness center where you can de-tox in a salt cave or shimmy in a belly dance. There's the Saturday morning farmer's market where you can buy the freshest potato, still muddy from the ground, while munching on an apple turnover smothered in maple frosting, lovingly made just that morning in a neighbor's kitchen. Just on the edge of town you can cast a line in the river or hike through the woods to Rocky Pond on one of the best bike trail systems in New England (I just learned that fact yesterday).

Yes, it's growing on me. And summer time helps, but all this is almost meaningless if you are not part of something bigger, more important: Community.

Tonight, we went to a jam - a musical free-for-all where banjos, drums, guitars, ukuleles, an organ, a double bass, and some kind of pipe with a keyboard down the front (?) all blended into a lively, joyous cacophony. There was singing and clapping, and children and cats running between legs and music stands. We didn't know a soul other than the hosts, nor any of the music, but it didn't matter. We joined in - even Hubby who tried out his two chords on a borrowed guitar while I sang. We felt welcomed and a part of something.

We didn't really want to go out tonight. It was raining (again), the kids, shivering and blue, had just gotten back from swimming lessons (yes, in the rain), and it was past their bedtime. But we knew we needed to do this. I had been invited by a former college acquaintance with whom I had recently reconnected on a school field trip. Discovering our children had decided (well, my daughter had decided) that they are in love, we thought it would be a good idea to get to know the future in-laws. He is a music professor, she is a singer and they have lots of musical friends. Intelligent friends. Interesting friends. People we can connect to.

And that's what makes all the difference. The difference between loving and tolerating where you live; living where you live, rather than just surviving. We moved to this town 1.5 years ago and we are just now starting a catch a glimpse at what is ahead. Just when you think you will never make friends, never feel at home, it happens. The connections click, the bonds build, and soon you have Community. And then you can call it Home.

I heart Fudd

Stratched into the metal railing of a bridge are the words, "I "heart" Fudd." I was 13 years old, and for that week I did indeed love Fudd. Twenty-three years later I am waking up on an icy morning knowing I still love him, as do many, many others.

Today at 11AM I will attending the funeral of my classmate (whose nickname I never learned the origin - probably will today), aged 36, husband and father. He died last weekend of a heart attack. I learned the news on the modern day grapevine, Facebook. I couldn't believe what I was reading. A friend's status said she was saddened by a classmate's sudden passing. I did some investigating by browsing other profiles. Each hour another classmate's status was changed to reflect their shock as the word spread. The Class of 1990, along with hundreds of others in this community, was dumbfounded and grieving. Within hours there was a memorial page put up for him. At my last look 168 members had joined with almost all writing messages to their lost friend (or to his wife and daughter). His own profile page has countless other notes of love, written, no doubt, with the hope Fudd can still log on from wherever he is. His guest book linked to his online newspaper obituary is also over flowing with words of thanks and love for this man.

Fudd lived on the same bus route as me during school and I can remember the giggly wiggles I would get in my stomach when he "let" me sit next to him. He was always funny and sweet. I can picture his smile in my mind right now. Everyone knew Fudd. He somehow escaped the harsh catagorizing of high school - he was liked by all cliques. He played the drums and sang in the choir. He hunted. He loved sports. I think he may have played basketball - from the bench mostly, if I remember right - but he had the guts to play because he loved the game.

When I returned to England for a while before I began high school, he became my penpal. I carried his wallet-sized 8th grade photo with me over the ocean where my best friend promptly fell in love with him too. They wrote to each other for a while, he even called once (I wonder how much trouble he got in for that?!)

My over-riding memory of time spent with Fudd was the time I and three boys (most of my memories seem to include me hanging out with a bunch of guys) got into the college performing arts center one Saturday. There was no one around and that empty stage beckoned me. I don't know what Fudd and Brent were doing, but Jason, my gay friend who dreamed of dancing to "Gloria" in New York one day (I hope he got there... we lost touch), and I, who dreamed of singing on that stage (I did four years later), were pirouetting and prancing around having a grand time. Half an hour later all four of us (or was it three? I think one of us may have escaped) were standing shaking (well, I was) in the hallway under the glare of a green uniformed security officer. He wrote down our names and told us never to enter the theater again. The next time I went to a performance with my parents I was convinced I would be arrested.

After high school Fudd became a paramedic. He stayed in the area and helped save lives. He may even have been one of the responders to my sister's accident when her car slid down an embankment and almost onto (and into?) the frozen lake. He apparently, according to Facebook, touched so many lives.

I did not see Fudd (or even give him more than a random thought) for twenty years. When I came home to visit my parents his name would sometimes be included in the "hometown update" (a.k.a. gossip) - I knew he had gotten married, I think I knew he had a child. Until we discovered each other on Facebook (along with classmates I had long forgotten), he was basically just a memory. And now he is again.

36. Thirty-six. Heart attack. Heart. Attack.

My current Facebook status reads: Joanna wants to remind everyone to tell those they love why they do *now* because there may not be facebook in heaven.

I have always thought it so sad that people only hear now people felt about them after they're dead. With the epidemic of low self-esteem we need to spread the love NOW.

My heart goes out to Fudd's wife and daughter and I will be loving my family and friends a little bit harder today. Will you?

I am not an island

I have a confession to make.

I'm lonely.

Last night I was checking the traffic to my blog and followed one visitor's referral link back to a blog I didn't recognize. At first I was confused why a link to my blog would be here. Then I began to put it together and realized it was the website of a couple with whom we were friends in Mississippi. I finally found the link to my blog along with this introduction: "A friend that used to live in MS has a blog about her new life in Vermont, a move back home for her. They are cool people and we miss them a lot but I guess they've moved on to better things." (Thanks, Tim... you're cool people yourself!) He goes on to say that although he does miss his home state, as long as he has friends, "you've got the most perfect place on earth."

That's hard to hear.

I haven't acknowlegded (in this forum) something very important about our 3 years in Mississippi: Friends.

For the first time in my life when I planned a party I had a list of guests, guests who showed up, who stayed late and with whom we had laughs, tears (not at the party, thankfully), and meaningful conversations. With these same friends we had lunch and drinks out on the town, shared Thanksgiving dinner, and threw baby showers and children's birthday parties.

Friends became the norm. Now we don't have them. And I thought I was OK.

But I'm not.

My days are running into each other with no anticipation of fun. The little screen on my phone never lights up with just a first name. I have no other woman to gripe to, no other mom to sympathize with. No one to meet at the coffee shop.

I keep in touch with close friends in various parts of the country, and even in England where I grew up, but I never knew just how vital it is to have friends right on your door step until they weren't there anymore.