Do the people who know us the the longest know us the best? This question has been rattling around in my head for a few years now. While I haven’t put it to task in my writing until today, I know the reason that spurred my contemplation.

A few years ago when I was going through my divorce, my childhood friend, my first ever friend, reached out to me. Her brother still keeps in touch with my brother, and they keep in better touch than she and I have managed. My brother told her brother about my divorce, and he in turn told his sister, my friend. That’s how small towns work. We are glued together for life.

Childhood Friends Know Best

My childhood friend found me a few years earlier via a google search which took her to my blog. She quickly became a fan and a follower, but what struck me when I received an email from her about my pending divorce was the timing of her message. Just when I needed her most, she showed up again. Not judging but supporting, and loving me like the day we graduated from high school. I was touched.

She passed on the news to another dear hometown friend, not to be a gossip but to provide me with more support from the people who knew me the longest. Did these girls, now women, know me the best? Would they be able to support and sustain me from afar? The answer to this question was quickly and easily revealed as a yes.

The three of us started a new friendship over the next few months, now years. We have visited, reminisced, and found joy in our 50-plus year bond. One is quirky and spirited and anxious. She has finally grown into her massive mop of red curls. The other is confident and worldly and as sharp as she was in high school. She married another classmate and has proven second marriages work.

The People Who Know Us the Longest

A week doesn’t go by now when I don’t wake up to a text. Typically, discussing books, moving, families, or how much wine we consumed. My personal favorite, a Pinterest attachment from the mop of red curls friend saying, “Remember this?”

She is spot on. Sending a picture of a pond that looks like the pond we skated on after school. A pair of Dr. Scholl’s which we all had to have one summer (Which, coincidentally inspired me to buy a pair because, per Pinterest, they are back!). Or a picture of Dot and Jim books we poured over in first grade while learning to read. She remembers the names of all our teachers and who was mean to whom during which grade, all the way through high school. Remarkable.

One week’s “Take Me Back in Time” Pinterest text knocked me to my knees. She simply titled her message, “Remember the 70s in (Scout’s) family basement?” And there it was, in living color. A rendition of the basement of my parents’ home, complete with 12-year-old girls in nightgowns having a slumber party like I did in sixth grade. The walls were paneled, of course, a dark, depressing brown. A prominent boxed TV sat front and center, consuming an enormous amount of space in the tiny basement dwelling. Framed family photos displayed across the top of the TV because it doubled as a piece of furniture.

It truly could have been my basement. Right down to the young girls gathered to spend a sleepless night in a finished basement. Musty space yet all the rage for the decade. The closed basement door at the top of the stairs discreetly offering privacy so we could discuss Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. And boys. Oh, the boys! Never mind that we didn’t have boyfriends – yet – or that the number one “it” boy would move away the following year, breaking our hearts forever. Boys were a hot topic.

More Memories in the Making

Sure, my childhood friends and I have decades worth of memories, but there is something that pulled them back to me. Knowing the kindness I needed at just the right moment. Because of my mop-top friend’s precise memory, I am not surprised how clearly she remembers the basement of my childhood home. I love that it is one more memory we share.

A few months ago, my childhood crew came for dinner at my new home. It was, literally, like putting on that old, comfortable shoe. We assumed our familiar roles, stepped back into who we really are, and continued to make new memories. I am probably the most changed of the three of us, even reserved, as I learn to navigate my new life and appreciate my quiet time. Gone is my bold confidence, no longer leading but more comfortable to blend in. Having them back in my life, though, makes me feel a little less alone.

So, yes, perhaps the people who know us the longest know us the best. If nothing else, they definitely know just what we need and when. A little dose of friendship goes a long way.

But if those paneled basement walls could talk…well, “we must, we must…” If you know, you know.

These dear childhood friends were also the inspiration for Scout’s attempt at Dry January. Read it, and maybe you too will need a drink: https://scribingwithscout.com/2023/02/02/how-to-fail-at-dry-january/