Tell Me A Story

My gosh, old friends. Friends that have long vanished down the tunnel of their own lives, breathing and doing and celebrating and grieving - without you.

I can never sing the praises of FaceBook loudly enough. As I've mentioned before.

I had a friend, 12 years older than me – though I had forgotten exactly how much older she was as she had that younger energy around her until she reminded me. We played bridge in those days. A lot. In the absence of a foursome, her 12 year old son and my 9 year old daughter filled the gap. We were lucky they were so brilliant.

We lived around the corner from each other in a small town in Ontario. In enormous century homes of red brick and atmosphere. History breathed from each others' walls. I've never lost my love for old houses, obviously.

We cottaged (a uniquely Ontario term for going off to a wilderness cabin for a while) with our kids and husbands of the time. And drank together. Boy, did we drink together. The name of the cottage was “While You're Up”. Tells you everything you need to know. And then there was an incident, as there sometimes is. And the friendship survives or it doesn't, And ours went into a coma.

But I never forgot. And neither did she apparently. Because through FaceBook we have reconnected and it's been so very easy after, oh my, 35 years perhaps. So we now email. Lengthily. We pursued our individual artistic souls after we 'broke up'. And she ended one of her recent emails with: “Tell me a story”.

And so I did and ended mine today with: “Tell me one.”

This could go on for a very long time.