Another Version of Family II

Flo and Dorothy were best friends. Their mothers were friends, too. Naturally they raised their daughters to be best friends. Well, more like sisters.

When they were in their late 30s, they bought houses next to one another. They grocery shopped together, reprimanded their children together and, in the evenings, wandered over to one another’s houses in fluffy pink (Flo) or blue (Dorothy) bedroom slippers and wrappers (Southern-speak for “bathrobes”) to watch the 11:00 news and sip Bloody Marys together. Sometimes they’d sneak cigarettes together, too.

The children (there were 4: Amy, who was a few years older, Stephen, who was a few years younger, and The Girls - Junie and Connie - who were nearly the same age) never noticed they weren’t really related, since family isn’t always easy to define, even when there’s shared blood. They played and fought together, they went to school and church together and they just generally grew up – sure of their places in the world and in their momma’s hearts.

On summer evenings, the kids would all sneak outside in their jammies into the steamy southern night. Spotless peanut butter jars with holes punched in the lids by screwdrivers detained captive fireflies as they slowly blinked out. Too soon, Flo (or Dorothy) would call out, “Ok, kiddos, your time’s up. C’mon inside now.” “Come in and wash your feet off and run some cool water over your wrists. It’ll make you feel better.” “C’mon, now! It’s time for bed!”

In a pre-cell-phone-pre-teen world, The Girls strung shiny, scrubbed-clean tin cans on a clothesline cord across the lawn and into one another’s bedroom windows. “Hello! HELLO! Can you HEAR me?” Their giggles floated through the windows, but not through the cans. Later they snitched Stephen’s Cub Scout knife and snuck out behind the hedge to cut small slivers into each other’s fingers and press bleeding finger tips together, declaring themselves blood sisters. Sometimes they’d sneak cigarettes together, too.

Years of sultry summer nights turned into crisp autumns, frosty winters and hopeful pink springs. Flo had surgery on her blind eyes and Dorothy finally acquiesced to hearing aids for her deaf ears. The world and the children grew up, as children will, even in the south.

Flo and Dorothy are gone now, and are probably sitting on a pink heavenly cloud, wearing fluffy pink (Flo) or blue (Dorothy) slippers, sipping Bloody Marys and sneaking cigarettes as they watch their kiddos – and grandchildren – and great grandchildren – continue to grow. Still friends. Still family.