I’ve spent the weekend and yesterday recovering from four days away. The weariness that follows such a jaunt is surprising to me now, and only getting more pronounced. Apparently that has to do with how many days I have been alive. The longer we’re here, the harder gravity pulls us down. So it seems. But I am edified and satisfied to have gone on a trip, and to have spent hours with some people to whom I have been connected since I was a kid. Not everyone can claim having nearly lifelong pals, but the four of us can and I am grateful for it. One of these folks became my friend when we were both 5 years old. “Rostosky” was very close to “Sincell” in the record book, so Barbara and I were seated near one another in kindergarten. We became fast friends, spending time at each other’s houses, doing Girl Scout stuff together, and talking on the phone (which had a cord into the wall, by the way, and was our family’s only line, causing a lot of fussing when we talked for too long). We went to each other’s first slumber parties, and she was in our pool when she was just a little thing. We skied together, too, and both were in band throughout our school years. We went to Girl Scout Day Camp near Crystal Spring and Mountain Lake. When we were in Charlotte Ward’s first grade class at Center Street, we had to change from our snowy boots into shoes just outside the room. I can remember being out there with Barbara as we shoved our boots off and put on our little shoes. I was jamming my foot into mine, bending the back of the shoe down. “Ooooh, you shouldn’t do that. My mommy growls at me if I bend my heel down!” I didn’t know what she meant by “growl,” and could only imagine a mother grimacing and growling like a dog. I’m certain now that Helen Rostosky didn’t do that, but I had just never heard the word growl used for “yell at.” I don’t know why I remember that, but I do. I can picture that exchange and how I felt just like me in my brain, but we were first-graders. So we were very little and new. But I was as aware in my brain as I am now. Little kids know what’s up. We have to remember that. But I digress.
The next in the line-up became my friend in the 7th grade. Jane Carroll was my savior in that year when the posse of Mean Girls booted me out of the clique. My position in the group was tenuous at best for a few years leading up to the big “you’re out” moment. I distinctly remember one of them marching up to me at lunch and saying, “We don’t want you to sit with us anymore.” Textbook mean-girl maneuver. But Jane and I had discovered one another and decided we were both hilarious, which of course we were, and she immediately invited me to sit with her. And what a relief. We began walking the halls together in the morning, too — a regular thing kids did at Southern Jr.-Sr. High in those days. We talked on the phone, laughing ourselves simple. When it came time to hang up, we played a game to see who would hang up first. “You hang up,” one would say. “No, you,” the other replied. Then Jane would say, “Click. Buzzzzzzzzzzz.” Oh, yes. We were hilarious.
Jude is next. My dear confidante and pal. We met in the 8th grade, specifically in Pat Filsinger’s art class, which I loved. Stover-Sincell — once again, our names played a role. We discovered quickly that we, too, cracked each other up. Judy was painfully shy at first, but had started giving up that old shell when we began to forge our bond. She was so funny, and so straight-forward about so many things. She still is. I have always liked that quality in a person. One day in art I was feeling awful. I had a cold. Without meaning to, I put my head on my arm and went right to sleep. Ms. Filsinger came by and stood next to me, arms crossed. “Mary,” Judy whispered with urgency. “Mary!” I jerked awake. I said something like, “I wasn’t asleep,” and Judy, her eyes wide, nodded vigorously and said, “Oh, yes you were!” Which seemed to amuse Ms. Filsinger a little. Judy and I have remained quite close ever since. We were in each other’s weddings, we talked each other through our pregnancies, and we have made a point to visit one another at least a time or two each year. We text a lot and can start a conversation as if we have just walked back into the room. I cherish our connection.
So the four of us met up for a few days in Atlantic City, N.J. Judy and her husband have a second home there that they generally rent out through AirBnB, but this week it was open. So we grabbed it. The planning started months ago, of course. Of course it is a herculean task for us all to be able to gather at the same time. As it was, Barbie could only be there for about 24 hours. But she made it. Jane and I rode together, with her at the wheel because she is a much better driver than I. Judy was coming down from New York City, where her daughter now lives and where her son was visiting. It’s hard for us all to remember how old all the kids are that we begat. We all swear each other’s kid is still teething when he actually just got his master’s degree. Well… maybe it’s not that pronounced, but three of us were shocked when Barb showed us a picture of her “little” Adam, the baby of our group, who is now 16 and well over six feet tall. Good grief. And Jane’s daughter is getting married in just about 10 days. And my son just got a job as a middle school band director. And Judy’s daughter is well on her way to be a talent agent in NYC, something we all knew she wanted to do but bugged our eyes out when we realized she is achieving her goal, already finished college. So yeah, we all had some “Oh my gosh, really??” moments. Our babies are all growing up. All eight of them — Judy’s two, Jane’s two, my three, and Barb’s one — plus her six step-kids. Most of them don’t really even know all of us, and they certainly don’t know that we love them all. But we sure do. Funny how that is.
We all piled into the house on Monday, stiff and clumsy from being in our cars for hours. We had a lot of complaining to do about being in our mid-half-centuries. Muscles and tendons just hurt out of spite, telling us we’re really too damn old to do much at all. But we defied that and launched ourselves into quite a long walk that first evening, strolling along the Atlantic City boardwalk while talking a mile a minute. While the scenery was mostly pleasing, minus the troubling folks who looked like they had seen better days at the craps table, I do think we were paying way more attention to each other than to the Atlantic Ocean view. The sound of one another’s voices sent us all back to a familiar and comfortable place. Hanging on to the past can be risky and sort of futile, but sometimes it’s good to travel back as best we can to days when life was less serious, and when the future was clean and unspent. Laughing together, remembering old times and telling of new times, and just being with one another again brings a sense of coming home.
Atlantic City is certainly an experience. That’s about as gracious as I can get about it. Now, some of the architecture is astounding. We marveled at the Ocean Hotel and Casino, and spent some time there. It is an amazing building. All bluish glass, with towering walls that curve and seem to undulate like the sea. Inside, the place dazzles with floor after floor of casinos and restaurants, bars, pools, gardens on each expansive terrace, and simply luxurious furnishing and decor. While I took it all in like a bona fide hillbilly, mouth open and “wow” coming out of it every now and then, I also could not have felt more out of place. Gambling does not lure me. Not in the least. I can be attracted by bright lights and music, at least for a moment, but with the end result being row after row of slot machines, vague clouds of cigarette smoke (allowed in certain areas), and the vision of a lot of people seeming to be a little desperate… it depressed me a little. I do understand that heady moment of winning some cash. I put $20 in a machine and watched it go down to $9, and then back up to $17 and I got excited. And then I remembered I had started with $20… not so exciting. Then I kept playing a little more and finished with $9. I cashed out and walked away with more than enough gambling experience. It’s just not for me. Now Jude fared better, much to her glee, having also put in $20. Suddenly, for some reason that none of us knows, the machine went bonkers and kept adding money to her ante. When it got up to $65 and paused for her to keep betting, she promptly cashed out and bought us all margaritas. Gambling doesn’t lure her, either. If it did, she would’ve kept playing, of course, maybe winning more but most likely saying goodbye to all of it. Even though it doesn’t lure me, I do understand why it does to others. Winning does release those endorphins, and makes the player feel lucky. So he hits it again, seeking that same rush. It might happen and it might not, but the intermittent reinforcement keeps that player sitting there on the stool, hitting “spin” over and over. I was surprised at how much that whole scenario got me down. But it did. So I was a happier girl when we went to the beach.
Ah, the beach! The place where the Atlantic finally coughs up its waves onto the sand and then rolls back into itself. We humans sure flock to it. Of our foursome, though, I was the only one who really wanted to get in there and roll around in the waves. My companions were more of the sun-worshipping type, baking on the sand like cookies. Not that I don’t enjoy that, too, sort of. But I can’t ignore the draw of the sea, even though I am constantly imagining what it would be like to be swallowed whole by a shark. I love going out there and being ready for those swells, diving under them or riding on top. I love being knocked around like a rag doll and then finding the sand with my feet again. I was playing alone this time, so my busy brain conjured up so many memories of past ocean excursions. All the trips with John and our boys… I missed them as I dove and kicked and floated. And farther back, I recalled how was probably 9 or 10 when I first I ventured into the waves. We went to Ocean City with Mac and Mary, two relatives after whom I am named (Mac’s real first name is Ruth. My name is Mary Ruth). I remember that long trek in the sand to the seaside, and that dizzying vision of the water rolling up and over my feet, and then back, crisscrossed. The sand disappears partly under the feet as the water rushes back, and heels sink in farther than the front of the foot. I remember venturing out there, the waves sometimes gently rolling up, making that cold water go higher on my sun-baked skin and making me squeal. I was mesmerized by the whole thing, being at the ocean that very first time, feeling the power of that surf. And I fell in love, for life. I can never just lie on the sand. I have to get in. So I played for quite a while as my girlfriends roasted themselves to a pleasant brown. Barbara promised she would come in, and I was like a little kid when she got up and said, “Okay, I’m coming in now.” She walked in, also squealing, and made it to her waist when a wave came up to her neck. Then she said, “Okay, that’s enough” and she went back out. Sigh.
Later we walked more, still talking, remembering, laughing, sharing. I think we actually could’ve been anywhere — our location is almost inconsequential when we finally get to share the same space for a while and spill our guts about life. We’ve all been married a long time, and we talked a good deal about that, how hard it really is, how complicated, how familiar and comforting and frustrating all. We discussed our emptying nests and relationships with our offspring, the condition of our parents — those who are still living — and politics (exhausting topic). We played board games, too. Exploding Kittens first, and then Labyrinth. Great fun.
Making the effort to get together is significant. We all have to leave our lives behind for a few days, and that can be very tricky. Once we are all there, the dynamic is so different than most of the situations we are in these days. To disconnect from our familiar and go to a place on our own, and then to connect with lifelong friends, is renewing and enlightening. As we wander on through this odd life journey, we are given opportunities to think about our own selves… our needs and desires, our passions, our true sadnesses and joys. I am beginning to think that 50-something women are almost forced onto a path of self-discovery because in some ways we are left behind. We are no longer as needed as mothers, we are in quite defined ruts in our long marriages (which is simply both good and bad), and society tends to deem us inconsequential. According to the National Center for Health Statistics, the highest rate of suicide among women is with those in the 45-64 age group. Understandable. We have to make an effort to be heard and to be valued in some ways, so we have to find the path to self-value first. We must remember that we are indeed valuable, in so many ways. Our life lessons have provided us with wisdom and sense, and we are so very capable. I think it’s easy to feel useless or spent at this point in life, and to get rolled hard by those waves. But we are actually quite beautiful. We have a great deal yet to offer, and in some ways are just now coming into our own. Being with my dear friends helps me to remember that, because I do see in them all these lovely qualities. So much value, wit, and savvy… so much deep and lasting beauty. I love them all, and I hope we continue to find one another among the waves for the rest of our lives.
