My friend Judi and I talk every other Sunday; we’ve done this for I-don’t-know-how-long. It helps nurture our friendship, since we don’t live near each other and only get together a couple times a year.
She’ll be calling soon. And we’ll relive the past two weeks: her husband’s health issues and resolutions; her grandchildren and their activities; quilting projects she’s working on; my family holiday; upcoming plans; and the books we are reading.
We’ve known each other since 1971, when my husband of the time and I moved to Arlington Heights, Illinois. She and Hugh were already there. They still are, while I’ve moved hither and yon. In fact, there was more than one time that Judi and her husband hauled boxes from one place to another on my behalf.
We’re in our seventies now, and when Earl and I move these days we hire it done. Still some things don’t change. Judi and I talk regularly, and the sound of memories in her voice makes me smile. When the telephone rings in a few moments, we’ll regale each other with the most recent of memories.
Then, in spite of what I said yesterday, this is truly the final holiday event.
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