Rita Frye PHOTO: Mary van Balen “Well, Hello!” Rita’s voice came over my cell. I couldn’t believe we had connected, expecting instead to leave a message.
“Happy Birthday!” I said.
“You’re on top of things,” she replied, no doubt surprised by the early hour of the call. Our forty-four years of friendship had made it clear that I was NOT a morning person. Still, rising early for the chance of spending a few minutes in conversation with my friend was an easy choice.
Rita and I met as freshman at the College of Saint Francis, in Joliet, IL. In fact, since her aunt was the dean of women at that time, Rit had the opportunity to look through letters written by applicants to choose her roommate. We still can’t figure out why she chose me. I had written nothing. Nothing about myself. I imagine I just filled in what was required and sent the application on its way.
Looking back, Rita would say it was God. And I would agree. Not only has our friendship spanned over four decades, but through introductions to people who were part of my life, Rita found her life’s work in serving the poor and mentally challenged in Appalachia. And me? I found a blessing.
We shared train rides to and from Chicago on the passenger line that provided her grandfather with his job as porter. Her father had a restaurant near the station. We took our guitars and had sing a longs in the dining car. We headed small protests to make changes in the all girls college dress code, generally caused a bit of uproar, and made two other friendships that have also endured.
Rita is not a great communicator, at least to those who are not part of her day, but despite few letters or calls, we connect immediately when we do talk. Today my intent was to celebrate the blessing she has been on the earth for sixty plus years. I did. She also supported me as I continue to deal with the emotional aftermath of divorce and the realities of trying to make ends meet.
In the end we marveled together over a small nature preserve near Peebles, OH, Davis Memorial Park, and a tiny creature that lives in the ice cold water of the cave there.
“It’s the only place it lives,” Rita said. Then added, “Makes you wonder how they know that, doesn’t it?” True. Who knows. Really. But it doesnt’ matter. What does matter is that somewhere in the cold darkness of a cave, a little creature lives and propagates, and adds to the habitat. Maybe it is food for some other living thing. Maybe it keeps some microscopic organism from taking over. Maybe it just is. A manifestation of the variety and wonder of creation.
Rit reflected on her own life in a small little town, hidden away from the hustle and bustle of big cities, but with plenty of action and challenges of its own. She lives there and makes a contribution, however small, to the people and places she touches.
We talked about suffering. About struggle. About politics and how this election is likely the most important one in our lifetimes. What direction will our next president take the country? What will be the vision of our country? We hope it is Obama’s. One that takes the poor and their needs seriously.
The conversation wends back to our personal struggles and the part they play in transforming the world, no matter how slightly. We, and that nameless creature in the cave at Davis Memorial. (I tried to look it up. No luck. If the Division of Natural Resources can help, I will let you know.) And the millions of other people who make it through, one day at a time, saying something kind. Providing help or encouragement.
“Everyone’s life counts,” I told my young transsexual daughter who, at that time, I thought was my very depressed son. She couldn’t see how she would ever fit into the world. She has. And does. And makes a difference.
Rita would understand. And when she called back to continue our conversation a while after our first had ended, I smiled and told her what I was doing at that moment: I was writing about her in the little journal that holds notes on my blessings, lest I forget.
Thank you, Rita. And Happy Birthday!
Speak Your Mind