Friends of Parents' Age 'Accept Us as We Are'

The luncheon was at a favorite spot, a quaint restaurant in a park a long the Fox River. I remembered being there for many happy occasions and this was another one, a bridal shower for my sister, Mary Pat.
I got to the table a few minutes late; my mother had sent me home for the forgotten camera. After kisses and hugs were exchanged, I sat down between two sisters, Margie and Mary Johnson.
As I looked out at ducks braving the cold water, the park pavilion in the distance caught my eye. Memories of another happy time, of tow young families having a picnic, rushed into my view. "Remember when we came here for the picnic?" I asked.
"Yes," mother answered. "Bert (Margie and Mary's dad) had Wednesday afternoons off and your dad was home, so we brought all of you here."
"Your mom brought along a huge cooler full of pop, and we could have as much as we wanted," I said to Margie and Mary.
"Mom thought at picnics kids should be able to overdo," Margie added.
No one said it, but after this exchange we all felt that one seat was very empty at the table, Margie and Mary's mother, Anne Johnson, was missing. She had died the previous summer. Her family always had taken part in the special occasions of our family, just as we always were in the special times for them.
The luncheon happened several months ago, but I thought about it yesterday when mother called to tell me about the death of another friend's mother, Joyce. What's making me feel so sad, beyond the sadness I feel at losing these two women so soon? I decided my mother isn't the only one who has lost two friends.
I have always thought of Anne as my mother's friend, and of Joyce as my friend's mother. Now I understand that the affection these generations ahead have for their friends' children, and their children's friends, is genuine. It's not demanding, jealous or phony, and it doesn't waver as the course of like takes us in different directions. They have known us all our lives, and they accept us as we are.
I was special to Joyce and Anne. They were interested in me and the things I was doing, even when I was a silly little girl and an even sillier teenager.
The Sorensens lived across the street. Their daughter, Catherine and I were pals. Mrs. Sorensens (I never could call her Joyce) sewed, and let us use the scraps to make doll clothes. When I was about 9 years old they moved to California. I never really felt they were away, because they returned to Illinois in the summers to visit their grandparents and, of course, us.
And one time I visited them. Everything was done to make sure I had a good time. We went to Disneyland, the beach and a television studio. It was an exciting trip.
The Johnsons were out neighbors at the lake. When Mr. Johnson converted to Catholicism, he asked my mom and dad to be his godparents. When my youngest brother was born, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson were his godparents. All our special times - birthdays, confirmations, graduations, anniversaries and weddings - were intertwined.
It's hard to fill such an empty spot in my hear with memories, but there are so many they can't help but brighten a dark place. I just wish we were still making memories.
November 6, 1985