Maggy

We received a smile-inducing, bubbly Christmas letter from an old friend this month. She didn’t call it a Christmas letter. How could she when it was dated mid February. But no mistaking, it was a Christmas letter. Like the twenty-plus letters which preceded it, this one warmed our hearts and made us grateful to count Margaret as a friend. After all, who wouldn’t want to be friends with a personality who writes with Erma Bombeck’s wit and likely could have succeeded the legendary humorist given the chance.

Our paths first crossed Margaret’s back in July of 1979 at 2007 N. 49th Street, Phoenix, Arizona. As young-marrieds, apartment #1 of the small apartment complex served as our honeymoon suite. Next door in apartment #2 was an aloof man, most remembered for complaining if we more than whispered after 8pm and for religiously and meticulously washing a black Chrysler Cordoba in front of the complex every Saturday morning. In apartment 3 lived Mr. and Mrs. Dietz, the managers of the complex, who obliviously called me Dennis for months on end, and whose domestic squabbles were legendary. And in apartment 4 lived Margaret, a friendly girl who at age 30 seemed almost a generation removed.

We became acquainted with Margaret as we exchanged pleasantries while passing on the sidewalk. The relationship took a twist when she made a house call to our apartment to render first aid to our pale leaf-shedding rubber plant named George. Despite Margaret’s best efforts, George died soon after. We didn’t hold it against her. Donna and I likely killed George by drowning. As sad as George’s passing was (he was a gift to Donna), the ordeal cemented a life-long friendship with Margaret.

After 14 months of marital bliss, Donna and I were forced to move from our one room apartment on north 49th street when we threw reason to the wind, completely disregarded the terms and conditions of our lease, and took steps to violate the no-kids-allowed policy of the adult-only complex. As my pregnant wife and I left, we bid adieu to our friend Margaret. We saw her a few months later when she paid a visit to our new place on a Sunday morning and fixed us crepes for breakfast. We told ourselves that she came to see her old friends, though our bouncing baby girl was the obvious drawing card. This was the last time we saw our friend, but certainly not the last time we heard from her.

Over the next 28 years Donna and I bounced from one state to another. As we brought five kids into the world, as career moves took us from coast to coast to coast, we kept tabs on Margaret through her yearly updates. We watched from a distance as she married and raised three daughters in the Midwest. Our hearts ached when divorce shook her life. We were delighted when “Prince William” graced it.

If one assumed that this 30-year friendship was spawned by common interests they would be wrong. Even back in the day, if we passed each other on the sidewalk after grocery shopping, Margaret would likely have skimmed milk and yogurt in her bag, while we would have chocolate chip ice cream and potato chips in ours. If we ever voted for the same presidential candidate it could likely be blamed on a hanging chad or misplaced hole punch. It was a job that brought Donna and I to Portland Oregon three years ago. In contrast, Margaret’s gene pool was clearly in play last year when her daughter moved to Portland, undoubtedly lured by a “Keep Portland Weird” bumper sticker.

Thank you Maggy Michaels for sharing this crazy roller coaster of an experience called life with your ol’ East Phoenix friends. May God continue to bless you. Please dear, keep those letters coming.