January 24, 2008 Issue                                       

©2007 The Chestnut Hill Local

Missing your best friend, who lives on only in your dreams
by JANET GILMORE

I dreamed about Ellie last night. I ran into her on the sidewalk in front of a restaurant. She was still sick, but looked well. I hugged her tightly and said, “I’m so glad to see you! Didn’t you die?”           

She smiled and nodded “yes” but didn’t speak.

Ellie was my first friend. We were nine months and three months old when we met on the 1600 block of East Tulpehocken Street. Our rowhouses were only two houses apart. We were always friends, and we were never not friends. Even though we weren’t in constant touch with each other over the years, the minute we reunited, we were right back where we had left off.

Even though Ellie was younger than I, she had better ideas and lies.

“Let’s not talk to anyone for 24 hours.”

“Let’s write everything in rebus writing.”

“Fess Parker* was at my house last night and told me he loves you.”

“I convinced my sister she’s adopted,” she told me one childhood day. “Made her cry.”

I was awestruck. “How did you do that?” I asked. I had a younger sister, too.

“Just kept telling her, and she finally believed it,” she said, nonchalantly chewing gum.

I couldn’t wait to go home and try it.

“You’re adopted,” I said to my little sister.

“I am not,” she said.

“You are.”

“Not.”

“Why do you think all our names start with ‘J’ and yours starts with ‘S’?” I persisted.

“I don’t know,” she said, hesitating.

“Why do you think we all have brown hair and you have red hair?” I asked the next day.

“You mean …?” she said, lower lip pulled in a little.

I repeated the conversation over several days, drawing her closer to the desired conclusion, which, of course, was tears.

“Really, you’re adopted,” I began first thing one morning.

“You’re crazy,” she said with a sudden confidence. “I asked Mom, and she said I’m not.”

I met Ellie in front of our houses that day.           

“Go inside. I’m going to call you on the phone. I have something important to tell you,” I said. She did.

“I couldn’t convince my sister she was adopted,” I confessed. “She asked my mother, and that ruined it.” All Ellie said was, “Come back outside – let’s play jacks.” No wonder I loved her.

The worst and best idea Ellie ever had came from a story in Jack and Jill magazine.

“Let’s bury some treasure like pirates, draw a treasure map, hide the map for a week, try to forget where we buried the treasure, then follow the map and dig it up next Saturday.”

What an idea! How could I resist?

We scrounged. We came up with a set of tiny plastic black and white Scottie dogs with magnets glued to their paws so they would either attract or repel each other, depending on their position, seven cents and a tiny doll pillaged from my sister’s room.

We put everything in a small plastic box and buried it several houses down, under a bush in the Jones family’s back yard (not their real name). We drew a map. We hid it on a high shelf, too high for the smaller kids to get to, in my parents’ garage. Then we tried to forget all about it.

That was the week I learned about memory. Sometimes forgetting is harder than remembering. I couldn’t will myself to forget. And I tried. I asked my mother.

“Mom, I’m trying to forget something, but I can’t. Any suggestions?”           

“What are you trying to forget?” she asked.

“I can’t tell you — it’s a secret.”

“I don’t know if I can help you with that one, Jan,” she said. And even my all-powerful mother couldn’t.

It didn’t help at all that every time I saw Ellie that week, she’d whisper something like, “Ahoy, Matey!” or  “Shiver me timbers!” I couldn’t help laughing, and there was no forgetting in laughter. The week was torture.

Finally, on Saturday, we got the treasure map down from its hiding place, made ourselves black eye patches, and walked down the driveway with huge snow shovels to dig up our tiny trove.

A dog had found our secret hiding place and marked it for us. Luckily, Ellie had a dog and didn’t mind digging around dog poop for treasure. We dug, then dug some more. Then more. Luckily, the Joneses weren’t home, or at least weren’t watching from their back window. We dug way down deep, but the TREASURE WAS GONE, AND WE NEVER FOUND IT! I threw my eye patch in the hole in disgust.

Now, it’s possible the dog dug up the box and took it somewhere to play with the Scotties. But I always suspected that Mitchell R., who lived up the block, saw us burying and dug it up himself. He was a spiteful boy. Ellie and I wondered about the unsolved “Case of the Remembered Treasure” for 55 more years, laughing and talking like pirates every time.

When Ellie died a few years ago, I lost not only a dear friend, but also my personal archivist. The real treasures. It’s tough to lose a friend like that. I’d love to believe that Ellie misses me, too, and that’s why she did me the great good deed of showing up, smiling, in my dream.

*If you don’t know who Fess Parker is, put down your iPod for a minute and google him. He was the Brad Pitt of his day.