You're mother always told you that you'd be late for your own funeral. My mother never said that to me because I am my father's son. But she told my sisters that. Of course, it's rather impossible to be late to one's own funeral if you really think about it.
I was hurtling at 70 mph north today on I-95 to Portland, Maine, for the internment service for my friend Payson. Earlier in the week I had been on I-95 in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida with my friend Glenn (some 1,579 miles south of Portland, Maine). At the committal service, Payson's best friend Edwin, our fellow bridge player and friend noted that he had 76-year friendship with Payson. You could see that he was hurting, but what could one say?
Earlier this week, Glenn and I decided we've been friends in the 30+ year category [that is longer than a certain dinner guest had been alive]. Edwin even articulated the loss. There would be no one now alive for him to verify his memories. I'm thinking 40 years in the future, who will know about the Tab Bunny coming at Easter? Or RCA=Rotten Christian Attitude? Or a countless amount of other things? Edwin and Payson knew each other so well they could say "oh, she's pulling a Christine" and know exactly what that meant.
Friendship is maybe the most underrated pleasure mankind has invented. Glenn provided me an oasis last weekend in between jobs. I watched the movie Arthur for the first time in years, remembering how truly hysterical it is. So:
A hot bath is wonderful. Friends are wonderful. Just imagine how wonderful a friend who bathes would be!
And cheers to all four of us for 100+ years of friendship.