Crooked Pots...

“Even the crookedest pots always have a lid.” That's something my mom always told me and I'm fairly certain she heard that from her own mother. I find that to be true in life but I'm never really sure if I'm the crooked pot or the fitting lid.

When I was young, my family moved around a bit. We left the St. Louis area and landed in Baltimore which shaped my identity as a happy city girl. When the 70s race riots moved into the school hallways, we packed up the tribe and moved up to the Pennsylvania/Maryland state line. We long-haired hippie Alberts stood out like sore thumbs in our new world.

The landscape of our new world was beautiful, of course. We were surrounded by nature trails, horse farms, creeks and rivers and that was great. We were also in the midst of a backwards and old-fashioned community and there was no neighborhood to roam to make new friends.

When we tromped through the woods, across the big field, and down the dirt road to wait for the school bus, we didn't really know what to expect. My older siblings probably were less happy about our situation than I was, but I still knew enough to be a little worried. After riding through the hills, across the vast acres – often slowed by an Amish buggy - I was pleasantly surprised to see that these new schools were quite modern and the teachers were forward thinking and friendly. That was a plus for me.

Of course, the other students had lived in this area their whole lives. If they didn't already know each other, their parents probably did. Kids were nice enough to me but as we settled in, my older siblings colored outside the lines enough to make teachers and administrators see me as Another Albert Kid. Fine by me. I think it's great to march to the beat of one's own drum. I dove in and joined the band (flute), joined clubs, etc. I mostly hung with the dudes. They appreciated my dude sense of humor and were more fun to be with.

Then came fifth grade science. Students were seated alphabetically, so as an Albert, I was seated next to an Arthur. Amy was a good girl. Quiet, smart, followed the rules. I talked to her. She talked back. We giggled. We got yelled at. As it turned out, she was in a lot of my classes. Not always in the next seat, but close enough that we could pass notes and share jokes. I joined girl scouts and we were in the same troop! She introduced me to other girls who were also slightly left of center and my posse grew.

Amy became my anchor. She was my cheerleader when I was weird, she was my voice of reason when I needed that. We got through puberty together and figured out who we were and what mattered. We had sleepovers, loved the same books (The Borrowers!), had inside jokes that no one else understood. She truly was my best friend. Then, just as we were about to go into high school, I moved to Florida.

I was, of course, excited to move to the beach but wondered how I would be able to start high school without my best friend, but we promised to keep in touch. So we did. We wrote letters and drew cartoons. We talked on the phone sometimes. Life went on with new friends and different experiences but we never forgot.

Over the years, we rarely communicate, but we're there when it matters. I attended her wedding and she came to mine. When travel brings us close, we try to see one another. Most importantly, she resides in a cozy nook in my memories and my heart and resurfaces when I most need the boost.

About a week ago, I was talking with my Josie about her very best friend. They met in 5^th grade and have gone through all the rough middle school years together and now, in high school, have very different lives. They live 2 blocks apart and rarely see each other but are as close as they've ever been. When they reconnect, they pick right up as though not a second has passed. I told my daughter again about Amy. She is the lid to my crooked pot.

Right after having that conversation with my daughter, I got a text message from my old friend wanting to know if I'd be home today. This evening, there was a knock on the door, and there was a smiling delivery person holding a giant bag of steaming hot food. A gift from my far away longest friend. Because I live loudly, spilling my tales of woe and display my crooked pot to everyone and she sits quietly, waiting for the right time to come in and put a lid on it before it boils over.

Thank you, my friend. You've done it again and I'm grateful for the York County Public School System's wisdom in bringing us together.  Thank you for being my lid.