Just as Different as Our Dogs

Good friends are hard to come by.  Sister says they come into our lives for a season, for a purpose and then sometimes they go away.  Sometimes they stay.  I have many good friends but only a very few that I consider true friends.  Most of my friends have my same interest.  We like the same foods, we share the same careers.  We like the same television shows, the same books, the same kinds of men.  But I have one friend that is just plain weird.  We're just as different as our dogs.  I'll have to tell you how I met her.

It was about 17 years ago.  God! How time flies.  It was her first day on the job at the bank I was working at.  You know how women are.  We don't like change.  We don't like women that come in the first day and try to own the place.  I'd heard she was coming.  I was an executive officer of the bank with nice double french windows overlooking a massive lobby.  There she was.  I could tell it was her by the way she was acting.  All flirty, with men standing all around her.  She had a big smile, shaking hands with customers, talking like she knew everyone in the entire town.  She was short, petite, tiny, with dark, stylish, short hair.  I was tall, big, blond hair.  I didn't like her already. 

I tried my best to act very unconcerned about her arrival.  I turned my attention back to a stack of reports on my desk.  The laughter was getting louder, getting closer to my door.  My curiosity was getting the best of me so I looked again.  She had her back to me.  Her stylish gray skirt was tucked neatly inside the back of her pantyhose.  I turned my head away, knowing if I started laughing, I'd pee in my pants.  There she was.  First day on the job and her backside was shining to the world.  No wonder the men surrounded her!  Should I step out and tell her?  Surely I should.  She didn't know me.  I didn't know her.  I made a quick decision.  I wasn't opening my mouth.  She'd figure it out if she wanted to be a woman in a man's world! 

But then I really met her.  Had to work on a daily basis with her and she became real.  She was going through a bad divorce.  We had that in common.  She had teenagers.  My heart started to hurt for her.  She was human, a woman just like me.  The confidence and cockiness she displayed on the job was a facade and I realized it was an armor for her insecurities and her hurt.  We began to form a friendship.  We ate lunch together on occasion.  I'd go to her house and listen to her play her piano.  We'd attend bank functions at night together.  She realized my hearing loss and she became my ears at work.  She began to travel with me, attend meetings with me, repeat things that she knew I didn't hear.  I began to rely on her.  And then she met "The Man." 

An Air Force Pilot came one day and took her away.  He married her and they began to travel all over the world and our differences became even more distinctive.  It wasn't just the tall-short thing or the blond-brown hair thing.  It became the social and the reclusive.  The traveler and the homebody.  She bought luxurious rugs and furniture.  I decorated with primitive quilts and rustic furniture.  She lived in a three story home in a foreign country, I lived in a little two bedroom house in the woods.  Her husband donned expensive suits and shoes.  Mine wore blue jeans and work boots.  I loved the porch, she loved the theater.  We were just as different as our dogs.  Mine, Red Heeler Cattle Dogs.  Hers, Volpinos.  My dogs ride on the golf cart, hers on airplanes from one country to the next.  See the difference?  We're just as different as our dogs but I love her.  I miss her because she's worlds away in a country where nothing blows but the sand and it's not uncommon to get behind a truck with camels on the freeway. 

Soon she'll come home for a visit and we'll eat at our favorite restaurant, appropriately named "Two Friends".  I'll listen to her talk about her world and she'll listen while I talk about mine.  I'll miss her when she leaves again and long for her to return so we can laugh and talk like two friends do.  I pray daily that God keeps her safe and protected from harm as she lives in a foreign land.  And just like our dogs, we'll just be different. And we're both okay with that.

Junking Into the Unknown

Junking is my passion, my hobby, my high.  If it were cocaine, I'd be an addict.  Some of my most facinating finds have been down dirt roads, in run-down barns and in frazzled boxes.  I like to dig and plunder. I'll pass a little hand written sign that says, "Estate Sale" or "Yard Sale" and my car automatically does a U-turn in the highway.  I don't care who's behind me, I'm slamming on brakes and turning around.  My husband has learned to just pull up front and stop because I'll jump out before he can put the car in gear.  Years ago I did it for an antique shop we had.  Now, I just do it for fun and to help a friend that is just about to open her own shop.  If you tell me it belonged to your great-aunt or your grandmother crocheted it, I'm buying it.  For the life of me, I couldn't sell something that my mother made or collected.  I'm hoping I don't turn into a horder.  But I am organized so if I do, I'll be an Orderly Horder!  I took this picture on Saturday morning.  I was waiting for my friend to arrive at her new shop so while I waited, I rode.  Hoping to see a sign.  And there it was, "Estate Sale".  A tree-lined canopy road awaited my arrival.  I was in heaven.  Even if the sale was no good, the ride was beautiful and I opened the sun roof on my car.  As I arrived and walked onto the screened in porch, my heart felt some sadness.  It was a mother's things they were selling.  She was no longer with them and they had strewn her things throughout the house with price tags.  It was something we promised our own mama we would never do with her things.  And, when she died, my sister and I kept our promise.  Among the plastic bowls and worn out frying pans, I found a beautiful picture of two angels with their arms around each other, then a pretty pottery bowl and pitcher.  I stood and looked out over the pond and saw the view that their mother must have looked at every day.  I could picture it quiet there early in the mornings with a peaceful view but there was arguing among the children. "Where's mama's CD player?"  asked one daughter.  Another one shouted, "I took it to my house and you can't have it back!"  I gave them my money and left.  I needed to be back on the dirt road, the one out front that was canopy-lined with trees.  They were standing right there in a little slice of heaven and didn't even know it.  Throwing angry words at one another that can't be taken back.  Back out on the dirt road, I let their arguing slip away from me.  I took a deep breath and it felt good to smell the fresh air.  Junking into the unknown is therapy after a long week at work.  And until next Saturday, I'll glance at this picture and hope for another surprise around the bend in the road.