Betty hated truth sessions, but she's a truth-teller by nature. She also 'fessed up that it was she who informed me that I wore my socks wrong-side out--but truth be told, I've always taken care to get the sock seams in the right place after that revelation.
We never would have considered wearing mis-matched socks--as Elena does on purpose. If we had worn bluejeans, which we never did, we wouldn't have dared worn them with holes in them.
Betty, driven by her instinct to help out, once initiated a fashion do-over for Louise, a girl in our class who hadn't gotten the memo that dresses with sashes were passé. Plaid dresses, gingham skirt, and black and white saddle oxfords: that was the way to go.
Betty and I picked each other before we knew how to read, and it stuck. How did we recognize each other as kindred spirits at such a young age? I wonder, the only two in the class who would grow up to be rebels and Democrats.
After a particularly fiery sermon one revival night, Betty and I sat in the car and de-briefed. We disagreed with the premise of the visiting evangelist, that if you didn't believe a certain thing you'd go to Hell. It wasn't fair, we agreed--we two who even then believed in the fairness principle we made up as we went along.
Here we are in our 8th decade of living, and we have such a lifetime of shared history that we can talk in shorthand. We find the same things hilarious. All she has to do is mention Ronnie Henley's mother and we both laugh--though it's not a story that translates well; you have to hear it and see it re-enacted in her own words.
I haven't had a particularly stellar picker when it comes to men--especially in the truth-telling department. But in women friends, my picker is spot on.
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