“She’s not your friend because of what you’ve done for her, but she’s your friend because of what you are to her.”
This has been a year of loss. In January, I lost a best friend, Rachael. I met her at a coffee party in Jackson, Mich. All she had to do was mention Kansas. Then when she exclaimed to the lady on her left, “I hate to dust! I love to cook!” I knew we were going to be friends.
Our friendship grew instantly. She was a wizard with any tool. She bonded with Liquid Wrench and Rust Out. She could paint portraits and landscapes. She even painted one wall of her kitchen to look like an old-fashioned fruit cellar. People tended to blink when they walked into her kitchen. They thought they had taken a wrong turn. Her kitchen cupboards were all painted in Dr. Seuss colors, bright and bold, each door a different color.
When the subject of housekeeping would enter the conversation, she would moan. One morning we agreed that cleaning kitchen cupboards was a big chore. On a lark, we decided to clean our cupboards together. On Monday, I came to her house. Tuesday she came to mine. What fun! We alphabetized our spices (her idea!), cleaned, ate lunch, drank coffee, laughed, and scrubbed. It was the first time we had ever enjoyed such a tiresome chore.
She was the friend who talked me into joining a gourmet dinner club. Then when she was hostess, she served liver and onions. She baked Swedish goodies and shared them with everyone. Like any good Swede, she loved sharing her heritage.
Christmas was her time to de-stress, not increase her stress. No stuffed turkey with all the trimmings on Christmas Eve. They did a family fondue.
She kept a quilting frame set up in her family room with needles and thread at the ready. All her friends learned to quilt whether they wanted to or not.
When she found out there were several Kansans living in Jackson, she organized a Kansas potluck picnic in her backyard. A day of fun and games, including a broad jump. Three ladies would stretch out on the grass in a row and the men would jump over them.
We still have her popsicle-stick Christmas ornaments hanging on our tree. I still wear the long black skirt she taught me how to sew. I told her I was so excited when I stitched the waistband that I stitched the pattern pieces right along with the material. She laughed out loud in the telling of that tale.
On my 40th birthday, she penned this poem for me; it still hangs on my kitchen wall in Kansas:
Tell me friend, did you see the dust that was bequeathed to me by days gone by?
Or did you see my open door, the welcome mat upon the floor, the fresh baked pie?
Did you not see the webs that hung from ceiling high and chairback rung, the corners too?
Or did you know I’d want to cease my battle with the grime and grease to chat with you?
Did you see the streaky windows or the sunshine coming through?
Did you see the dirty dishes but miss the morning dew?
God didn’t give me dirt and grime, He gave me love, and friends and time to sing my song.
So if you’ll take me as I am, let me be me, no pretense, sham. We’ll get along.
Rachael’s curried fruit
One 14 oz. can peaches, one 14 oz. can pears, one small can pineapple, one 14 oz. can apricots, 1 small can mandarin oranges.
Drain all fruit. Add ½ cup margarine, 2 tsp. curry powder, and ¾ cup brown sugar. Bake one hour at 350 degrees. Better if refrigerated and then reheated.
