Killing It In My Sixties

As young girls, we have best friends that are by our side during the quintessential moments of growing up. For me – that friend was Michelle; my age and the same birthday as my grandma, which made her special in my eyes – because Grandma was a most special person in my life. We were in the same class at our Catholic grammar school, wore the same uniform everyday, and attempted to spend most every weekend together.

Michelle was more daring than I was – she would say or do almost anything.  She unknowingly brought out a little bit of adventure and confidence in me.  We did everything together: sleep-overs, movies, the fair, birthday parties, trips to San Francisco, pizza parlor outings, and skating at the roller rink.  Moreover, we talked about everything.  About growing boobs, having “hair-down-there”, all the boys, our feet – (hers pretty – mine ugly), clothes, what we were going to be when we grew up, our parents, our siblings, about who we liked and who we didn’t.

Both of our families came from the same small town we lived in – it was home for us, all of us – our parents, our grandparents and their parents.  I stayed at her house often – more than she stayed at mine.  I felt like I was ‘one of them’ and that mattered to me. A lot.  I stayed at her grandma’s house with her, we ate strawberry rhubarb pie, and played out in the fields on her family’s property.  I was even in some of their group family photos.  Of course – I stood out – I was brunette and they were all as blond as the sunshine – but they never made me step out of the picture.

One day – a terrible day in the lives of two ten year-olds – her parents told us they were moving – away from our little town – 70 miles south, and what constituted an hour and a half drive from my house to her house.  In 1970, that was a big deal – nobody drove that far unless it was a holiday, special occasion or an emergency.  Luckily – both of our fathers had recently gotten their private pilot’s license.  In front of two sobbing young girls, they both promised: they would fly us back and forth for visits.  Not an option most kids had in those days.  We had a little tiny airport in our hometown and they had a slightly bigger municipal airport in their new town.  This promise from our parents was paramount in preserving our friendship.

They stayed true to their word, and we flew back and forth – spending weekends, and sometimes weeks at a time with each other.  Her father owned a movie theatre and so our nights were often spent working the snack bar, and then sneaking in to watch movies that we would have otherwise been forbidden to see.  It was a growing up time – being in another city away from my family; a time that deepened our friendship even more intensely.  Between visits, we would write long, detailed letters to each other on cute stationery with ladybugs and smiley-faces on the paper.  Those letters were literally the diaries of our lives as tween girls.

As time went on, we both made other friends in each other’s absence – but our close connection remained.  In the summer of 1975, I was up at Fallen Leaf Lake on vacation with my dad, siblings and other friends when, I called my mom from a phone booth outside the General Store to check in.  I remember looking out at the lake, ski boats passing by and toddlers playing with sand toys on the beach as she told me the horrible news.  Michelle, her father, and another friend from Petaluma had been in a plane crash the night before.

Michelle was dead. Her father was originally pronounced dead as well, but the paramedics were able to restart his heart and he survived – never to be the same again. Her friend in the back seat lived with no physical injuries – but psychologically changed forever. Michelle had a small bruise on her temple – the only sign of trauma. She perished – beautifully intact. It took years for her father to walk again – nearly every bone in his lower extremities was fractured. The parent’s marriage ended and the family returned to our small town – though everything had changed.

I mourned the loss of my friend probably more internally then outwardly. My own parents had divorced and our fractured family did not provide a supportive environment for processing my friend’s death.  I remember spending hours thinking: she would never go on a date, never have sex, never fall in love, never get married, never go to her prom, and I would never see her again. Her family’s loss was much more tragic than my own – so life carried on – but with a palpable void.

Flash forward to 2000 – 25 years later.  My sixteen year old son is standing next to me at the stove, as he often would while I was cooking dinner.  He put his arm around my shoulder and told me that there was a girl he liked and he wanted to ask her to the Homecoming Dance.  Because I am nosy, and because I think I know everybody in our town, I asked who she was. He described her as being “very cute – but an athlete – not a girly-girl”  and when he said her name – I got a shiver and tears came to my eyes.

This girl he liked and wanted to take on a date was…. my childhood best friend, Michelle’s niece.  This girl’s mother was Michelle’s sister!    My sons knew I had lost a best friend in my teen years – I sputtered out the significance of this to my son – who was completely taken aback – not sure what to say – was this a good thing?  A few days later, he brought her over to the house to meet me; she was the spitting image of Michelle and I learned that her middle name is Michelle – which coincidentally is my middle name too. I cried when I hugged her and told her how much it meant to meet her. My son’s first date would be with the niece of my childhood best friend.

Flash forward to 2023 – today – my son is now married to this same girl – his high school sweetheart – and they have two beautiful children. Those grandkids of mine are genetically related to my long-gone friend, their great aunt, Michelle. Blessings abound…

These days – I like to imagine her looking down and loving this outcome. I know I do.