Old Friends

When we got to the last house on Lovers Lane, we could see Miz Loretta on the porch that overlooked the bay. Her bare feet were propped up on a wooden milk crate and she was settled comfortably in her old rocking chair, scratching the ears of an an enormous old tabby cat who was stretched out in her lap and surrounded by a half dozen sleepy-eyed others. All except the old tabby turned tail and scattered at the sight of us. Miz Loretta just smiled and beckoned us in.

“They don't take much to strangers,” she said soothingly, “But they's good company for an ol' woman in her declinin' years.”

“You ain't no more declinin' than I am, 'Retta,” my grandmother told her gruffly and laughed,

“Age is jist between your ears anyways.”

“Mebbe so, Alice, mebbe so. But I swear, the arthritis in these ol' joints don't know that.”

“Any day above ground....” my grandmother began.

“Is better than a day below,” Miz Loretta finished for her, “Ayuh, I expect that's so.”

I was struck by how much alike these two women were. Both were short and stout, white haired and wrinkled. Both were longtime widows, prone to wanting to have their own way and testy when they didn't get it. Both liked to bicker in a companionable sort of way and both were fans of order and routine. They protected their privacy and their emotions fiercly. Neither liked to be rushed, overruled, or caught off guard. And though I didn't know it then, both would live into their 80's, independent and alone - one felled by a sudden heart attack and one succumbing to the effects of a stroke - but on that day, they were just two gossipy, old women enjoying the lazy summer sunshine and the easy conversation of longtime friendship. We ate chicken salad sandwiches and fresh tomatoes, drank iced coffee, played a rousing game of gin rummy and sensing no danger, one by one, the cats began returning. They came slowly and cautiously, peering 'round the corners of the porch, hoping for a tidbit of chicken salad which Miz Loretta would stealthily slip them when she thought Nana wasn't looking. My grandmother, who rarely failed to notice anything, witnessed each of these small favors but chose diplomacy and said nothing. It could have been her way of avoiding a silly spat but I chose to think it was a benefit of a longstanding friendship.

The sun was well on its way to setting and the sky had turned pastel when we left, leaving Miz Loretta with a porchful of cats and the old tabby still snoozing in her lap.

“Next time I'll have to try salmon,” my grandmother mused as she navigated the old Lincoln down the the dirt drive to the main road, “I 'spect them damn fool cats would prefer it to chicken salad.”

Diplomacy is a two sided street, I decided, and said not a word.