My 2 Gs

What would I do without my best girlfriends? My 2 Gs in a 4 G world?

One lives on the edge of the prairie, where the dust devils swirl when the wind blows wild and woolly across the plains. The other lives in the foothills of my beloved Rockies where wolves and elk roam her neighborhood and snow drifts ten feet high in January.

Gale and I were study group partners at b-school over thirty years ago in that academic mecca called Boston. We bonded and together with Judy racked up As to the utter dispair and frustration of the uber-competitive all male teams. Crazy smart. Our sensibilities, intellects and sense of selves aligned. We rocked their boats and emerged successfully into the world of biz.

Fifteen years ago, Gayla and I befriended each other in the carpool line at our sons' grade school. Third grade boys who were ... and are ... the apple of our eyes. She and I walked and talked and got to know each other through middle school years of dances and football games. Our similar upbringings as one of three sisters and the mothers of the most precious boys this side of the Mississippi forged our forever friendship.

We stay in touch ... my soul sistahs and me ... over the miles, through the years via phone, email and irregular visits. I love them both. Dearly. Each is from a most special part of my life. But neither knows the other. Sadly. They'd like each other.

Cheers to Gale and Gayla ... love ya, darlins, like sisters! LYLAS!

BSers

Tapered candles flicker throwing a soft glow over my friends. The shadows bounce. Smiling faces erupt in the gaiety of tinkling giggles as another swig of Vitamin V swills smoothly down our throats. Mine of course is G. Up with three olives!

It is the eve of our annual soiree. Casual meeting of like spirits. Like minds. Aligned sense of adventure. No hangers on. No wannabes. Not this time. Just the four of us. The original cast of characters. Trustees unattached. A ship of not so foolish souls.

Witty banter. Sophisticated palates. Global travelers we. Enjoying the camaraderie and festive joys of our five year old friendship. Suppers extraordinaire. Decanted lovelies. Tonight's fare: poached salmon with cucumber dill sauce and summer salad of Bibb lettuce and peaches. Lemon mousse with blueberry coulis for dessert. Nectar of the gods flowing freely.

Cheers to my darling friends: Bruce, PJ and Chris. Without them the winters in Maine would be a bit lonelier and the summers not as delightful.

Sparkling Friends from The Edge of the Prairie

It is a perfect summer day in Maine. Perfect.

The mercury hovers in the mid-70s tinging my unsunscreened skin with a blush of rose. The midday sun shines lemon yellow in a cloudless cerulean sky. Maybe there are a few fluffy white cumulus clouds out there. On the horizon. It's hard to tell. The ocean sparkles incandescent. Zillions of shimmering mirrors capturing the dancing sunlight. Dazzling sequins on the sea goddess's midnight blue gown flowing chiffon graceful as the waves ebb and flow onto the wide sandy beach nearby.

But this is not the best part. Not by a long shot. My dearest friends from the landlocked edge of the prairie arrived yesterday afternoon. For the holiday weekend. Birthday celebrations. Lobster rolls. Lobster bisque. Lobster dinner al fresco.

Today is the crème de la crème ... drum roll ... a quintessential sailing trip down the river, past fishermen gathered on the granite sea walls bordering the channel and out into the wide open seas. Postcard views of large grey weathered shingled cottages, wooden white inns from the turn of the last century with huge lawns sweeping to the shore. The pristine expanse of beach (yes, here in Maine!) dotted with gaily colored umbrellas and hundreds of bathers spread out along the shore. Glorious.

Ah, the Schooner Eleanor, a double masted wooden ship built and captained by the grandson of one of Kennebunk's finest ship builders from the early 1900s. My Charlie was fortunate enough to crew on the schooner a few summers ago. Three, two hour cruises a day. Gilligan in a blue/white striped French sailor sweater, barefoot and sea worthy.

Out into the Atlantic. Up and down the coast. Past Walker's Point and 10,000 lobster buoys marking traps. Local fishermen. Local fare. Supper! A soft ocean breeze lulls us. Salt spray mists our tanning skin. A whale and a few seals pop out of the deep waters to sun themselves. Gulls. Terns. Flying fish.

It doesn't get much better than this!

Happiest of birthdays, Golden Bull! Salut to the red white and blue.

Limoncello

I am changing the name of my column. Ever so slightly. In honor of my dear friends. The BSers (as we are known affectionately). My intimate dinner group of four trusted trustees of our beloved Brick Store Museum who found in each other similar sensibilities, convivial spirits and much laughter several years ago.

PJ, Bruce, Chris and I. All singletons when the tradition began. Now expanded to include significant others or guests (which is rare). Our friends covet our camaraderie and escapades. Who wouldn't want to be in the company of four bemused fifty-somethings?

Bimonthly one of us gourmands wanting to share our culinary skills with the others. We gather for hours of gaiety and gracious entertaining. Now I know what you are thinking. And, yes, you are probably correct. We each can spin some yarn. Pontificate on subjects inane and cultured. Weave a fantabulous story to the delight of each other.

One sultry, steamy August night, PJ ... whose stunning beach side home was filled with laughter and starlight ... served sorbet and lemon cookies with a strange new drink. A sweet yellow delight chilled frosty. One easily flowed to the next to the next to the next. The evening made all the more hysterical, or sublime, or witty or earth shattering (not quite certain which) as we glowed in the after supper candlelight sipping a liqueur glass of ice cold limoncello.

The Italian digestivo. Made from Sorrento lemons in southern Italy along the Amalfi Coast. Capri. Anacapri. Winding mountain roads by the navy blue sea shimmering with sun sparkles. The devil's drink. A cleverly disguised sophisticated grown up lemonade. To cool the night. PJ brought a bit of Italian romance to our group of darling BSers. Not that romance. But the romance of supping on the terrace overlooking the sea. Hammered.

So as the weather turns mild and the sun sits a bit higher in the sky I look forward to our summer suppers by the sea made all the more bright with a sip or two of our now cherished limoncello.

Cheers to the BSers ... and the stretch of road along the Gulf of Naples!

My Old Kentucky Home (School)

Periodically they float into my dreams. My childhood friends. Magically grownup but looking not unlike our 18 year old selves. Why impose the effects of aging on my nighttime memories? No Lancôme or Botox needed. No Lady Clairol. We are youthful and slender and quite lovely. Nubile versions of our older selves.

I cherish those nights when deep in slumber I find myself in animated conversation with Les Girls. My Besties. Soul-sisters in adolescence. So long ago. Across millions of miles. And, even more years.

Time melts. Remarkably we are oft engaged in frivolous girly behavior, preteen whims. Slumber parties with giggly sips stolen from the bourbon bottle on silver trays hunt tables in whomever's dining room. Lanz nightgowns. Barbie dolls decked out in garden party dresses and that black and white striped maillot ... waiting seductively for Ken. Grins of metal. But mostly we are our adult selves debating issues we never would have imagined in those daffodil-laced, chocolate milk-infused days. Long before we grew up. Mostly.

In the sixties we shared a sliver, a slice of our well lived lives. Kindred spirits brought together by proximity and the same small girls' school. Bound by fate. Nine month segments for thirteen years of shared classes, illnesses, giggles, pimples and dreams in that lovely old estate on Douglas Boulevard.

The sun shines lemon-yellow on the large grassy lawn where we jumped rope and came of age talking incessantly of boys from Country Day and St. X and our neighborhoods. Back where the trees bordered the campus and we snuck Marlboros and Salems behind the bushes out of sight of our chain smoking teachers. VW bugs and Pintos and Mustangs were parked haphazardly on the edge of the driveway around the circle.

Girls in pastel dresses skip around the Maypole draped with ribbons and a colorful array of tulips, jonquils, lilies and magnolia blossoms snatched in the dark of the night from pre-Derby gardens of our parents' friends. A warm Kentucky breeze blows lightly stirring wide-ruled notebook paper and mimeographed homework assignments from their blue cloth three ring binders tossed casually on the stone steps during recess. The white stucco home of our classes welcomes our innocence, prepares us for our futures.

Jane resplendent in white knee socks, navy clunky heels and mini skirt, sparkly blond hair in a Midge flip bouncing as she runs along the drive to the new building. Diane's colorful eyes kohled dramatically in Mary Quant shadow and Twiggy lashes roll annoyingly at Mrs. Wimp's concoction bubbling in the Petri dish. Laurie, presses her baby blue Pappagallo flats lime green trim on the clutch as she shifts her British racing green MG-B from 2nd to 3rd zooming the few short blocks from her home on Arrowhead to Taylor's parking lot to meet up with the Country Day boys for Friday night lights. Cecily and Chesney's graceful long limbs dance the night away in the yard, high on life and a few beers from Jack Fry's. Anne impishly checks out the scene from the rear-view mirror of my navy blue 1964 Corvair Monza exhaust fumes be damned.

So I had to see everyone. Had to. Our fifty-something selves. Jane and I planned a 40th reunion over one of those autumn weekends in Kentucky that reminded us of hockey games in Seneca Park and rehearsals for the junior play. We included anyone who had been in our class ... ever. Plus the boys from LCDS. Why not? We were forever friends after all. We hadn't skipped a beat. Some of us grandparents. Others still single. Childhood chums. What's four missing decades among friends? Nothing!

Cheers! To Cecily, Laurie, Abby, Anne, Diane, Jane, Chesney, Sissy, Cecy, Janey and Edwina ... and to the boys who made our school plays and Friday nights sparkle! With love xo

Drives to nowhere ...

Sometimes it just feels good, great even, to join a dear friend on a drive into the country, or up the coast, or into the city. It just feels good. To get in the passenger side of a well-waxed forest green classic automobile and slide deep into the leather seats knowing that the adventure is not in the destination, but in the journey.

This afternoon was one of those days. A crisp clear January day where the air is so cold and dry that the edges of every naked branch on winter-bare trees stands sharply against the azure sky. One of those rides. Destination unknown and of little consequence. Maps stowed in behind-the-seat pockets. A full tank. Minimal amounts of cash. Sunglasses. Nothing else needed. No baggage. Well, not much anyway!

Time stretches before us like an open road. The nose of the car points north then east then on the back roads past charming antique farmhouses, rolling fields and the ubiquitous neighborhood with mobile homes converted into ranch housing. The sea air luring us toward the shore. Cruising down rural highways traveled before ... and to be visited anew. Peaceful and alluring when snow covered. More colorful and vibrant in the sweet heady days of summer.

Deep in thought one moment. Spirited conversation the next. Familiar and comfortable, yet thrilling in an unpredictable way. These rides to nowhere. Nothing is everything somehow. Nothing can be just that. Nothing. But not today.

Cheers to no maps! No preconceived destination. That can wait until tomorrow ... or the day after.

Soul Sisters

My darling friend, Gayla, and I were catching up today. A post happy new years call. She is in Oklahoma, where they are expecting an ice storm. I am in Maine where the temps will reach the high 40s this afternoon. Laughing and huffing (one of us on the treadmill or outdoors walking) we zigzag across conversations with the glide of a figure skater. Picking up where we left off, even if months (or in one case years) since our prior conversation.

We met in the mid-nineties when our sons were 8, classmates and only children. Charlie and I had just relocated to the edge of the prairie. It was mid-year, just after the holidays. Third grade. Every afternoon I'd drive from Edmond to Nichols Hills to wait in the carpool line for my Charlie to stream out with his classmates. I usually parked. Wandered up to the lower school entrance where other mothers waited, milled about deep in gossip, plans for the weekend, whatever.

Most had known each other forever. Oklahoma-forever that is. Their grandparents migrating to Indian Territory in the late 1800s or turn of the 19th century. Homesteaders in the land rush. Or sons and daughters of wildcatters and oil barons. Each knew the words to their state song. I was the new girl. I only knew the chorus:. O-K-L-A-H-O-M-A OK! An easterner with a southern accent. A carpetbagger. The moms would look over at me, smile politely and then turned back to each other and their discussions. I smiled back.

One caught my eye. She and her sister were inseparable. Both with dark chestnut hair like mine. And as thick. I knew immediately that I wanted into their inner circle. Sisters thick as thieves. Bestest of friends. Animated and energetic. I missed that. Sisters. Mine were flung far and wide. One in Kentucky, the other in the Boston area. Gayla was right here. Everyday.

In late May, end of school year swim party, she came up to me and introduced herself. For real. Invited me to lunch. I was elated. I don't remember exactly, but soon we were deep in friendship. Sisters. Not by blood. Kindred spirits.

We now live 1000s of miles apart. I miss her, but know that even though birthdays are often missed and life events not always shared we always pick up exactly where we left off. For that I am grateful.

Cheers, sweet Gayla! Cosmopolitans clinking. Until Tomorrow.

To get? Or, not to get? That is the question.

A dear friend told me today that he is not sure he really 'gets' me, but that he is getting closer. It has just taken him a while longer ruminating over the whats and whys that make me, me ... than with others. Which surprises me. And doesn't. I am not easy to 'get'. Or, get.

My friend is one of the most brilliant, perceptive people I know. Hands down. His humor quirky, his intellect deep, his sense of adventure intact. A refined Alec Baldwin. Bad boy meets Winston Churchill. But like me, he's a bit shaky in his boots. Slightly out of sync with our peers. Our traditional but unconventional sensibilities aligned. I hold my cards very close to my vest. Very. I do not let my guard down totally. Neither does he. So I get it.

We have been friends for five years. Off and on depending on the season, how the wind blows, what else is going on in our lives, the fullness of our pocketbooks, our weight. When we are not in contact, I miss him dreadfully. When we are together, I am oft overwhelmed. Does he 'get' me? Scarily so. Then one of us pushes away from the pool side and paddles off goggles blinding the peripheral view swimming to shallower, safer waters. No periscope. No rear-view mirror.

But it's okay. We reconnect. Always do. Our parallel lives intersecting at some alien juncture. No rhyme. No reason. Just the passing of an appropriate amount of time.

It's funny how we met that first time. Two over-education, under-employed fifty-somethings relocated from bright lights, big city for different reasons, at different times to the same New England town on the coast. I was a no-show at the port side sports bar for our inaugural rendez-vous and the final game of the World Series. Way out of my zone. The nearly all-male patronage clinking long neck bottles of brew and slapping each other on the ass. Not my vibe. One glance at the scene inside those steamed up windows swirling with testosterone and I scurried back to my car. Fast. No brass ones here!

So my dear friend and I met a few weeks later. Same bar. Baseball season over; basketball barely begun. We shared mussels, a Caesar's salad and wine, sophisticated SITC 1980s misadventures, outlook on life. Talked through the evening, bar hopping. Closed the high-tony bistro on the marsh swilling drinks boasting garnishes ... a lime for him and my three olives ... piano-side. Our friendship launched that night a half decade ago. Spirited discussions of clothing ventures melding my strategic business savvy with his marketing genius. Driving throughout the region to anywhere and nowhere exploring. Planning jaunts to Savannah ... and to England to quench his things for all things Anglophile. Tailgating at my son's Ivy League college, Crimson Punch flowing from the spigots in red plaid Skotch Koolers. Platonic sailing into and out of each other's harbors over the years.

It has been a year. Thirteen months actually. My path is once again intersecting with my MadMan's. There are blanks to fill in. I's to dot. T's to cross. Color outside the lines. So my dear friend, slower is better. There is plenty of time. What's not to get?

Cheers ... until tomorrow!