We’ve been friends for over 45 years. We’ve shared a lot of life in that time. We started by coming together to make music and I’ve always said, “the friends that play together stay together.” And we have. But our continuing and growing friendship was about so much more than making music together. It’s rare for a band to stay together for over forty years. My husband always made fun of the fact that we spent the first one to two hours of every rehearsal sharing food – the food was important -- and conversation, checking in with each other’s lives, and those times glued our relationship. In those early days, we talked mostly about music – which songs to do and the right blend of instrument and voice, but those conversations quickly evolved into our personal lives, mostly about our relationships during those days of emotional upheaval in our thirties as partners and lovers came and went, and about work – finding the right work that fed our spirits. And we laughed a lot.
During my personal health crises in my late 30s and early 40s, these were the friends who were steadfast. They were with me when I suffered that first cardiac arrest. We were in the middle of performing together at the local women’s coffeehouse when I slumped over the keys, and I suspect in some ways it was far more traumatic for them than it was for me, since I have no memory of it, but they certainly do. They stayed days and nights at the hospital until that emergent crisis had passed, came to visit me in the hospital nearly every day in the days that followed, as well as during the several other hospitalizations in the succeeding months and years, provided meals, brought me flowers and meals, planted bare root plants around my house and vegetables in my garden when I was not well enough to do physical labor, and stayed with me as my caregiver in the week post-transplant when no one else could.
I was the only one of the three of us to have a child, and they became unofficial aunties, showing up for those early birthday parties and all the Christmas parties, for the concerts and plays, admired my son’s dance moves as a three-year-old and his musicianship as a thirty-year-old. Over the years, they have consistently asked about him and listened to all my joys and angsts. Now they listen to stories of his children. When for many years we were joined by another who had several children, they did the same for her and her kids.
For at least ten years it seemed that we always came around to perimenopause and menopause – the hot flashes, the night sweats, the insomnia, the mood swings. We commiserated and laughed our way through those times that now seem like such a thing of the past.
In the middle ages of our lives, as our lives became more settled, the conversation shifted to house projects – repairs, additions, remodeling, adding solar panels and heat pumps. Then there were all the conversations about our gardens – when to plant, what we were planting, not enough rain, too much rain, what did well and what didn’t, sharing the bounty, and the seemingly endless task of putting food by when the harvest came in.
And then there were our losses. Parents died, and then siblings, beloved pets, mutual friends. We have walked with each other through them all – attended funerals, provided food and solace, held each other, sang together at funerals and memorial services.
We have been fortunate in these polarizing times that we’ve always been politically aligned. We’ve probably spent as much time marching and rallying together as we have singing – Take Back the Night, anti-war, MLK Day, the YWCA Mother’s Day Walk/Run, the March for Science, the Women’s March, all the “No Kings” rallies – I can’t begin to remember them all.
And we always kept making music . . .
Now, here we are in our 70s, still walking, still talking, though the nature of our conversation has changed. We spoke of how our bodies can no longer do all the things they used to do – how we’ve lost strength and abilities despite all our efforts to exercise, eat right, and stay strong – and how we have to slowly let go of the things we have loved to do, which is difficult. The garden needs to be smaller this year. Balance, muscle mass, bones – all decreasing – yet we still walk at a fairly brisk pace. We talked about how, because we don’t have the energy to stay as involved as we once did, we seem to be slowly becoming invisible in the places where we have given so much of our lives – whether former workplaces or organizations where we’ve volunteered our time or been a regular part of events. It's a strange thing not to be recognized and known in places that were once so central to our lives. And the fact is, many of those who would have known us have also retired or retreated or passed away.
We reminisced about our pets – our well-loved dogs and cats – naming each – there were so many. We spoke of where they are buried or their ashes lay, of the way they enhanced our lives, of how we loved them. All mostly gone now, though some remain.
Then our conversation shifted to our desires after death. We agreed that we would together put some of the ashes of whomever died first and second into the lake at this spot where we have walked so many times. I don’t know who will do it for the last of us. We all thought that we’d like a green burial, but were hesitant. If we did that, we wouldn’t be able to divide our ashes and scatter them in the various places where our deceased loved ones’ ashes are. So at least in this moment, we settled on cremation. In that way we can dance in the waves together for as long as the waters last.
After our latest walk, words we sang at a concert by a lake long ago came to mind, so fitting now - -
"I'm so glad that you finally made it here
With the things you know now, that only time could tell
Looking back, seeing far, landing right where we are
And oh, you're aging, oh and I am aging,
Oh, aren't we aging well?"[i]
I’m so glad we made it here, together.
[i] Dar Williams. “You’re Aging Well.” The Honesty Room. 1993.