That ditty from my Brownie troop days is a constant loop in my head these days. "Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver , but the the other's gold."
My calendar is a gold and silver mine. As lightening snaps and hard winds pelt the house with rain, I'm warm and safe on this ugly winter morning.
My email box contains at least the first floor of Tiffany's in treasures, even though I empty it every few days.
Anyone who says family is a separate category from friends doesn't have a jock brat baby brother who calls in the middle of the afternoon, from the middle of a nowhere business trip, just to check in and say hello. Same for cousins Bernie, Karen and Cheryl who e-nursed me through a recent rough spot. They've known me since childhood, but like me anyway. Go figure.
I'm not a particularly personable type. There is no excuse for my ridiculous wealth. My writing pals, many of whom I've only met briefly, make me work and laugh harder.
My husband and daughters have seen my worst and given me their best. They deserve a platinum category.
Andy was my first love, dark, dangerous and set strictly off-limits by my parents. Our conversations now revolve around our grown children, our spouses and the power we would have to solve any of the world's problems if just allowed. We no longer discuss what it will be like to get out of our parents' homes, but what our perfect retirement homes will entail.
I opened the newspaper yesterday to see my picture at a fundraiser with my book-selling buddy Wendy. It's a long way from the places we grew up in Western New York to the society pages. There may not be anyone else in this area who understands and appreciates the journey more. She's doing the work that I just dream about in creating one of the best bookstores anywhere in not-exactly-revitalized Brunswick, Georgia. Wendy's cool.
Bobby took the picture although the party patrol assignment was an insult to his abilities as a photojournalist. If you know anyone with preconceived notions or prejudices about what a man raised in South Georgia might be, introduce them to Bobby. Warn them in advance to not waste time believing that simple country boy shtick. Bobby can speak as easily about Japanese environmental policy as how his mama washed collard greens in the rinse cycle of the old wash machine. Bobby has impeccable taste in music, primarily because it's identical to mine. My CD racks are overflowing with Bobby finds. We have struggled to remember a song title only to simultaneously recite the same obscure line from the middle of the song out loud. It's reassuring to me to find out my mind works like Bobby's. The inverse likely scares him.
This weekend my co-conspirator-illustrator-truth teller-French teacher Anne and I are escaping to Asheville ...ostensibly to work on our children's book. Hands fly and eyes flash to easily fill language gaps between us and we can talk for hours. I've known her only a few months, but our lives are already intricately bound. There is no other reason the baby sea turtle I wrote about could have been sitting patiently on a computer all these years other than the fact he was waiting for Anne to arrive from Paris. From the first sketches, she knew him better than I.
Next weekend I stop in Houston, enroute to Los Angeles, for dinner with three people who have not seen my Georgia home, but who were a very big part in getting me to this place.
At the lowest, brokest, earliest days of single parenthood, Sam and Tina always seemed to have someone cancel with an extra ticket that would just go to waste. For years I believed their friends were a rather undependable lot. It wasn't they knew I couldn't afford a babysitter, only that their kids would love to see Jessica and why doesn't she stay over? They laughed with me over the dumb scrapes I got myself into and quietly rescued me from the more serious. I had nothing to give in return. They never asked or expected. I still want to be them when I grow up.
The fourth at that table will be Steven, a man far too brilliant to be the gifted interpreter of hundreds of epic, misspelled, late-night emails over the last decade. We visit infrequently, but there is never a sense of time apart.
Before I get back on the plane, I'll spend some time with my former neighbor Pam. We raised our children through the middle years in a diverse, bizarre Houston neighborhood. Pam was smart and strong when I wasn't. I'm so proud and excited for the life she is building for herself now. I can't wait to see her.
I wrote about the Los Angeles leg of the trip in the California Dreaming blog a few weeks ago. Renee and I had small children, huge egos and impossible dreams when we were newspaper reporters in San Antonio. The children are now adults and the rest is open to debate. Time with Renee is always an adventure.
Despite what the fashion magazines say, it's a joy to mix silver and gold. I love every gaudy, sparkling layer and wear it proudly.
It's a damn good thing the government doesn't tax the wealth that matters. I'd be in debtors prison.
But I'd have the best visitors.


Copyright 2004 Judi Griggs