My friend Sheree threw down the gauntlet not long after the slumber party began. I am picking it up with the following warning to her: Be careful what you ask for…
Sheree, Michelle and I were together again for a “sleep over,” three friends recreating what has happened so many times in the past that we can’t count them. Difference is that we are now in our 60s instead of our teens.
Sheree lives in West Tennessee, near the small hometown where we all grew up. Michelle and I are in Knoxville. I have known Sheree since I was 6, Michelle since we were 12. In elementary and especially high school, we were always together.
Almost eight years ago, we reconnected with Sheree after years of only the rare visits at funerals and class reunions. Since then, we get together several times a year.
On this visit, I decided to stay with them at Michelle’s house on Saturday night for a slumber party.
“You should write about us,” Sheree challenged. “Seriously. There are a lot of funny stories around our group of friends from high school days.”
I resisted. “I can’t think of any that I can safely tell,” I told her. “Melanie is a preacher’s wife now. Elizabeth, Annette and most of the rest are fine upstanding citizens in our hometown – with children and grandchildren.”
“Oh, we weren’t that bad,” Sheree insisted. “Write about all the fun we had at the cabin at Pine Lake.”
“Like the night you and Mike fell asleep looking at the lake and…” I offered with a sly smile.
“No, not that one!”
“What about our marching band days?” Michelle offered. “We had great times in the band.”
“Well,” I pondered. “I’m not writing about seldom having a reed in my clarinet by the time we got to the half-time show, or the pep rally where you stuffed the inside of my clarinet with a sack of candy corn for us to snack on, and I blew it out and scattered it all over the gym floor. I could write about you two and your majorette escapades.”
“Fantastic Features night!” Sheree said, moving on. “All of us getting together to watch those silly, creepy shows that came on at 11 p.m.”
“Like the one at your house when half the town showed up?” I countered.
“Not that one!”
And so it went:
Sheree: “How about all of us piling in David’s car on Halloween and…”
Me: “I’m not sure the statute of limitations has run out of those. Plus, I have a 12-year-old grandson who can read. How about you driving the three blocks to my house when you were barely 15?”
Sheree: “No! How about YOU driving us both another four blocks to Michelle’s house when you were barely 15?”
Me: “Again, statute of limitations.”
Sheree: “Girl Scouts?”
Me: “My mom caught the woods on fire.”
Michelle: “Your crush on (fill in any of numerous names)?”
Both: “No!”
All: “Cruising the Mug ‘n’ Cone? Parking at The Circle? Parties at the Armory? The state basketball tournament? David’s infamous party when his parents were out-of-town?”
By this time, we are thumbing through photo albums and laughing, lost in a time of innocence when we were all safely tucked in our beds by midnight, when a serious relationship meant wearing his Senior ring, and when teenage pranks were silly, harmless antics.
“Well,” Sheree concluded. “I have a title for the story, even if we can’t explain it: Bonds That Never Break.”
Yes. After more than 50 years, our bonds of friendship are golden. And that’s a story I love to tell.