The Last is Gone

Last week a friend from my childhood called to tell me that her mother, Ruth, had passed away. Ruth was the last member of the “gang”: a group of women from our first neighborhood when my parents first moved to San Antonio in the mid-1950’s. The gang consisted of my mom, Nita, and Ruth, Glatha, and Janie. Two other women, Dorothy, and Marjorie, were also in the gang, but as time went by they did not stay in close contact as the others did.

Janie’s kids were at the service also. Just hearing the names brought back so many memories. Tears welled up in my eyes. Embarrassing.

Boo had put together a collage of photos of her mom and included were some pictures of my parents who are both deceased now. They were taken at my parent’s house not long before they moved to assisted living for dementia patients: Ruth and my mom and dad gathered around a table sharing a meal together. From my parent’s first house until their last house, through fifty years of friendship they shared raising children, divorce, deaths, laughter, retirement.

We lived behind Ruth and her family only about a year, but some of my most vivid childhood memories are of spending time at their house.They lived across the alley from us. Her daughter, Boo, was a little older than me. I idolized her. Boo had an older brother, Boatie, and a younger brother, Bobby, who was my sister’s age. My sister, elegantly attired in one of our dress-up dresses, married Bobby in the alley when they were five years old. Boo had a monkey, Josephine. (I always thought it was Boo’s, but at the service I learned it was actually Ruth’s). Boo and I spent many hours coloring together. She taught me about outlining in black and staying in the lines.

Our moms and their gang got together and exercised at each other houses. They played bunco once a month even after some of them moved from the neighborhood. They met for girls-only lunches and socialized with husbands included.

When I was grown, in my early 20’s, I went to lunch with my mom and Ruth. I don’t remember the restaurant, but it was elegant with linen tablecloths and napkins. Ruth ordered a martini and so did my mom. I had never had one before, but it seemed the grown-up thing to do so I ordered a martini as well. One sip and my throat burned so badly I wondered how they could drink them. Looking back, my mom went to lunch with her friends, let her hair down a little and had a mid-day drink. And I thought I was so modern, because that’s what I do with my girlfriends. Maybe I’m more like my mom than I want to admit.

When my mom passed away, Ruth told me she wanted to come to the service but it was difficult for her to get out. As I was greeting people in the reception after the service, out of the corner of my eye I saw a woman in a wheelchair flanked by two younger people. I immediately recognized them even though I hadn’t seen them in years. It was Ruth, Boo and Boatie. Realizing the effort it took for her to come, I was very touched. What a close friendship my mom and Ruth must have shared. I know my mom would have been so honored by their presence.

As I sat in Ruth’s service missing my mom so much, wishing she was there to share memories about her friend, I thought about my own girlfriends, the ones I have known since high school in the late 60’s and even some since elementary school in the late 50’s. Friends I’ve had for almost 60 years. The ones I meet for lunch and have a mid-day drink with. Will we make the effort to be at the final services for each other? Will we attend on the arm of our children when our infirmities make walking difficult? When I’m gone, will my children attend their final services to represent me and friendships that had lasted so long?

I pray it will be so.