62 YEARS AGO ....

Four young women met 62 years ago when crimson leaves carpeted the broad sidewalks connecting dorms at Skidmore College. Our first semester as Freshmen, we had to wear oilcloth bibs with our names printed in bold black ink on the front. We donned dresses, stockings and heels every night for dinner in Moore Hall. We were allowed only seven overnights (with parental permission!) that first semester, and had to be inside our locked dormitories by 9 PM. 

(“Man on the floor!” triggered shrieks probably heard in Albany, 30 minutes to the south.)

On graduation day, sporting Capezio flats and pastel Lanz dresses beneath our black academic robes, we had no clue what lay ahead — two divorces, a heartbreaking widowhood, difficult cancers, lower back and neck operations, knee and hip replacements, a broken arm, a pacemaker, challenging teenagers, beloved grands …. not to forget the Atkins and cabbage soup diets.

Last week three of us drove north to celebrate our 80th birthdays at Carol’s home in Southwest Harbor, Maine. “How do you work the navigation on your car,” I asked Susie as we left the Wells woods and headed towards the Maine Turnpike. “I never use it so I don’t have a clue,” she answered. 

Ellen said, “No problem. I’ll put Carol’s address on my iPhone.” I replied, “But I’m more comfortable seeing the big map on the screen.”

So Susie pushed a few buttons (“I think this is how you should be able to do it….”) and, within a minute, we had dual — and dueling  — directions: Siri on Ellen’s iPhone instructing, “Take the freeway for 58 miles north” and the Audi navigation suggesting, “Use the next exit to reverse directions and go south….”  No one knew how to turn OFF the Audi system, so we just lowered the volume.

A friend is one who knows you — and

loves you just the same.

Back in 1960, we had 20-20 vision, but less today. “Are we here?” Susie asked, as we eyeballed tiny numbers painted on a foot-high sign at the end of a long driveway shaded with pine trees. “I think so,” I said. We pulled in, got out of the car and stood there smiling hopefully at a closed front door, waiting for Carol to walk out and greet us. Nothing. 

“Let’s try the next driveway,” Ellen said. And there stood our hostess Carol.

Friendships aren’t made up of one big

thing. They’re made up of millions of 

little things built together perfectly.

Over the next 48 hours, we used walking sticks to hike Ship’s Harbor and Wonderland, two of Acadia’s “easy” rocky trails. Late one afternoon, Carol taught us how to “red flag” email that we wanted to save. (“How did you learn to do that? I have to phone my grandson to switch channels.”)

We ate at lovely restaurants (“I can’t eat that much — would you like to split my haddock?”) and compared pill containers (“Why do you take Turmeric?”). We discussed the virtues of hearing aids. (“Carol, I hear your doorbell. Someone is at the front door.” “ No Val, that’s her phone.”)

We sipped vintage wines and and bubbly Veuve, reminiscing about long-ago weddings in which we all were bridesmaids. We shared hopes and dreams we have today for our grandkids. (“It’s such a different world.”) And we, who twisted to Chubby Checker well into the wee hours at Williams and Dartmouth, who pulled all-nighters to complete term papers … we were in bed by 9. (One of us at 8:45.)

Best friends don’t tell you everything they know

but they keep every secret you tell.

Not surprisingly during our mini-reunion, we fell back into patterns established in our salad days. Carol, who we had affectionately dubbed “the General,” still offered sage and caring advice, honed perhaps by her major in psychology. Ellen, a passionate and stylish New Yorker who favors black and ecru clothing, looked at my Lands End top and said with a smile, “Val, it’s so colorful!”

Susie, who’d flown east to Skidmore from Minneapolis as a 17-year-old Freshman, demonstrated that same inner sinew and strength as she talked about life without her beloved “Gunder.” I just tried to keep the gang giggling.

We left Southwest Harbor so grateful to have actually gotten together.

Best friends are like a really great bra:

rare, supportive, and close to the heart.

Here we were in 1991.

And here we were last week, still laughing after all these years.