About My Friend, Part 1

One year for my birthday, Joyce gave me a card that showed a jolly little lady on the front. She was jumping up and down, obviously happy, and she was singing Happy Birthday to you . . . . When I opened the card I found out why the little lady was so happy. Her final words were, "Happy Birthday dear friend, I'm younger than you." I loved it.
 

And it's true. Joyce is younger by about a year and a half. 

Joyce taught me how to fold those pesky fitted bed sheets. It's the best way, and I think of her, of course, every time I wash and fold those sheets.

Just now I wish we had written the dates and places of everywhere we sang together, the two of us. Wendy Meacham played for us until she moved. My mother came up and played for us one holiday season. Barbara Atteberry played for us. I loved singing with Joyce. We were pretty good, too. People requested us, you know.

We also sang in choirs and choruses together, in church and out of church. In fact, I think we first met when I was directing a stake choir and we all went out to Marsing for a rehearsal.

Joyce and I may have talked about it--I think we did--that we should have babies together. Lo and behold, it happened, sort of. Richard and Stacy were born same month, same year. At any rate, our kids were friends for a time. Joel and Andrew; Sean and Paul. 

Lola, my daughter, owes much to Joyce because of those wonderful piano lessons for 12 years. I owe much to her for that also. I remember one time when I stayed in the house during a lesson and told Joyce afterward she should be a little tougher on Lola. Joyce told me she'd leave that to me. She didn't want the piano lessons to be at all negative. Smart. And wise.

Joyce knew the way to my house, and I knew the way to hers. When our kids were young, we could spend a good chunk of time together during a week. We went asparagus picking, onion hunting, went to the place in Ontario where you could buy canned goods cheap, made grape juice together. And we just enjoyed every minute of it all. I missed her very much every summer.

Joyce was fierce in her love of her husband and children. Fiercely loyal, too. And, yes, I heard her yell her displeasure at those refs. If her boys were playing, the ref had better be sure he knew what he was calling. She once asked a ref if he had is head up his you-know-what. Memorable. 

And Joyce was proud as can be of Stacy, of her discipline and hard work in gymnastics. Proud of all her kids, expecting a lot from them. I'm pretty sure she is very happy with their lives.

Last November, when I was visiting, the three of us sat at the kitchen table. Joyce and I were talking. She was responding well to things I said and answered a couple of questions quickly and accurately. It was so good. Then Ferris said something that upset her and she said quite a few words to him that were unintelligible. No question what the final words were, though. "Punch your lights out." But in a few minutes, when I was leaving, Ferris helped her stand up and she patted his chest with true affection. Good to see. I knew she knew him.

For nearly twenty years, because I moved away, Joyce and I saw each other only a few times. And our lives got busy. But when you're friends, time and space don't really matter. Then, a few years ago, at the beginning of all this, I got a phone call from Joyce. She was frightened. Since that time, we have talked about what happened or might be happening or couldn't possibly be happening. You know that word denial. Or maybe it's just our wanting to hope, to be optimistic.

It's true. Some of my recent visits with Joyce were great. We'd take a walk and have a good talk. Some were heartbreaking. But I would not trade them for money or for anything. Joyce was a person worth knowing, whatever situation she was in. 

I do not remember the occasion, but Joyce once sent a note to me that said, "You and I are friends. And friends are rare." I believe the kind of friendship we had was rare. A treasure. I'll always love Joyce.