Peggy laughed until her stomach hurt. I laughed until I snorted but I’m hoping no one noticed. I was back in Ohio with some of the best friends a girl can have. We hadn’t been classmates at St. Agatha Elementary since 1979 — yet it was as if we’d always been together. There’s something about old friends that calms and stabilizes me. Stories don’t require a waste of time and emotions explaining your weird family dynamics to them — they lived next door, shopped in the same stores, sat in the same pew. Believe me, they already understand Weird.
While reminiscing, we all agreed third grade was a banner year. I loved our teacher, Mrs. Suttles. She was exactly what my insecure, I–am-constantly-tortured-by-my-three-older-brothers-ego needed. She inspired me to get my ears pierced, write precisely neat cursive and read out loud. Not that I was any good at it — I still ended up breaking down in tears in front of my class (all 35 of them, thank you very much) when I couldn’t pronounce the plural possessive form of “Jesus.” Some things just stick with a person, you know.
Like the day something compelled me to cut a sheet of paper in half and use 42 staples around three edges to create a folder on the inside back flap of my binder. I overheard two of the cute boys:
“Hey Danny, look at that.”
“At what?”
“What Karen did.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“Yeah! That’s really smart!”
I fell in love with Stevie that day — more accurately, he became my hero. Someone actually thought I did something right. And he was cute to boot. He’s now a responsible grown up — with a beautiful wife, four kids, a law firm, and city councilman post. (And still cute.) Funny thing is, with a husband of 19 years and two teenage children myself, when I’m around Stevie and gang, I can still feel like that third grade girl — lucky to be eating a greasy grilled cheese with her hero.
For the classmates who stayed in town, I feel a combined sense of envy yet happiness. They share this special, unbroken lifeline — to be there for each other's weddings, family funerals, to hold the first born child, send the kids to the same school or coach them on the same little league team… to have their spouses become friends and instant members of our non-blood family.
I have incredibly wonderful friends here — the best — but there's something about sharing a history that can't be duplicated. Same with meeting in person — Christmas cards and emails are nice, but nothing beats sitting together, affirming who we are and proving we’re still loved by, with the exception of our parents, the people who’ve known us the longest and love us in spite ourselves.
I'm just glad they let me jump back into the mix each time I return to town.
Karen Rinehart is a syndicated newspaper columnist, public speaker, and creator of The Bus Stop Mommies™. Her book, Invisible Underwear, Bus Stop Mommies and Other Things True To Life, is a popular read in book clubs, school pick up lines, and soccer fields. She enjoys hearing from readers across the States and as far away as Australia, Japan, and England. You can read more at BusStopMommies.com. Karen lives in North Carolina with her two kids, two dogs, and one husband, where they attend St. James Catholic Church. (Well, they leave the dogs at home.)
