The House of String

My oldest childhood friend, Eileen, called my mom yesterday. Eileen had taken her two young daughters to visit her own mom, and one of them did something that reminded her of something she and I used to do long ago when I'd spend hours at her house. She hurried in to tell her ailing mother the story, only to find that she had passed away. So she called my mom to tell her the story instead.

Gloria died as she had lived, quietly, without bothering anyone, and with her youngest daughter never too far away. As a kid, I always preferred hanging out at their house. Gloria would sit with us in the kitchen, feeding us whatever our whimsical hearts desired. Two English muffin bottoms for me, two tops for Eileen. Pretzels. Home made cookies. She was unhurried, never seeming particularly concerned about the whole chicken sitting on the counter waiting to be roasted for dinner. She'd get to it, without much fanfare. She was never too busy to chat with me, even when Eileen had tired of the two of us and escaped to another room.

For years, Eileen and I lived in our very own imaginary world, a world without electronic games or computers, a world uninterrupted by carpools to dance or tennis or karate lessons. Our favorite game was "string house." In the entrance hall to her apartment (we called it the foyer, pronounced foyah), we would run string from the closet door knob to the knob on the front door, hang a makeshift string door over the top, and entertain ourselves in our house of string for hours. Nobody -- not even her dog -- was allowed in. It was our space, flimsy enough to be taken down when we were ready and simple enough to be rebuilt whenever we needed to seek refuge.

Gloria understood the sacredness of our string house. She would float by occasionally, just to see if we needed anything (and, I think, to make sure we didn't set foot in the living room -- her sacred space). We never dared to even put a toe onto the living room carpet, and, as far as Gloria was concerned, our string house was as impenetrable as a fortress; she never even approached the threshold.

Eileen and I have lost touch over the years, and pretty much only talk when there's a birth or a death. But when we talk, as we did this morning, we fall easily into nostalgic chatter about the games we invented when we were young. When I told my son my old friend Eileen's mom had died, he knew exactly which friend Eileen was. "She's the one you used to leg wrestle with, and fart in each other's faces." One and the same, although I don't recall ever sharing with him that highly personal and sentimental tidbit of memorabilia.

Life can be as flimsy as an ordinary string house, but old friendships, no matter how much time passes, can be as sturdy as the invisible fence that seemed to surround ours. As I have for many years, I will miss my afternoons with Eileen and Gloria.