A Perfect Friendship

I have lots of friends. When John and I traveled, he joked, “Ilene has a friend in every city.”

Some friends are like sunshine patriots: Shoulder to shoulder when times are good but disappear when clouds of trouble come into my life. I have friends I enjoy “hanging out” with – we laugh and talk and go to art exhibits and movies and plays. It is fun to be with them. Some of them I’ve known for sixty years, and I still enjoy seeing them. But I don’t turn to them when I am in pain.

I also special friends, several, who helped me through bad times, friends who stuck to me like peanut butter and jelly. Yesterday I wrote about some of my Jewish friends. I forgot to tell you about Gertrude. How could I forget Gertrude? She is one of the best. She laughs with me when life is good, and boosts me up when my life is difficult.

Yesterday I wrote about Etta. Gertrude and Etta were Jews; both wonderful people. I met Etta on an Elderhostel; I also met Gertrude on an Elderhostel. Etta was my roommate in China; Gertrude was my roommate in Sicily. Both were loyal and generous friends. But two totally different personalities.

Etta was like a mother to me, and our friendship resembled a mother-daughter relationship. We enjoyed doing things together, such as seeing the Monet exhibit at Chicago’s Art Institute. But she always seemed old and fragile, although spunky and determined to be independent. I worried about her standing on a Chicago street corner waiting for a bus, a tiny old lady, a perfect target for a mugger. She finally agreed to move into an “assisted living” facility. When I called her to let her know I was moving to Texas; she could not understand who I was. “Who’s that?” she kept repeating. Was it because she was deaf? Or was she sinking into dementia? I wrote to give her my new address. I received no reply. I mourn as for my own mother.

Gertrude is a contemporary. Our backgrounds are different. I grew up in a Southern Baptist family in Fort Worth, Texas, steeped in the traditions of the Old South, with a grandmother who traced her lineage back to 17th Century Virginia. Gertrude’s grandparents were Jews who came to America from Russia around 1900. She is a New Yorker, born in New York City, never lived anywhere else.

Yet we are alike in all our interests: politics, art, theater. Most important, we are compatible in our views of life and people. “Soul Sisters”

Gertrude’s Manhattan apartment is tiny, without a true bedroom. I am one of the few people she invites to stay with her. She likes her privacy, but she has a limited income and knows I do, too. When I went to New York, she insisted on treating me to lunch and theater tickets. When she came to New Mexico, she brought me gifts and took me to lunch in my town, too.

Gertrude is concerned about my kidneys. Of all my friends, she is the one, the only one, who called regularly as I progressed from failing kidneys to surgery to infection to dialysis. I hope I have convinced her that I am adjusting to life on dialysis.

When she telephones, Gertrude asks about Charlie. She likes cats. She had a cat with diabetes. Although it strained her budget, she took him to the vet regularly and gave him shots every day. When her cat died, I sent her a sympathy card. Now she has a new cat, which hides under the couch and won’t let her touch him. She feeds him anyway. That’s Gertrude, taking care of a poor, dumb animal, which refuses to return the affection she gives him. She understands he can’t tell her why he is terrified of humans.

When another dear friend, who cares and wants the best for me, asks, “Why are you no longer a Christian? Can’t you return to the faith of your fathers?”

I give a flippant answer. I say, “I would rather be in Hell with Gertrude. The conversation would be better than spending all my days in Heaven singing Protestant hymns.”