Sweet Influence

Friends who nurture

Maternal

On the telephone, friends mistake us now
when we first say hello—not after.
And that oddly optimistic lilt
we share nourishes my hopes:
we do sound happy. . . .

A delightful poem by Gail Mazur. I found it on The Poetry Foundation site and this verse fit the occasion.

Friendship is the sweetest influence. A quote attributed to Ralph Waldo Emerson.

It’s 8:30 PM on a Friday. The phone rings. It’s Ann. I’ve been waiting several days for her call. In their eagerness to respond, my fat fingers fumble with the phone. The device slips, turns over, thuds on the desk surface, then mercifully, we are connected, and that rich, joyous voice fills the room with greetings and a hint of laughter. “Hey girlie, what’s going on?” “Pounding away at my laptop on a Friday night,” I respond.

There’s little small talk. We dive right in. Twenty minutes later, I realize we are deep in conversation about workplace toxicity. “That’s quite enough about me,” I say, “tell me what is going on with you.” Ann is a magician. Even after several turbulent months of her own life, here she is providing me with support and guidance. Her strong, cheerful voice never wavers as she tells me about the grueling few weeks she’s had. “The good news is…”

A couple of weeks ago, I offer to visit if she feels up to it. Despite everything, she takes the trouble to seek out room-and-board options for me. I want to reach out and hug her. I promise to check on travel arrangements. We chat a little longer, then I hear the faintest hint of exhaustion in her voice as she signs off.

Ann is one of several people who came out of the woodwork to support me at a difficult moment. Friends who continue to reach across the miles to share happy times, challenging times, and regular-mundane-life times. The next afternoon, I reach out to a few others. “Would you like to stay with us?” asks Kristie. “We have two bedrooms upstairs just waiting for you!” I smile. “I would love to see you!” says Pat. “That would be awesome!!!!” says Paul.

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Earlier that evening, Flo calls from next door to remind me of the show we’re attending on Sunday. Then, “Did you see my flowers?” she asks, excitedly. I walk over to chat about Sunday’s event at George Street Playhouse, then ooh and aah at her potted petunias, geraniums, hibiscus and impatiens. Minutes tick by and our conversation hops from current affairs to Flo’s early life in Greece, a book she likes, The Painted Bird, a documentary I stumble upon, The Ship That Turned Back.

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On Saturday, a different set of encounters with friends.

First, my soulmates at the West Windsor Community Farmers’ Market. Compost bucket exchange at Un-Waste, a wave to Alison at Snapping Turtle Farm, a quick chat over potatoes and micro greens at Chickadee Creek Farm, grammar discussion with Zora at Little Balkan, sparked by my Rebel with a Clause hat. Holley at Sugar Street Bakehouse tells me she has my favorite scones. “I still have some in the freezer,” I say hesitantly, and she’s happy to just chat about her Game of Scones T-shirt.

Then it’s off to Jamesbrew, where Jenne puts on her Mrs Roper’s Romp face, Lena plans her dream career, and Shara creates something with her bougie yarn. Four very different people with similar interests — books, art, theater, to name a few. The following week, Lena celebrates our friendversary on Facebook.

A glance at my phone tells me it’s time for Bovine Burgers and a couple of delightful hours spent with distant-but-close family, munching on beautifully crafted burgers, delicious fries and onion rings, looking for little rubber ducks hidden around the lively room. The servers offer hints and, after much searching, Dhriti locates all 8 ducks and earns a sticker.

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On Sunday I wake to a warm, furry body draped across my left arm, and a solid, silky one curled under my right arm. In the soft light of the morning, we lie there, waiting for the sun to creep just a little higher in the sky before we tumble out of bed.

The morning rushes by, then I pick Flo up and we spend a couple of hours watching My Lord, What a Night at George Street Playhouse. There’s laughter followed by somber moments. By the time the lights turn back on, my cheeks are dewy from strong emotions the play evokes. We stop for dinner at Esquina Latina. “Appetizers?” “No, let’s save room for dessert.” Flo orders pernil Oriental with moros and yucca. My guava-glazed, braised baby back ribs, herbed mash and garlicky spinach are heavenly. The almond shortbread with raspberry and cheese is a little dry; a tiny let-down after that delicious entree.

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There is no salt in the many tears that course down my cheeks through the weekend. I wonder, as always, at this incredibly privileged life I lead.

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On the Sunday before Memorial Day, I brave the rain to visit New Plaza Cinema near Central Park and the Lincoln Center. It’s the much-awaited screening of Rebel with a Clause.

My new-found friend grins at me from her perch behind the Grammar Table. Although she has only ever interacted with me by email, I don’t need to introduce myself. “Hey, Lya!” she says brightly, then inscribes her book for me. “Brandt has grammar candy.” Her smiling husband proffers a tray.

In the rush to the screening room, my book is stacked with several others. “I’ll track it down,” whispers Ellen. I head upstairs and sneak into the restroom before the show. Her happy voice finds me there. “I found it. I’ll set it by your stuff.” I smile to myself.

A delightful, rainy evening spent with a bunch of laughing grammarians.

Walking back to Penn Station, I stop for dinner at Momofuku. The woman sitting next to me at the noodle bar leans over to ask about the book I set on the counter.

As he clears away the remains of my bowl of noodles with marinated cucumbers, seaweed, mushrooms and perfectly roasted pork belly, the server gives me tips on making the perfect cup of mint tea using the fresh herb from my garden.

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It’s 2:30 am and I can’t sleep. My head is churning with work nonsense. I take the opportunity to finish this essay. The cats hop up on the bed, concerned for my wellbeing (really). Luca drapes his fluffy tail on my arm. Tabby curls up by my hip and eases back to lean heavily on me. Bliss. I will hit send and luxuriate in their warmth and comfort.