Friends

Friends are the flowers in the garden of life—they come in many varieties and they blossom when the conditions are right. Some take their time to show their colors, while others burst into bloom as if by magic. Occasionally, there are those who hibernate, but when they re-emerge, they are the same flower.

One of the benefits of having just turned seventy-five is the opportunity to reminisce on three quarters of a century of living, by reliving and relishing events from my past, most particularly the long history of friendships that have brought immeasurable joy. One has struck me with particular poignancy, as I pass certain landmarks on the timeline of life.

I was twenty-eight years old, in the late fall of 1976, when I met Frances Ann, my next-door neighbor in East Hampton. A petite, white-haired lady with a genuine smile and Southern grace, she was both elegant and friendly in a way that put one at ease. She spoke with her eyes.

It was my second weekend at the house, when she invited us—my boyfriend, whom she’d known for years, and me, his very new girlfriend—to lunch at her house overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. During a simple meal, Frances Ann shared other facets of herself—her intellect, her fearlessness and her intoxicating energy. She was not shy about voicing her opinions, even on politics—despite being a liberal Democrat, she was quick to share her disdain for fellow Southern Democrat, President-elect Jimmy Carter.

Within a few weeks, Frances Ann’s home felt like my own, and there was hardly a weekend that I wasn’t helping her in the kitchen for a communal dinner that could count as many as eight or ten of her friends, most of whom inhabited the arts world—cinema, theatre and music. At times, our relationship seemed almost like that of mother and daughter; at other times it was decidedly as two girlfriends. I marveled at how compatible we were, particularly given our thirty-year age difference.

Despite having come a long way from my cloistered childhood, I still reveled in learning from those who were both older and more culturally attuned than I. Frances Ann represented that and more—with her, conversations could last for hours. During moments of early self-reflection, I’d ask myself: What does she see in me? But after several years, I forgot about the generational gap in our ages and came to appreciate that perhaps it was her own vitality that allowed her to enjoy the company of one so much younger. She became a trusted confidante and, on several occasions, proffered invaluable advice in moments of emotional stress. For a quarter of a century—by which time I was over fifty and she over eighty—we remained the closest of friends. She welcomed my children as though they were her own grandchildren.

When Frances Ann passed away in 2001, I couldn’t imagine how to fill the painful void of her death. I was by then in my early fifties and retired from the world of Wall Street. At first, when her image would flash into my mind—those bright blue eyes and that smile that came from the heart—it brought sadness, but before long that emotion metamorphosed into a sense of peace and joy. She was still with me. And then something happened.

Over the next year and increasingly as the years unfolded, I found myself playing the role that Frances Ann had played in my life. Twenty-somethings—graduate students, musicians, professionals in the world of finance—became my own protégées. Their youthful energy and vitality opened my eyes and mind to ideas and viewpoints both invigorating and inspiring. I learned to appreciate their—sometimes seemingly radical—views on life, politics, and religion. The education was enlightening and allowed me to respect the vast diversity of thought among the younger generation. Over time, many of those relationships matured into friendships that endure to this day.

Looking back, I now wonder if that was how Frances Ann experienced our relationship. Was I more than the daughter she seldom saw? Was she rejuvenating herself through the interests and attitudes of someone half her age? Was she possibly learning as much from me as I was from her? The thought was pleasing.

I was in my mid-sixties when the principal of a Catholic school in East Harlem suggested that I mentor girls in the middle school. The idea was tantalizing but not without its challenges. What would eleven-year-old girls and I have in common? What would they know about world news and politics? Would it be inappropriate to discuss grittier matters like drugs and crime? I tried to put myself in their shoes when I was their age, and settled on asking them, at our first meeting, what they wanted to be when grew up. That was the perfect ice breaker—five girls shared their dreams, from detective to doctor, forensic lawyer to firefighter, ballet dancer to baker. One even shared the trajectory of her intended career path from lawyer to judge to President of the United States. Some nine years later, one of those girls is a rising junior at Saint Bonaventure University in upstate New York, where she is studying nursing. I look forward to following her career and counting her among my friends in the years ahead.

There is a truth that none of us can ignore—as we get on in years, the inevitable demise of elderly friends will become a reality. That doesn’t mean, however, that old age need be a lonely existence. A lifetime of engaging with those younger than we are is a reward in itself, by offering years of intellectual stimulation and enjoyment, and leading to long-lasting friendships that have the blessing of warding off loneliness in our last days.

Afterword: Please note - My new book, Breaking Glass: Tales from the Witch of Wall Street, is at the publisher and will be out early next year.