The sight of a friend coming towards me bearing flowers never fails to thrill me.  Last evening, Paula Kenyon-Vogt ascended the steps of the Holmes house behind a lovely posy of roses.  With her husband Sheldon Vogt behind her, Paula folded me in her arms and presented the bouquet which came from Whole Foods where she works.

In the kitchen, Paula reached for a suitable vessel in which to arrange the flowers while I finished dinner.  Over gluten-free pasta and jicama slaw, we talked of everything from Burma to Bruce Hornsby.  We shared about our children, our jobs, our pets and our feelings.  I read a few sentences from All Over But the Shoutin’, a memoir by Rick Braggs that my friend Sir Robert Officer sent me this summer, which I’ve only just steeled myself to read.  They patiently listened, with Paula K-V patting my hand when my voice cracked.  Mr. Braggs’ story of his parents’ lives cuts close to home for me.

The three of us have known each other for 18 years, since their daughter and my son were Purple Dragoners (students at Purple Dragon Pre-School).  Our connection never falters, even if sometimes weeks or even months pass between good visits.  They fall into the category of family-by-choice without the need for any of us to tout our virtues to each other.  We simply step forward to assist when need arises, sit by to mourn when grief clutches one of us, and when life allows, spend hours of respite talking and enjoying.

We’re all simple folk, in a way.  Though we clean up rather nicely if occasion warrants — a graduation, a funeral, a wedding — mostly we aren’t the stand-around-with-cocktails sort of people.  We’re more the throw-ourselves-down-on-a-comfy-sofa, curl-up-in-a-rocker, kick-your-shoes-off bunch.

Paula, a nurse, has worked for years in the Health & Wellness Department of a health food store, first Wild Oats, then Whole Foods after the buy-out.  Sheldon is a carpenter and a damned fine one.  Both read, follow current events, attend church, and nurture their children and grandchildren.  They also love, without reservation, me and my son.  They came to me on the wings of an angel years ago and have never strayed, even when my own crazy orbit took me on a route that passed far from them for days on end.

They left last night around ten, when my drooping eyes and headache began to assert themselves across my face.  I’m not a late-night person.  Before leaving, they snapped a photo of the flowers quaintly arranged in my purloined DePauw Inaugural Farm Dinner mug and texted it to my son Patrick, the rightful owner of the make-shift vase.  Recognize this? said the caption typed by Sheldon.  We cracked ourselves up with this antic, in the absurd way of adults acting like kids without concern for how it might look to their actual children.  None of the three of us minds a little parent shame.  We’re used to it.

On the way out, Sheldon stopped to admire the railing of the deck.  Paula gave me a third hug and we both promised to call.  I watched them walk to their car and then turned back to the house.  I’m blessed with some marvelous friends, I thought.  I rubbed my temple a little, to ease the pain of the headache, and set the alarm.  For one brief moment, I felt my mother’s presence in the room and smiled.  My mother would have liked Paula K-V.  And wherever she dwells, my mother who has gone home, I’ll bet she likes her from afar.    They  have a lot in common, including a simple, unabashed affection for a certain stubborn lady lawyer from Jennings.

The headache reasserted itself this morning, but as I sip my French Market coffee, I’m feeling blessed.  I feel energized despite my aches, my pains, and those nagging worries that still crowd the front porch waiting for me to emerge.  I might even rise to the day and finish my laundry.  Stranger things have happened.