Faithful Friends

1972. I don’t remember the month, but it was warm enough for me not to be wearing a jacket, just my head-to- toe Garanimals red outfit. A T-shirt and jeans in my signature color. I was four years old. I could dress myself, and when I put on that outfit, baby, I meant business.

Everybody in my family was busy moving their stuff into our new house. I was told to stay in the yard, but the hell with that. I started knocking on doors up and down the block as soon as I could slip away, determined not to waste an instant of the first day in the new neighborhood.

I saw a likely place right at the end of the block; white stucco with pretty purple flowers and a front yard littered with toys. The big front door was open, and through the screen door, you could hear a TV on too loud (just the way I liked it) and kids yelling.

I marched right up to the screen and because you can’t knock on a screen, I mashed my face right up against it and yelled, “Hey!”

Instantly, a big boy and girl and a littler boy and girl appeared at the door. We all stared at each other for a second, and I pointed at the littler girl (because she was closest to my size) and said, “I’m here to talk to her.” The others shrugged and went back to the TV, and the little one opened the door and came outside.

She had long, dark-brown hair and black, glittery eyes that were shaped like crescents. We stood looking at each other, and the excitement was almost more than I could bear. “Well, what do you want?” she asked me.

“My name is Colleen.” I told her. “Today, I moved into the yellow house over there.” I pointed, and then turning back to her with a wide baby-toothed grin, “I’m here to be your friend.” And so we were.

At that age, I guess, it can be that easy. During my school years, my friendships were largely based on who I had classes with, and later on, who had a cigarette. At work in the foodservice industry, I have met and served alongside a revolving mélange of people who I sometimes have very little in common with, other than the task at hand. What turns an acquaintanceship into a full-blown friendship is the sharing, of course. Whether that comes in the form of a favorite (or abhorrent) teacher, a smoky treat, or marrying the ketchups while griping about the craptacular tippers at table twenty.

2003. I watch my new friendships like an anxious gambler. I’ve only got so much to put on the table. Now that I have a husband and children, the time I spend on my established friendships is usually relegated to a hurried, misspelled Instant Messenger paragraph or a weekly session of voicemail tag.

When I talk to my friend Roxanne, who moved to New York City three years ago, I cradle the cordless phone between my ear and shoulder while conquering Mt. St. Laundry. By the time I make it from the base camp where the unmatched socks live to the summit of unfolded bath towels, both of us are out of oxygen. She’s cleaning too, doing her dishes. (In a tiny Manhattan apartment, doing laundry means scraping the gunk out of your panties in the sink and drying them in the microwave. Ah, big-city livin’.) We’re staying in touch, but we’re not giving it our full attention the way we used to before life filled up with priorities. Chris, who just moved to New Orleans, has vanished after a single magnolia-scented email gloating about the sensuous pleasures of his new home. It’s warm there. I don’t expect to hear from him again.

Now I’m bombarded by popup ads from Classmates.com and it seems friendship has evolved into something artificial and pushy and strained, like a Pampered Chef party.

Whenever I meet somebody who’s new to the Twin Cities, they tell me how hard it is to make friends. They blame the frigid weather or the families that have lived here forever or Scandinavian reserve. Even if you’ve been here all your life, it can be daunting.

So take it from me. Don’t be afraid to knock on some doors. But don’t come to my house. I’m busy.