Old Friends Are the Best of Friends

A few weeks ago, I turned 40. COVID-19 took away the ability to have a big party in person, but it has enabled a zebra stripe to develop on my head. It seems the hair dye my stylist puts in is doing more than ‘giving my hair some shine’.

Other than springing a few grey hairs, I have to say I feel groovy. Earlier today, I did a birthday video for a girlfriend who is turning 40 tomorrow. It culminated with me doing a cartwheel and round up to emphasize that I’ve still got it at 40 and she does too! Aging isn’t something that intimidates me – quite the opposite. The older I get, the better it gets.

As part of our turning 40 celebrations, my group of childhood friends had planned a long weekend getaway to Toronto. Two newborn babies, budgets and geography made it difficult to make this happen. It took about 750 texts and 17 date/location suggestions before we came to an accord. After all of that planning, COVID shut down airlines, borders, and our trip.

A few evenings ago, we had a Zoom call to lament over the fun we would have had together. During this call, newborns were breastfed on camera, wine was consumed, ridiculous stories were told and I fell off the chair I was sitting on (not due to wine consumption). We roared with laughter.

I’ve been friends with this group of six other gals since, well, I can’t even really remember when. Sarah and I are cousins (and went through elementary school together), so we’ve been kicking around together since we were five. When us country bumpkins finished Grade 6, we migrated into town, where we met the other five members of our get along gang. So, we’ve been friends for roughly 30 years. That’s a lot of years. So many memories.

There’s just something about old friends that allows you to totally be yourself. There’s no pretense. We know where each other came from, we know each other’s families, we know all the history. Though we don’t see each other in person all the time, when we do get together, it’s like nothing has changed. We quite literally revert to who we were when nothing else, other than being together, mattered. Jobs, partners, children and sensibilities are forgotten.

Last summer, six of us got together at a cottage overnight. We each brought some food, lots of wine, cigarettes (a high school habit that shows up when we get together as group) and a whole lot of anticipation for a fun night together. I think someone passed gas within the first half hour (which always causes an eruption of laughter). Laughter is the most important part of our friendship. As the bottles of wine emptied, the funny stories started, and snort laughter ensued.

We died laughing thinking about the Grand Marquis. Sacha’s father won the lottery, and shortly after, the car she used for getting back forth to university died. She was thinking with this new windfall, perhaps, he would buy her something cute like a VW Golf. Her Dad went to an auction and purchased her a car. I happened to be with Sacha when she went to see the car. Much to our chagrin, he’d purchased an enormous purple Grand Marquis. The owner, a man in his 90s, had died, and as Benny said, “he kept great care of it.” Sacha inherited it. It was so big that when you blew the horn, from the backseat it sounded like someone else was beeping at us because the front was so far away. The windshield fluid would spray people on the street. The seats were plush burgundy velvet. We laughed so much in that car.

Memories of old boyfriends, crazy late-night escapades and desires for the future were all covered on the deck of that cottage.

Somewhere deep into the night, we decided to take a voyage down to the beach to look at the beautiful moon over the ocean. With no flashlights (only drinks) in hand, we tramped through the tiny trail to the very rocky beach area. I emphasize – the really rocky beach area. The first trip and stumble happened. The second fall happened. Kari thought she broke her knee cap. Laughter – so much of it.

After goosebumps developed and glasses were empty, we decided to make our way back to the cottage. The very small aforementioned trail could not be found. We made our way through thorns and branches that tore our legs. Someone fell sideways into the bush and couldn’t get up. I think I peed my pants at that point.

We woke up the next morning with legs that looked like we had gone to war with nature. A toe with a huge gash. One swollen knee cap. Massive headaches. A dire need for coffee. Again, waves of laughter as we each made our way out of bed into the common area. A night well spent together.

We’ve been through so much over the years. Countless late nights, shared apartments, graduations, new relationships, breakups, engagements, weddings, divorce, moves, travel, job loss, job changes, promotions, achievements, miscarriages, pregnancies, births, death, stress, disappointments, elation, celebrations, endless hours on the phone, new homes and so much laughter.

Technology has made it much easier to be in touch – often. Our group chat makes me slip out of ‘serious adult headspace’ all the time. The other day, a member of the group (I won’t say which one) sent a photo of her pants, which had split wide open when she sat down. A glimpse at the photo caused me to forget about the work budget I was chipping away at. Instead, I found myself laughing out loud at my desk.

Friendships are something that I’ve always valued, and I’ve worked hard at maintaining the connections I’ve made over my life. I have other kindred spirits I’ve met throughout my 40 years, but there are few who I’ve shared underwear or had as many laughs with.

 

 

 

 

 

Call Me Old Fashioned…

I started working when I was roughly 11 in the underground babysitting market. Most “clients” were relatives or neighbors. I babysat a lot – $3 an hour was the going rate (and for that money, I had to look after a lot of kids). I would also make meals, do dishes, and clean.

When I was old enough, babysitting morphed into a job at a shop in town, where I worked the floor and gift-wrapped my heart out. I worked every Thursday and Friday evening and every Saturday from Grade 9 until I left for a summer in Calgary after my first year of university.

In Calgary – after working the classified section hard – I got a job doing landscaping. That was hard work, and my work partner was super weird. She loved wolves, had a conspiracy theory about everything and reused Kleenex after she let it dry out for a day.

I made my way back home for school (about 20 pounds lighter and with an incredible farmer’s tan). I got a job at Shoppers Drug Mart, where I worked for much of my time at university. I was also a bartender at the university pub, wrote ads at the local radio station and sold ads for the yearbook. Oh, and I went to university!

After graduation at 22, I boldly moved to Toronto to live with my cousin, who had moved the year before me. I had one suitcase, my tax return and some graduation money (I had to find a job before it ran out). I found a great job and was the youngest person on my team (by many years). My upbringing and previous jobs had prepared me – I knew how to carry myself and interact with others.

At each of my jobs, even at a very young age, I knew I had to be responsible, professional and offer customer service. When I went to work, I was there to work. Of course, there were days I was desperately hungover, called in sick when I wasn’t, and friends called my places of work to talk when I should have been doing my tasks.

I like to think of myself as a modern woman. I’m always open to growth, evolving, and I love learning from people who are younger than me about new ways of doing things, especially when it comes to technology.

Technology also brings out the solid dose of ‘old-fashionedness’ I have in me. I’ve noticed with the infiltration of technology there’s been a severe decline in customer service, human connection and consideration for those around you.

Just before COVID-19 closed everything, I was in Toronto for work. One evening, I went to The Eaton Centre. Nordstrom’s was having its annual anniversary sale, so I ducked in to take a look. An expensive brand of make up I had read a lot about but hadn’t yet tried was included in the sale. I was looking at the products as the shop girl sat leaning on the counter staring deeply at her phone. I wanted to try a product, but testers weren’t on display. Since she was still in her iPhone trance, I had to ask her if she could help me. She said, “yeah,” then answered her phone as it rang at that moment. She applied the $60 highlighter on me as she chatted on her phone. When she was done, I asked for a mirror so I could see what it looked like. She opened a drawer, took a mirror out, passed it to me and then walked away, still talking on her phone. I walked away too – without buying anything.

After that, I walked to a restaurant I had read about – it was self-serve, yet the prices were equivalent to fine dining. I brought my tray to a gal (who was on her phone) at the checkout. She punched in my items without any conversation. I was prompted to tip a suggested 20 per cent.

After returning my tray, I took a taxi back to my hotel. The driver was on his phone (on speaker) the entire drive. As I was paying (and prompted to tip), he opened his door and did a snot rocket onto the ground. Oh, God, I just gagged remembering it.

When my meetings were done, I made my way to the airport on the UP train. One thing that was UP on the train was the absurdly rude behaviour of the gal beside me. She had really long, fluorescent green nails (which she was tapping on her screen at an astonishingly fast rate), while at the same time having a conversation on her phone. She repeatedly (and loudly) said, “ARE YOU going to take me to get my nails done? ARE YOU going to take me to get my nails done?” while pulling a McDonald’s straw in and out of the cup she was holding. The straw made a sound something like ‘reeeeekkk – reeeekkk’ over and over. When her stop came, she didn’t say “excuse me,” she just stood up and kept saying, “ARE YOU going to take me to get my nails done?”

Upon arriving at the airport, myself and other train occupants (not green nails, thankfully) took an elevator to the correct level. We all jammed in – there was barely room to move your arms. The gal beside me (who had on an airline uniform) suddenly broke into a verbal assault: “Do you think I am stupid? You didn’t answer when I called, but I know you saw I called! You are such a liar.” She had Airpods (wireless earphones) in her ears, which were connected to her phone, so you couldn’t really see them. An older man in the elevator thought she was talking to him. Her rant continued as we all walked down a long hallway to the terminal. She made her way to a customer service desk for the airline she worked for.

Before arriving at the airport, I had checked myself in on my phone. Upon arriving, I printed my baggage tag at a kiosk and brought my luggage to the drop off (where I scanned and placed it on a belt myself). Literally not one person looked at me or said anything to me as I made my way through the various touch points.

When I arrived in Halifax, I took a taxi home (around $65). The driver was on his phone the entire drive. When he passed back the machine, I was again prompted for a tip – suggested at 15 per cent – and out of social awkwardness, I did it. To boot, he did not even get out to help me with my luggage, just popped the trunk.

During this time of trails and tribulations for businesses, technology has been an enormous help. Online ordering, Zoom meetings, online banking, Instagram and Facebook to help spread information, new ways of doing things.

One area where I hope things will go back to ‘the way they used to be’ is the requirement for people to put their phones away when they’re at work and not focus on “I”, but rather you, the customer.

Oh, and taking repetitive selfies with fake smiles in public places – I hope that stops, too.

Where Have All the Characters Gone?

Covid, and our direction to ‘Stay the blazes home!’ has caused me to rip out some old forms of entertainment – scrabble, reading, baking and even some good old fashioned joke telling.   A few evenings ago, I delivered my old (because I haven’t heard any new ones that are better) repertoire of jokes.  My audience member (of one) was in stitches – especially at the one about Jean Chretien wearing a fox hat to press conference in Shubenacadie.  I do a solid impression of Chretien – rough French accent, talk out of the side of my mouth and use a lot of intonation.  We laughed so hard I had to make a dash to the washroom.  Telling that joke got me thinking about characters.  Chretien was a character – he wasn’t typical.  I love the story about the Shawinigan Handshake (pictured above).  I admire characters; they make for the best stories, the biggest laughs and they often rock the boat.  A few years ago there was a bestselling book called ‘The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck’ – it directs people to let go, to stop thinking about what others think and just be yourself.  Characters subscribe to this notion without ever reading this book.  I notice, more and more, the disappearance of real characters in our society.  Everyone is quite, well, vanilla.

Like many small towns on the East Coast, the town I grew up in had a plethora of characters.  They were everywhere.  In fact, I think I lived with one – my Dad.  I can recall him saying ‘it’s no good to be just be ordinary.’   In the late 80’s/early 90’s floral leggings came into fashion and my Mom bought a pair.  Dad hates leggings.  Dad often made bread when we were growing up.  We came home one day to find him wearing the mentioned leggings while making bread.  Mom said something like  ‘Omg, what are you doing wearing those!  They look terrible.’  He said ‘Well, they don’t look any better on you.’  We died laughing.

I did some reflection on the characters I’ve interacted with over the years… I’ve literally been laughing to myself thinking about the stories I can tell.  So many people to think about: neighbors, relatives, teachers, customers at shops I worked at and local ‘special agents’.

There was a taxi driver who has so big he basically sat in the backseat with you.  He would pick us up at the local pizza shop after we had been out at the pub – upon getting into his cab with our wafting delights, he might ask for a bite.  Conversation with him often began with “Now who would you be?”  We would roar with laughter as we burned along some rural road in his Caprice Classic.

Church at the cathedral was always made more exciting by a very colorful local who  would barge into church a solid 20 minutes late and bomb on up the middle aisle of the church to one of the front rows.  Nothing subtle about his entrance.  His behavior was always more interesting to me than the sermon being given by the priest.

Mrs North Grant, a local woman who dressed up in fur, jewels, heels and sometimes also had rollers in her hair under a kerchief (while wearing all of the mentioned), used to saunter down Main Street on her way to her daily stop at a local restaurant.  I’m not sure what happened to her house, but it got knocked down.  I always wanted to get in there and see what life was like in her little pink abode.  I also wondered, how did she become who she is?

My elementary music teacher.  She had a powder blue Tempo Topaz – it was full up to the windows with sheet music and records.  She would eat tapioca pudding and put far too white powder on her face, while she played Bach and Beethoven for us.  I think she retired when I was in Grade 3, so I was bit young to appreciate classical music.  She used to make us write examinations on it – I can only imagine the in-depth answers we would have given at that age.  She loved music and wanted to share her passion for it with us.

Picking up hitchhikers was a common gesture  – usually 100% hit rate on picking up a character.   Our neighbor Freddy was often thumbing, and so we would scoop him on our way to town.  He worked for my Grandpa and Grandma for years and apparently could work harder in the woods than most anyone, he never married and he loved animals.  Our old lab Becky used to make a daily pilgrimage across the road to get a feed of steak from Freddy.  She loved his company.  He also had a penchant for ‘the drink”.  Hours after dropping him in town, you might see him thumbing his way back out of town – let’s just say some money may have been spent at The Legion.  Later in life, he needed to have a leg amputated and was in Halifax for the surgery.  Mom called and asked me to go visit him because she figured he wouldn’t have any visitors.  The visit was, let’s say, memorable.  He was a bit confused from drugs and such, upon explaining to him who I was, he thought I was my Grandmother.  He said ‘Fody, Lord Jesus you are looking good.’  My Grandma would have been around 90 at the time.  He also offered to show me his stump.  I passed.

Growing up, I loved going visiting.  I would get to hear the crazy stories about ‘that time when someone hauled off and punched a bull square in the nose’ or tales of crazy pranks someone played on their colleague.  My Dad had an uncle named Leo (who had eyebrows any aesthetician would have loved to get their hands on) – he would tell stories about farming in rural Cape Breton.  He would use his hands, and he would furrow his brow down over his eyes when he really got into it.  His brother Emile, another grand uncle, was also a character and he told fantastic stories.  One time he told me a wildly absorbing tale about when his father died in the 70’s.  Air Canada happened to be on strike, and so he wasn’t going to get home for his funeral from Thunder Bay.  At the time he was an RCMP officer, he told me how his fellow officers formed a chain across provinces – one car would meet another to take him back to Nova Scotia.  At the climax, he slammed his massive fist down and said ‘I goddamn well made it home for Papa’s funeral!’

My best friend is my cousin on my Mom’s side – her mother has given me more laughs than I can possibly count.  Stuart McLean from CBC’s Vinyl Cafe loved a story I sent him about an experience I had with her.  Unfortunately, due to his illness, the story never made it to air. It involved an untimely rolling of a ham from a grocery bag  in the back of the car to under a break pedal. This caused the brake pedal to jam!  The encounter culminated in a dramatic halting of the runaway car.  Upon inspection, we discovered the culprit.  A ham.  Aileen exclaimed “Can you believe we nearly died at the hands of a ham?”

As an adult, I still love a good character.  A few weeks back,  I was out with my dog (and my parents’ dog) on my way to get my haircut in the pouring rain.  A passerby said ‘wow those are beautiful dogs, can I pet them?’  My parents’ dog can tend to be a bit shy of men at first, but when this guy approached she went right to him.  I said ‘she really likes you, normally she is timid.’  I had a big umbrella and this guy didn’t – water poured down his face as he told me about how he has ‘a way with animals’.  He told me about the time a beaver came out of a lake in Alberta and sat on his feet, when a wolf-dog who was known for being cross became his devoted follower, and about the time when a raven landed on his shoulder and stayed for 4 days.  I honestly hated to cut off our conversation, but the rain and my haircut had me ready to roll.

I can’t think of that many characters in my generation – be it politicians, business leaders, people in my community, or family members.  It seems we have been somehow trained to be afraid of standing out, to be afraid of being different, and perhaps fear the backlash you will get for speaking your mind.   Curated.  Edited,  Just like everybody else.  I hate to think that characters are going to be a thing of the past.   If that is the case, what will we have to tell stories about?