Friendship can spring up in the most unexpected ways and circumstances. My girls and I were new to a small town in south central Montana, where I happened to find a job at the local bank. I quickly got to know the residents from up and down the valley. Many of the locals were either related or married into the seven or so families who had settled the area. I soon learned that not all of them were on speaking terms, to put it mildly, so I had to keep them all straight as to who was who and be careful of what I said.
But there were a few, like me, who were transplants into the community and they seemed to not quite fit in. There was an old bachelor and his sister, Robert and Lorene, who decided I was going to be the only one to wait on them, so they stood off in the corner until I was free. They were well into their eighties and had no other family around. They often brought me ice cream when they came into the bank. I don’t know what anyone else thought of their favoritism, but it really was kind of sweet and I appreciated their reaching out to a kindred spirit. We became friends, and my girls and I would visit them, now and then. They weren’t around very long, before they both passed. Their brother from Florida gave me one of their old Lane hope chests. I still have it, so it is a daily reminder of their shy kindness.
Then there was Frank and Maria, both from Mexico, their English was limited. By then, my girls and I had moved to a little farm, east of town, where we had runt pigs, Guinea hens, way too many cats, and a black Collie named Gus. I won’t even talk about the resident rattlesnakes (or the rabid bat incident)! Frank and Maria didn’t have any room in town to grow vegetables, so Frank came out and helped take care of my garden, in exchange for a few things for them. He taught me a lot about growing hot peppers and tomatoes. We soon found ourselves at their little home, learning how to make tamales, and some kind of dried shrimp and egg fritters. They had no children, so we were like family. I still have the worn down hoe that Frank used to till the soil. Tomatoes and peppers remain one of my favorite things to grow. Every year, when I prepare for spring planting, I often think of Frank as he nurtured our garden into a bumper crop to share.
Hanna was a widow who was alone in town after her husband died. She had one daughter who lived in the city, fifty miles away. Of all the friends I made in those early years, Hanna became one of the dearest. She was from Sweden, a war bride. She lived in a humble little place at the edge of town. My girls loved looking at her Swedish dolls and other things she brought with her when she came to the US. Since I am always curious about food, Hanna soon had us in the kitchen teaching us a few of her native dishes, including krumkake and Sandbakkels, baked in fluted metal molds. Then she brought out the bottle of rose soluble and made Egyptian cookies. I don’t know why it was so humorous to me to learn how to make Egyptian cookies from a Swedish lady, but it always makes me smile. She gave me her recipe, which I still have. As seen in the photo, she made lots of changes, her notations nearly making the recipe hard to read. Hanna was also a poet who had a little book of her poems published. She surprised me with a lovely poem she wrote about our friendship. I recently ordered rose water so I could make the cookies in her honor, the unusual rose flavor lingering pleasantly. I cherish these little pieces of paper that speak volumes of our special friendship.
February is a month of love and remembrance. People come and go throughout our lives, but there are some who make lifelong impressions. Remembering these kind souls, who befriended a single mother, struggling to get her bearings, has reminded me of all that is good, and right, in the world.
