Barbies, Bikes, Best Buds and Smoking - The Fabulous Years...

In a few weeks, I will reach my 45th birthday. As a teen, I never saw myself living past twenty, but amazingly, I'm still here. 

My last blog had me "Waxing Nostalgic for Gumby" because I've been doing lots of thinking about how things used to be. I suppose you do this when you get older, because time flies, and you don't realize it. It sounds odd to be able to say "You know, I haven't seen so-and-so for 25 years!" I remember my parents saying that when I was young and thinking "Holy Moley...how do you actually LIVE 25 years, yet alone NOT SEE someone for that long?"

Anyway, my life has been in a bit of turmoil these past (almost) two years. I've been tested like never before in my life. In this period of time I've lost people near and dear to me; some by death, some by choice. I've gotten a bit wiser as I've aged; some people I've chosen to "leave behind" because their presence in my life was too difficult or "toxic." These are not easy choices to make, and ones I don't take lightly, but painful nonetheless. Role models I had as children have died. I've had to deliver two eulogies for people who helped me grow and also gave me hope. I've had people I never thought would step up come to my rescue. I've learned a lot through pain, but those lessons were tough, and I'm still learning them.  That's a good thing. Hard, but good.

In these times of difficulty, I've been thinking nothing but negative thoughts most of the time. I've often asked myself, "When was I last "normal" or 

"happy?"   Oh, I can think of times closer to now that I was feeling "more normal" than I am now, but that brought up another thought: What would I consider to be the best times of my life? It's simple. My first memories of my childhood up until I was in about 7th grade.  Those were the best. Why? Because I was young, free, and although my parents did not have a good marriage and that was difficult in itself, there was one thing I could count on: riding bikes with my friends.

I grew up in a small town where everyone knew everyone. That town is much bigger now, but whenever I go home, which is not often, I still bump into people I knew way back when, even though I haven't lived there for 22 years.  My Dad's family grew up in this town, and his best friend lived there with his wife and kids. By virtue of my Dad's friendship with this man, I was born into a life where I was destined to hang out with the children of my Dad's best friend. Instant friends - lifelong friends. It was a great match from day one.

My friends, Steve and Ellen were the stars of my life. Steve was born in May of 63, me, April of 64, Ellen December of 64, and my brother, John, December of 65. It was a match made in heaven. We were close enough in age to play together from day one. We grew up together, influenced one another, and got into trouble together. And, we explored our town and nearby towns when we rode bikes together.

Steve was my first "boyfriend." Our parents tell us that when they had cocktail parties (this was the 60s), that at age three, Steve and I would roam the parties, charming adults so that when they weren't looking, we'd finish off their cocktails. At the end of doing this at one particular party, they found us in the corner, at three and four years old, kissing. Unbeknownst to my parents and me, this would become the story of my teen years! A predictor of my future. Too many drinks and kissing boys in corners!

But I digress.

We did the important birthday parties together. Our families were close, so we attended each other's birthday parties. With four of us, someone was always having a birthday. We got a bit older, and we really got down to business. For Ellen and me, we played Barbies. We pooled our Barbies, but if we did not have enough Kens, we stole Steve or John's GI Joes. Ken was a beach bum, tan, cool, and good looking with a great smile; GI Joe wore camouflage and looked very serious. Again, a precursor to my life, as I would end up marrying a military man, when, maybe, I should have looked for a Ken, as I discover now.

Barbie had a pink convertible and a camper. We were in the big time with those accessories, and even now, I recall being a little bit too serious in our made up stories. I can actually remember crying real tears as Maureen speaking for poor Barbie. "But Ken, don't leave me for my younger sister Skipper!" Wow, wait! Here comes GI Joe, who rescues me and drives me away in his GI Joe Jeep. Ain't life grand? Of course, we really only ever played Barbies at night, or when it was raining outside. If it was sunny, Ellen's mom always made us go outside, which was really fine, unless we wanted to watch Saturday morning cartoons. (I slept over at their house for probably, the first 10 years of my life almost EVERY weekend during school and summers, too.)

When outside, we'd get together with John and Steve, and make elaborate tracks in their dirt driveway with Steve's Matchbox cars.  In the summer months, we'd swim in their pool, playing "Marco Polo", and run in the field in their back yard. If we weren't playing "Lost in Space" (I would always get mad if I couldn't be Judy - she was the most feminine and very pretty on that show), we'd play "Land of the Giants" - little people stuck on a planet of giants, or something like that. Steve and Ellen had a cool tree house in the "back 40" of their yard. We spent hours up there doing things like making up stories, playing house, and things I'll never admit to now.

They had a pond there, too, and although it was too gross to swim in, we'd catch frogs there in the summer, and skate on it in the winter. At night, as our parents hung out inside the house and drank to their heart's content, we'd lay in the tall grass of the field and look for UFOs. We would spook ourselves silly. One of us would yell "Look - what's that light?" I think this was around the time that "Close Encounters of the Third Kind" came out, I can't quite remember. If we weren't in the field acting out our usual dramas like "Lost in Space", we'd play our other favorite game: "Let's See Which Family Can Throw Their Sibling the Farthest", or , "Which Family Can Beat Up the Other". In the first game, I'd grab my brother by the arms and twirl him like a top and THROW him as far as I could. He'd try to throw me.  Steve would do the same to Ellen. Then, in the second game, we'd switch partners - Ellen beating the crap out of John, and me trying to beat the crap out of Steve. I don't think I ever won at that one.

They lived near railroad tracks. They were located one house away. We were not allowed to go near the tracks, but of course, that's what made it such a huge draw. There was no fence there, just tracks for the Amtrak trains to speed by. We often would put our ears to the tracks to hear if a train was coming, and when we heard the vibrations, we'd put a penny or a quarter on the tracks to flatten it out as a souvenir. Or, we'd lay on the ground, feet facing the tracks, to see who could get the closest to a moving train. There was sort of an urban legend that if you got too close to the tracks, you'd get sucked under the train. This was a huge dare, and we took it all the time.  Looking back now, I can't believe I was so stupid. But, when you're a kid, you think you're invincible, and maybe that's what makes life so fun. We took risks daily.  We were either very stupid, or very brave. We had fun and we were lucky we didn't get killed.

My parents owned a grocery store. We would often go in and steal dollars out of the register to buy ice cream from our own store, which, really, thinking about it now, I should have not stolen the cash, but just shoplifted instead. Same thing. Anyway, being adventurers, we tried new things together. I'd catch my mom behind the counter by cash register. I'd go behind the counter, say, "I love you, Mom", hug her, and then snatch a pack of cigarettes out of the rack and toss it over my head to Steve or Ellen. John would find a pack of matches, and off we'd go, hopping on our bikes to the nearest building we could find to park and sample our cigarettes (or "Grits" as we called them). We had LOTS of code words back then to fool our parents and make ourselves feel cool.

Steve and Ellen's folks bought a pop up camper. There was a big plan - our families would go to Maine, to the Saco River, for a camp-out. The guys (our dads and Steve and John), would get to the campsite, set up the camper for "the ladies" (my mom, me, Ellen and her mom),  and then "the guys" would drive up-river with their canoes and camping gear and have a male-bonding-canoe trip down the river. 

Ellen and I were so pissed that we got left out of this little plan. "How come the boys get to go and not us?" 

"Don't worry, girls," they said, "the next trip will be a father/daughter trip." (Uh, yeah, still waiting, Pops. Never happened, and we've never forgiven them. Really).

 Well, it rained all week. Torrential downpours. We were stuck in the pop-up camper in the woods,  (the girls), and this is when my mother and Ellen's mother were so beside themselves that they smoked cigarettes, drank whatever they could find, and taught Ellen and me how to play cards. We learned how to play Bridge and Set Back, neither of which I could play today, let alone one week after that horrid trip. We still, Ellen and I, would have rather gone down the river than play bridge. The camper roof leaked; it was miserable. "The Boys" however, had it very rough, from what our dads tell us. "Oh, you wouldn't have liked it. It rained and rained, and there were mosquitoes everywhere, and snapping turtles all over our campsites. Plus, our underwear were wet every day. Imagine how awful that was!" Well, at least you got to see something, Daddios. We played bridge and inhaled second hand smoke in a leaking camper for what seemed like a year.  Ellen and I, at least once a year say, "Do you think our Dads are ready for that trip down the Saco River?" Our Dads are 72, post heart attacks, and into decrepit retirement. Nope, don't think we'll get that trip any time soon. Even if they were game, I'm sure our dad's second wives wouldn't want them to go.

We went to church together, too. Oh, not our families. Just the kids. By the time we were around eight, we were going to Catechism, WHICH WAS ON SATURDAY MORNINGS! Imagine that! You go to school all darn week, know you have to go to church on the weekend at some point, but you had to give up Saturday morning cartoons for Catechism. What a bummer! So, we always went to Catechism, but when Ell's mom would say on Sunday morning or Saturday evening, "Time for church, kids" we'd happily agree, then hop on our bikes "to go to church" and ride and ride and ride to anywhere but church. We'd explore our town...the beach, the woods, the cemetary, or just ride to the school playground to swing on the swings. I don't think we all ever went, at least I don't remember if we did go.  Skipping church was the best thing I ever did! Maybe that's why I don't take it seriously now! Either way, some of my best times were spent skipping church. I'd do it all over again in a second. Our parents never knew we didn't go. We all had communion, confession and all that other stuff, so attending Catechism classes on Saturday sort of gave us a free pass for Sunday, I figured.

The best part of all of those days, for me, was riding our bikes. We were free - really free. No parents, our own "wheels" and we had the wind in our hair. We had miles and miles of places to ride, and we didn't wear helmets. We had some good spills, I still have the scars to prove that I survived them, and we got to know every inch of the town we called home. We grew up on those bikes. We bonded, we laughed, we had great adventures. And guess what? We were in the best shape of our lives! 

Last year, I joined Steve and Ellen in Connecticut - (we all live in different states now) - to celebrate their mom's birthday. She was 84. It was the first time the three of us had been together since 1982 - our senior year of high school. The only person missing was my brother, John, who was serving in Iraq. It was, for me, an amazing thing. Ellen and I have been in touch regularly over the many years of our friendship. Steve, being a guy, well, just doesn't write to me via e-mail, and that's the way things are. He has a family, a job, a life. Ellen has a husband an a load of lucky animals she calls "my kids" and I have a husband and two little ones. We gathered together and our age didn't matter. We fell into that kind of comfortable dialogue that only people who grew up together can have. We used our code words, and told old stories, caught up on our current lives, and told each other how much we meant to each other. They are not simply just my friends, but my siblings-by-default, my other family, my history. I've been given a great gift: to have two great friends who have remained my friends since we were in diapers. These days, that's hard to find. Our mothers aren't friends any more, haven't been for years, (especially now because mine is dead, but heck, way before that. Some drunken episode ended that). Still our Dads remain ever-faithful to their life-long friendship. If my brother had been there that day with us, it would have completed the circle. For me, I'd like one more chance to repeat history. If I could, I'd ask them to just go bike riding with me for one afternoon. Go to our old haunts, ride with no hands, wind in our hair. If we fell off a bike now, we'd surely be injured worse than we were when we were ten; but I'd suffer a broken leg now, just to have a little taste of what life was like back then, when we were young, carefree and fearless. Those are the days I will always cherish, these are the friendships I will never forget. They helped form who I am today, they gave me my sense of self. 

Man, am I lucky. 

(Personal note to the BMW Group: MoWad no grits, Boom, Package, Wets, GetdownSaboo.  Love you guys - Always).