To Live, Laugh, Love Fully

By Denise Adams

"Put the coffee on - I'm comin' over," said a familiar voice on the telephone. It was my friend and neighbor, Helen. She's one of those rare people who live fully, laugh fully and love fully, no in betweens.

From the moment we met, Helen and I bonded. Eighteen years ago, I was a stay-at-home mom with one boy in elementary school and two babies in diapers. I was ankle deep in plastic Fisher-Price toys, and it seemed I was always feeding or burping a baby. But whenever I'd hear my phone ring at 7 a.m., it was a lifeline thrown my way because I knew it was Helen.

We had a familiar routine. I'd hang up the phone, turn on the coffee pot and put matching mugs on the kitchen table. In less than two minutes, I'd hear Helen's car roar up the driveway, get thrown into park and the car door slam shut. Those high heels would tap, tap, tap across the driveway and then she'd breeze in through the back door. The smell of Helen's perfume greeted me at the same time she flashed her dynamite smile.

"Hey baby, give me that ashtray and hand me that Creamora," she'd say as she positioned herself at the head of the table. "Sit down, talk to me and talk fast. I'm in a hurry."

Helen worked in a fast-moving glamorous job, far removed from the Pampers path I trudged every day. She'd nonchalantly talk about the multi-million dollar business deals her boss was working and the political bigwigs she met every day. Sometimes, I'd listen quietly, watching her with envy. Helen's nails were manicured in the latest style, and she dressed impeccably from head to toe - matching earrings, necklace, shoes and purse. Her blonde hair was always perfectly tousled, and her makeup was flawless.

Lighting another cigarette and taking a sip of coffee, she'd stop talking and give me the once-over look. She'd sigh, shake her head and point her Virginia Slims at me.

"Go get your hair styled and cut," she'd say. "Then go to the mall and buy some decent clothes." She'd remind me that dressing up did not mean changing from gray sweat pants into faded elastic-waist jeans and a Polo shirt.

"And another thing," she'd say, stirring her coffee, "Why don't you leave those babies with a sitter for the evening and come see what's going on beyond the world of 'Sesame Street.'"

Little did Helen know she was my link to that world I'd left, the screen where I viewed that fast-moving life. I lived in that world only for the brief few minutes Helen was in my kitchen, and I hung on every word that came out of her mouth.

"Well, honey, I've got to run," she say after about 20 minutes, and she'd blow me a kiss as she headed out the back door. Then she was roaring down my driveway in her washed and waxed Park Avenue, with a honk of the horn and a squeal of the tires signaling her good-bye.

With the echo of her laugh and the scent of her expensive perfume still in the room, I'd pick up the baby and give him a soft kiss, knowing this time in my life was passing quickly, just as my visit with Helen was already a memory.

I'd sit down and rock my son to sleep and tell myself to enjoy these moments because they'd soon be gone. And they are. My three little babies are now almost grown men, ready to live their own lives.

I'm now back in that fast-paced work world, putting on make-up in the mornings and making sure my dress slacks match my earrings. My faded sweat pants are tucked away in the back of the closet along with a dozen or so frayed baby blankets.

The last time I was in our old neighborhood, I called Helen. Laughing with her familiar laugh, she said she was home, relaxing and spoiling her granddaughters rotten.

"Well, then, put the coffee on because I'm coming over," I told her. Life shifts, rolls and changes right before our eyes. Now that the tables are turned, I'm blessed to have a friend like Helen who rides all of life's waves with me.

Denise Adams is a columnist with The Herald-Coaster newspaper in Rosenberg, Texas.