A real friend is one who helps us think our noblest thoughts, put forth our best efforts and be our best selves.
Author Unknown
My best friend in second grade was a pretty, dark-haired girl named Stephanie. She moved to California that summer. We were too young to keep in touch (no email in those days), yet I often thought of her.
Seven years later, I was in Junior High in another school district. I was waiting at the school's back door for a ride home. Also waiting was the new girl in school - a pretty, dark-haired girl. She asked if my name was Pat. It took a long look, but I recognized my best friend at last.
Stephanie Mahle has been my closest friend for 40 years (are we really that old?) She's only five days older than me - and I love to rub it in. She's always been there for me - and I try to be there for her. She'll always be my best friend.
When you grow up in a small town, it's easy to know everyone - and be known by them. In college, it's pretty much the same close-knit environment. You make some very special connections during late- night bull sessions in the hall. Later, you move to "the big city." You're in your 30s and single. Those special connections are much harder to make. Then you meet someone at work and, for some unknown reason, a bond develops and you're friends. That's how Linda Mathers became my best "city friend."
People from home are sometimes surprised at our friendship. She's more than a decade older and not as much of a party animal (as I used to be). Yet, she has a spirit and moral well-being which I admire. She's very young at heart and enjoys trying new things. Most importantly, she's straight with me. If I want - or need but don't want - honest criticism, she tells me. And she's usually right.
Linda once told my sister she enjoys being my friend because I get her to do things she normally wouldn't. Our fondest memories originate on the dirt roads of Arizona. I drive and she takes pictures and picks up rocks (lots of both). She often teases me about picking up a stray dog in the desert mountains, getting lost trying to find somewhere safe to leave him, following telephone lines (you know - cut them and they'll come find you), then looking up after a half mile and realizing the lines stopped - not the poles, mind you, but the wires. We ended up in an orange grove and hours later came upon the owners. They gave us directions to the highway (only eighth of a mile away) and said, "When you get on the paved road, stay on the paved road!" Spoil sports.
There are many more adventures ahead for Linda and me. If that I have no doubt.
