Helping Hand

Maybe Henry Longfellow held hands with his friends but I certainly don't. Except with Michelle.

I'm not sure when it started but it was many moons ago, like beyond ten years. It was probably after Sunday night dominoes while the guys were clanging and clinking the spotted tiles back in their tin. I just remember lamenting my cracked hands and before I could finish my sentence Michelle was squirting carnation pink Mary Kay extra emollient night cream on my knuckles and rubbing it in. I have no personal bubble.

Since that night I've scarcely sat next to Michelle for a visit without her plopping my hand in her lap, slipping off my wedding ring so she can get all the phalanges equally, and helping me unwind with one of her magical hand massages. It's better than Calgon-take-me-away, especially when she uses the Aveda hand cream that sits next to her fridge.

Last week she invited me for homemade paninis (another nearly-sacred tradition begun by imitating the now-extinct Flour Girls and Dough Boys bistro in American Fork) and gave me a valentine with some arrow washi tape in it. Arrows for Archer, of course! We shook our heads at how fast time flies, caught up like old friends do, and laugh-choked our food once or twice. Oh, the things we have seen each other through. Then we went over to her sofa and instead of holding my hand she held my baby. She kissed and cooed while I power vented. I couldn't talk fast enough and she kept up with me. She smoothed my ugly insecurities and softened my knotted frustrations. I pulled out of her driveway with less arthritis in my attitude.

Michelle's Indian name would totally be "Helping Hand" (or "High Heel" or "Big Calf"). Like every woman, Michelle occasionally complains about the piles in her house; laundry piles, paperwork piles, overflowing bags of tomatoes-to-be-canned piles. Let me be clear: she has no people piles. She has no people piles because she gets to people all day long and never lets the other piles stop her. How I love my friend, this woman who puts people above all else.

Michelle Update:

September 10, 2015. I've been calling Michelle a lot because it's canning season. I finally wrote down all the notes about black beans so I don't have to call her every year. Funny thing is...she was canning today and SHE called me. Not with a question; just because she was thinking about me. And if there was ever a day for an old friend to call out of the blue today was the day. Now I don't feel like total crap about my mom skills, wife skills, housekeeping skills, numchuck skills (Napoleon), etc. 

RE pointed out to me the other week how little I would know without Michelle since Michelle taught me how to can, grind wheat, bake bread, blind hem, make a flaky pie crust, and do my eye shadow. She also built the grow boxes in my garden and cut/installed the chair rail in my bedroom with her own compound miter saw. She's a living, breathing Renaissance woman with a finely tuned spiritual ear. Love you, Fell!