Barbara, The Brain; Carol, The Capable; and Mary Ellen,
The Mouth. Those were the monikers we
gave each other after becoming best friends in our junior year of high
school. The only one who still calls me
Mouth is JoAnn, the younger sister of Barbara and Carol—who are twins. I suppose I deserve The Mouth, since I am
always the one to put in a humorous comment, or two, even to the teachers. My sense of humor will often get me in
trouble, but, hey! I have a lot to say,
and you don’t have to like what I say, but I’m going to say it anyway. You can’t blame me for being honest, can you?
At first it was hard to tell Barbara from Carol and vice
versa, because I needed to try to remember who wore which glasses—one had blue and one had brown—but then I
started to notice the physical differences between the two, since they closely
resembled each other, as siblings and twins often do. They were about the same height, but Carol
had more weight on her than Barbara, and Barbara’s hair tended to flip out on
one side—thanks to a cowlick or two.
Barbara had what she called a “bubble gum” nose, since the cartilage at
the end of her nose had the look as if bubble gum was stuck to it, and Carol’s
didn't. So, now that I can tell who’s
who, it doesn't really matter, since we do everything together, but at least I
can call them by their right names.
It all began when in our third period history class we
noticed that the three of us had, so far, been in all of the same classes. We compared our schedules and realized that
out of 7 possible classes, we had 6 together, with only the last class of
the day being different—I had a crafts class, and they had fine arts. So from
that moment on, we went everywhere together during school. Our friendship had begun and was fast and
holding steady through our junior and senior years of high school and the
summers between and after.
We were getting ready to hit the real world of work and
college during the summer after graduation.
Barbara and Carol found work as nurse’s aides in a nursing home, while I
started to work in a craft store at the mall.
I was to attend the local community college in New Jersey, while Barbara
and Carol were headed off to a small Catholic college in southwestern
Maine. We promised to keep in touch
through letters—old-fashioned social media using paper and pen, envelopes and
stamps—and we did a fine job of it for the years that they were away in Maine.
As with most friendships, sustaining even one over the
course of many years is a time consuming endeavor. Throughout our college years, or maybe I
should say Barbara and Carol’s college years and most of my early years in the working
world (I only survived in the community college for a semester and a half and didn't
finish a degree), I managed to stay best friends with them. Since I was the one working with a full-time
job and loved to travel, we maintained our closeness through phone calls,
letters, and the occasional trip I’d make to Maine to visit them at
college.
I think my first trip was just a few months after they
left for college in the fall of 1977. It
was a cold November when their parents drove me to Newark Airport (now known as
Newark Liberty International Airport), and I needed to make a connecting flight
in Boston. After a little delay and some
rushing to get me to my connecting flight on Bar Harbor Airlines, I made it to
Portland, Maine, where the twins were waiting to pick me up and take me to see
their room and meet their roommate. Their
dorm room consisted of a bunk bed and a single bed. Karen was their roommate, who somewhat resembled
me with her stature, hair, and glasses worn.
Who knew I had an alter ego in Maine and living with my best friends?
During those weekend trips we made a grandiose plan for
after they graduated from college. We’d
get a one bedroom apartment with a bunk bed and a single bed to keep our costs
low once we were all working. Our dreams
would be fulfilled as soon as Barbara and Carol were out of college.
What’s that saying about “the best laid plans” rarely
come to fruition? Well, Carol graduated
from college first and in the “normal” four year period, even though Barbara
was in the same program. There was a little
foul up for Barbara when she fell in love with Frank at college, and suffice it
to say that she wasn't always concentrating on her studies, so she had to
repeat her senior year of college. Then
I fouled up our plans even further when I got married a few weeks after Carol
graduated from college. They were both
bridesmaids in my wedding, since I couldn't choose between them to be my maid
of honor; I gave that honor to my sister-in-law Eileen. So I really messed up our grandiose apartment
plans. Barbara graduated from college a
year after I got married. Carol was her
maid of honor, and I was her only other bridesmaid. At this point in our lives, we'd been out of high school for five years.
Barbara’s wedding was just 3 weeks after her
college graduation, and she ultimately moved to Rhode Island where Frank was
stationed in the Navy. Carol remained
single for quite a few years after Barbara and I had our weddings. Carol eventually moved to Connecticut and lived
there for several years, but eventually moved back to our hometown. Life seemed good, and we still managed to see
each other from time to time, with me going to visit, wherever Barbara was
living—Navy life kept her moving about
every two years, so I visited her in Rhode Island, Virginia, and California—and
when she came home to visit her parents.
When Carol started a relationship with Mike, it was then
that I began to feel our relationship and time together slipping. Something had changed, but I still felt like
I was her friend, even if she didn't have much time to spend with me. New relationships tend to suck all of our
time and energy, right? We only live
about 5 miles apart, so it would be easy to get together at the drop of a hat
when the time came. I wasn't even
invited to the wedding when Carol married Mike; Carol was 33 years old at the time she married. She and Mike attended an uber-Christian
church and for whatever reason, they only invited the church members and
immediate family to the wedding—even her aunts and uncles weren't invited. I was deeply hurt, but chalked it up to religious
reasons I didn't understand. I never
mentioned to her how hurt I was not to have been invited to the wedding, even
though I attended the church wedding—the church is only a block away from where
I live and anyone can attend the church, even the uninvited. After the ceremony I walked home crying with
mixed emotions, but mostly unhappy tears for what I felt was the loss of a
friendship.
Ten months after her wedding, Carol welcomed her first
child—a “honeymoon baby”—and our relationship seemed like it was back to
normal. All three of us have two children—one of
each—though both Barbara and Carol had their boys first, and I had a girl
first. Our children are fairly close in
age, with Barbara’s son being just 18 months older than my daughter. Carol’s son is the same age as my son, and
her daughter is the youngest of all of our children, but just 2 years younger
than her son. Motherhood and marriage
was now our unifying source of conversations, and Carol and I would get
together for the occasional “play date” with our children.
When our children were in elementary school, I didn't
get to see Barbara as often as I would have liked, since she and Frank had been
stationed in Nova Scotia, Georgia, and then somewhere out in the Midwest, where
Frank was a training officer for a couple of years. It wasn't easy to take a drive to visit her,
and I wasn't in the position then to fly to various parts of the country, even
if I was invited. We kept in touch through letters and phone calls. When she moved back to the east coast, we would
plan a weekend together and I would make the trip, unless she was here in New
Jersey for any length of time, which was occasionally for a few weeks between
stations, and she would stay with her parents.
Now what Barbara and I do is to plan a weekend get
together somewhere between Maine and New Jersey, or I’ll go to Maine for a
weekend, or she’ll come to New Jersey for a weekend. Sometimes it’s not so easy to come up with a
potential date, as our lives have gotten busier the older we get, with work, church,
and other family obligations often being a higher priority compared to a fun
outing.
Our last time spent together was just a few months ago
when my daughter (now 28 years old) and I drove up to Maine for a long weekend. During this time together we shared laughter
and reminisced quite a bit about our past, as we tend to do when we are
face-to-face. Having my daughter in
attendance at these laughter sessions reveals a part of me to her that she
usually cringes when she hears—after all, in her eyes I am practically perfect
in every way! To hear of my antics
during high school makes her laugh, too, and Barbara and I keep on pulling the
details from our memories.
Sometimes the memories and stories we relate aren't
laughable. Barbara related to me what I’d
known for several years, and that is that she hasn't spoken to her family—mother,
father, or sisters—in almost 7 years. I
know the details of their estrangement from what Barbara has told me over the
years. It is then that I realize that I
hadn't spoken to Carol for about the same amount of time, but we are friends on
Facebook and have an occasional online chat.
I think I did run into Carol in the grocery store once during that time,
but we only had the chance to chat in person for a couple of minutes then.
I had always envied how close Barbara and Carol’s family was, and it hurts me to know that they have not been speaking to each other through all of these years. I wish, more than anything, that I could talk to my mother again—she passed away when my daughter was just 4½ months old. I understand that family dysfunctions are sometimes the hardest to overcome, but words were said and feelings were hurt and so the silence between them continues.
I had always envied how close Barbara and Carol’s family was, and it hurts me to know that they have not been speaking to each other through all of these years. I wish, more than anything, that I could talk to my mother again—she passed away when my daughter was just 4½ months old. I understand that family dysfunctions are sometimes the hardest to overcome, but words were said and feelings were hurt and so the silence between them continues.
This last trip to Maine was a revealing weekend in more
ways than one. Barbara revealed that she’s
been seeing a psycho-therapist to deal with her estrangement from her parents
and sisters. Evidently not being able to
see or talk to her family has caused some mental stress, which she hopes to
overcome. Frank suggested to her that
she needed to seek professional help, and Barbara felt the need, too, and agreed to counseling. Having been to a
psycho-therapist myself, when I was going through a rocky period of my marriage,
I understand the need to talk to a professional, who would offer suggestions
which would, hopefully, lead to healing.
Scrapbooking seems to be one form of healing for
Barbara. One of the things that she and
I love to do when we are at her house is to go through her photo scrapbook
albums. I call Barbara “the Scrapbook Queen” since she does such a beautiful
job of putting together old family photos and photos of her many trips all over
the world. I’m honored to have my photo
among the many photos in her albums, as well as photos of my children—my ex-husband
is in photos, too, but there’s not much I can do about that part of my life.
Before the estrangement from her family, Barbara had
borrowed some old family photos from Carol, so that copies and a scrapbook
could be made. Then the event
occurred/words were spoken to break the family ties, and the photos remained in
Barbara’s possession. At first she didn't
want to give the photos back, if it meant having contact with her sister. We talked about mailing the photos to her
sister. I thought that by removing the
photos from her possession, Barbara may feel a closure of emotions that seemed
to emanate from having the photos. I
suggested to her that I deliver the photos so that she didn't have to see her
sister or talk to her. Over the course
of the weekend Barbara contemplated what I proposed and agreed to let me be the
messenger.
When I returned home from Maine, I called to leave Carol
a phone message, since I wasn't sure how often she checked her Facebook
messages. The last time I sent Carol an
online message, it seemed to take her weeks to respond, so I thought that the
phone was a better form of communication.
It had been about a week since the time I left Carol the message, when I expected to get a call back but didn't, so I
drove past Carol’s house to see if her car was there. It wasn't there, but I take note of the cars
that were. A few days later I drove by again,
and the cars were in the same position as the last time, with her car still
absent. I reasoned that she may have
been away taking her daughter to college, or maybe was on vacation. I would try again another day.
Another week goes by, still without a call back, and I
drove past Carol’s house again. Some of
the cars are not in the driveway, but her car still isn't there. Only one car was in the driveway, and I
surmise that it was probably her daughter’s car, still in the same spot as the
first two drive-bys.
I’m always in the area, so on my third trip into Carol’s
neighborhood, I find her car in the driveway.
I parked my car in her driveway, took the plastic bag with the photo album
in it, and proceeded up the walkway to the front door. I knocked, waited patiently, and when the
door opened I smiled and said, “Hi!”
