And Then There Was Georgia

I think it’s rare that anyone is allowed almost 80 years of friendship with one person in this life. There are so many opportunities along the way for misunderstandings, bruised feelings, and disappointments that many of us find it easier to just walk away rather than dive into the messy prospect of hashing things out. Accepting the shortcomings of another flawed human being over decades of friendship is soul-searching work at times. But one basic truth keeps us from packing it all in and saying, ‘to heck with you’ – the knowledge that we are better people because of their presence in our lives.

Delores McConkie was my mother’s best friend for nearly 80 years. Their relationship was contentious at its worst, and exhilarating at its best. The rest of the time, they found a deep companionship with each other as they lived the lives of hard-working farm wives and mothers. As a teenager, I did not understand the attraction. Why my mother wanted to be friends with Delores was beyond me. She was snippy, outspoken, and a general know-it-all. The way she delivered her commentary was what I found most annoying. Her tone had a certain ‘well, any idiot knows that’ quality. It was the sort of tone that a know-it-all teenager finds eye-roll inducing and completely intolerable. One particularly sharp exchange with her over the correct way to make Pistachio Pudding Dessert left me sputtering for days. Maybe years, if I’m being honest.

I remember a few times during my childhood when Mom and Delores would go for a week or two without speaking. It was noticeable as they were usually on the phone with each other every day. Both women loved to banter, and they each possessed an acerbic wit. They were equally matched and they delighted in seeing how far they could push things under the guise of just being honest. I’m sure with their other friends they each held their tongues a bit more, but when they were together it became a verbal game of Uncle. They each gave as good as they got, and despite all the zings and zaps – or maybe because of them – they were fast friends for life. They kept each other’s secrets, knew each other’s heartaches, and were there for each other when each of them lost their husbands. During those periods when they didn’t speak, there was no drama or talk about who said what to whom. If my mom was bothered by the break, she didn’t show it. I think they both knew that the situation would eventually resolve itself in time. Delores lived less than two miles from us, just at the bottom of a viaduct that was perfect for winter sledding. I remember standing beside the guardrail one winter afternoon, midway between the top and bottom of the hill. I could see the two of them through Delores’ large, east-facing picture window drinking coffee as if nothing had happened. Just like that, they had called a truce. I sailed down the hill, having had a front row seat in how you move on without assessing blame or revisiting inconsequential remarks. My mom’s words many years later, although meant to point me in a good direction when it came to marriage problems, rang true in their friendship as well. “Sometimes you have to say I’m sorry, I was wrong when you aren’t sorry and you weren’t wrong – just to get past things and get on with life.”

Delores passed away at the age of 88. At that point, my mother had lost two husbands, but she had never lost a best friend. My mom had other friends and many relatives to socialize with, but the loss of her sparring partner left a void that I don’t think she expected any other person could fill. And then on Christmas Eve, 2023, she slipped on her wet porch and fell, breaking her pelvis. It would take six months for the break to fully heal, which meant that going back home to live was not an option. So in February of 2024, my siblings and I moved her into a beautiful assisted-living facility. She was not happy and frequently remarked that she was now incarcerated.  She complained repeatedly that the staff was shrinking her pants in the hot dryers, but was thankful that the food was delicious, the portions generous, and that dessert was served with every meal.

Meal times and scheduled social activities gave residents an opportunity to meet one another. My mother had been a farm wife for the past 70 years and she had no interest in getting to know anyone who hadn’t been a farm wife, too. She made little effort to learn anyone’s name, preferring instead to refer to most of the residents by some physical characteristic. No matter how many times I would tell her someone’s actual name, she would continue to use their most unflattering qualities as a means of identifying them. It was customary at this facility to choose a table to sit at for meals and this became your unofficial seat for the foreseeable future. This is how my mother met Georgia. She was a farm wife and, like my mother, was there against her will. They bonded quickly over the shared injustice that had befallen them.

I watched their friendship blossom within a matter of weeks. My mother, who had become confused and forgetful at home, seemed more like her old self when she was with Georgia. As much as she loved the place that had been her home for nearly 70 years, watching her interact with Georgia made me realize that she had been lonely for friendship with someone of her own generation. Neither Georgia nor my mom could move very quickly, but their minds were sharp and they could banter. It was a joy to see them together, sitting on a hallway bench watching residents come and go. They were the self-appointed parade commentators, sharing their unfiltered observations in what I can only imagine were less-than-hushed voices. They became each other’s caretakers, giving reminders to drink more water at every meal, watching each other like hawks until the last drop went down. My mother would never have admitted it, but her life was much more interesting here than it had been at home. Home offered comfort and familiarity, but it did little to challenge her brain. You can only expect so much from Search-A-Word books. Georgia was what had been missing from my mom’s life. She loved having someone with whom she could share her observations on life, opinions about people, and aggravation at being forced out of bed at 7:00 am for fire drills. There were no mandatory fire drills at home, but she was able to find the humor in these forced evacuations. As she gleefully observed with her full head of salt and pepper hair, “You sure find out how many people wear wigs around here during these fire drills!” If I learned only one thing from my mom’s unfortunate incarceration, it was the unmatched joy that comes from finding new friendships in your twilight years.

When my mom told me that Georgia had informed her that she was moving back home, I told Mom that it was just wishful thinking on her part. I had spoken to one of her daughters and she was not going home. One week later, a determined Georgia phoned the bus system that services the county residents and, unbeknownst to her children, arranged for them to pick her up and take her home. She and my mom had each other’s phone numbers, so they continued their visits despite no longer being at the same breakfast table. My mom admired Georgia’s bold willfulness, although she told us she was pretty sure that she wouldn’t have gotten away with pulling something like that. She lived in hopes that Georgia would eventually return. I was hopeful, too.

A few weeks later, my mother was getting ready to leave a nearby hospital when she heard the news about Georgia. I had seen her obituary in the paper days earlier, but had not found the courage to tell her that Georgia had passed away. As we collected my mom’s things and got ready to return to the assisted living facility, Georgia’s daughter came into her room and told her that her mom had passed away. We all cried as her daughter handed my mom a gift bag filled with things that had belonged to Georgia – things they thought my mother might like. One of the items was a delicate crystal butterfly which my mom displayed prominently in her living room as soon as we returned to her assisted living apartment. It was less than two weeks after Georgia’s passing that my mom passed away. I suspect that her will to continue on in this place without her new friend was simply gone.

This month will be the two year anniversary of both Georgia and my mother’s passing. There are so many times that I think about the two of them sitting together, making the best of their circumstances and commenting on everyone and everything. As I get older, I find that my tendencies to be like her in that respect are getting harder to keep at bay. There was a time when I would not have wished to possess her sharp tongue, preferring to keep my judgmental nature hidden. But now, becoming more like her is its own strange comfort.

In the glass-front bookcase where I keep my most cherished mementos, there is a crystal butterfly next to a picture of my mother as a high school graduate. I keep it there as a reminder of the possibilities that are always there for everlasting friendships, no matter how close we are to the finish line. With my own years beginning to wind down, it’s reassuring to know that there are new friendships still waiting out there, sprinkled in among the inevitable losses. We tend to measure our lives in years, but a handful of weeks can bring just as much meaning to our lives as the friendships that evolved over 80 years. My mother took the time to remember Georgia’s name, telling everyone that ‘Marietta goes with Georgia’. It was a memory trick that she used to keep Georgia’s name in the forefront, but there was so much more to it than that.