Fourteen

Sentimental Ode to a Friend

I know this here Project 360 is supposed to be about connections, micromoments between humans (or, as it’s turned out so far, dogs, or cats, or a combination of the three) in which something, anything is shared. Could be positive or negative, tangible or intangible, given or received. My goal in writing 360 blog posts in 360 days is to open my eyes, take a look at the friends, strangers, and family who make up our worlds; to see how I can learn from them and with them. 

More so, I hope that, throughout the next year, I can explore how we all can learn from each other, discover something new about ourselves in the most mundane, as long as we open our minds to feel the possibilities that exist.

Put that way, it sounds a bit too existentialist. But I suppose it is. Mainly, though, it’s all about connections.

The other night, even with my “open eyes,” I was surprised that my moment of superconnection came while sitting across a table from someone I’ve known for 25 years. I was eating dinner with one of my college “besties” in a small, cozy restaurant in San Francisco’s Mission district, having settled in to my Hip City Girl persona quite nicely after a few days’ visit. Lynne, having settled into her same persona some 17 years prior, looked like she belonged: chic, vibrant, and warm. 

Lynne and I met when we both transferred to the same University, she from a school that was much too large and me from a school that was a bit too small. A la Goldilocks, we ended up at the same place, same time, same dorm. I lived a few dozen feet from her and her amazing group of suitemates, all of whom are my friends today. Thank goodness I ran into Lynne almost immediately, and we hit it off even quicker, because I adopted that suite as my own (a haven from my own quiet and somewhat odd suite down the hall). All of suite 101-C’s residents were kind, funny, and there for me/anyone anytime. That year is a blur of laughs, repeated viewings (and subsequent memorization) of SNL’s 15th Anniversary special, bad late-80s hairdos, roadtrips, and more laughs. It was perfect.

Lynne is impossible to sum up in a quick blog entry. Hers is the type of personality that draws in gazillions of people, all of whom end up feeling like her best friend. That’s because she adores people and lets them know it with her stop-traffic smile and very real, very human, very funny way of interacting. She is not afraid to laugh at herself, which she does often, or with you when the occasion warrants (and it often does). But joking and play aside, she works hard. She works hard and is successful as hell (as I evidenced in San Francisco when visiting her office and viewing her impressive collection of never-mentioned fancy trophies placed in a corner of her cube), but never ever gloats about it. You wouldn’t know she’s dealt with a lot with her health unless you ask, and even then, she doesn’t dwell, doesn’t complain, instead turning the conversation to you. She adores her husband and her cat above all, with her big family and enormous circle of friends right behind. I’ll stop here, but I could go on, because she’s just a damn groovy person.

I don’t see Lynne often enough. A country exists between us, but once every year or two, I am reminded of why she’s so important to me when I see her face-to-face. 

What I was reminded of the other night, sitting across from our gnocchi drizzled with some kind of heaven, was the connection I put together long ago but have never told her. Lynne played a huge role in my development as a caring, loving person. Because in addition to being a friend, confidant, roommate, sorority sister, and fellow troublemaker, Lynne has served an important role in my life: she’s been a mother figure to me.

Growing up, like all families, mine had some quirks. My mom, who passed away suddenly and tragically three years ago, struggled with a number of issues I’m not ready to discuss here. She was a loving, wonderful mom in countless ways, but she raised us somewhat insularlly, not doing much outside of our family of five. The subtleties of the ways of the world, then, were a bit foreign to me as I ventured out beyond the mountains of Roanoke, Virginia. My sophomore year, I met Lynne, and I began to learn how to be a better person. 

That may sound dramatic, so let me explain. It wasn’t an overnight evolution (and, in fact, it’s very much still a work in progress), and Lynne wasn’t the sole factor in the Making of Tracy, for sure. But in little and big ways, she taught me how to be a friend. I took mental notes: send cards to let people know you’re thinking of them. Got it. Floss your teeth often. Check. Don’t put your butt on other people’s pillows (seriously). Good to know. Send care packages to my children when they’re in college (that, her mom taught me). Will do. 

There are many more. But the most important take-away is to never be afraid to let someone know how you feel about them. It makes a difference.

Lynne is one of dozens of dear friends who have helped to shape me into the Tracy of 2015, seven of whom I spent last weekend with in beautiful California. Past and present, they surround me, and I'm lucky. I’ve learned to open my eyes and ears and enjoy more than just laughs with them, and I believe it pretty much all started with Lynne. Sitting across from her at dinner, between laughs and catch-up conversation, I watched as she welled up a bit, telling a story of a friend who was sick. My first response was to feel sad for her, but almost immediately, my second response came, and I said to myself, She feels to her core. That, right there, is the number one thing she has taught me through the years. To care. And I do. I let myself fall in love with my family, friends, and even strangers. This can bite me in the ass occasionally, but it’s pretty much become who I am. Or, rather, who I strive to be. It feels right, and it feels good. 

I pray I can pass Lynne’s lessons on to my girls. And I wish all of you could know her, but you can’t. So I hope for you to have someone(s) in your life who show you the same gifts. Whose maternal presence makes you a better person. They’re out there. We just have to open our eyes.