Best Friends Forever

I have just gotten into this essential oil business that's all the rage at the moment. Or as Mr. calls it, "your voodoo". The jury is still out on this oil as the cure for all that ails you, but I have seen some benefits. 1) Diffusing (essential oils) makes our house smell nice. 2) Certain concoctions reduce our allergy symptoms; except for Mr.'s because he does not believe. 3) Rubbing oils on our feet is relaxing and my children ask for the "feet stuff" every night at bedtime. And that reminded me of my grandmother, Nana, and her best friend Lala (lay-la).  They met when they were born, living just three houses down from each other in Lafayette. My grandmother was called Khaki as a child and the only people who called her Khaki as an adult were Lala and Lala's children.

Khaki, we think a cousin, and Lala on the right. 

Khaki and Lala spent days together as little girls in a small Southern town. Days that grew into months that grew into years; close to 80 in all. They were as different as they were alike. Lala glamorous and vivacious, Khaki conservative with a lightning quick wit. Both loved to laugh; at themselves and sometimes at other people. There was one break in the friendship when these two were in their early twenties. Khaki was to marry first and her mother, Mae, informed her that she could only have her three cousins as bridesmaids. There was no room for Lala in the bridal party. Needless to say, Lala was hurt and mad as a hornet. She didn't come to her dear Khaki's wedding and in turn did not invite her to her own when she married soon after. Their husbands had not met either life-long friend. Sometime within the first years of their respective marriages the two couples happen to attend the same football game. And there, through the crowd, Lala and Khaki see each other. Both run toward each other, crying and laughing at the same time, utterly forgiven. They pick up right were they left off and the two couples begin this new season in life, together.

Lala, far right, and Khaki with their girls at the lake house. 

Lala, right, and my grandmother, left, at Lala's house. 

Lala and her husband in the center, Khaki far right. 

Lala and her husband with my grandmother. 

Mama, Lala and Nana.

They lived about an hour and half apart, my grandmother in Union Springs, Alabama and Lala in Newnan, Georgia. That does not seem too far today, but this is the 1930s. Letters were written and written and written. But both had terrible handwriting. As the children grew, and the friendship carried on to the next generation, they gathered their families at Lala's lake house. The refrigerator never worked, and no one ever thought to get it fixed. They would make short trips to each other's homes, cherishing the moments to see each other. I remember spending weekends at Lala's antebellum home that she loved so much. It was magical. Everything you would expect of a white two story Southern mansion; grand staircase, second floor porches, huge four-poster beds with steps to help you climb up to satin sheets, and dilapidated slave quarters out back.

Lala's house. She is seated on the front step in her bright pink coat! 

Neither Khaki nor Lala were cooks, and Lala even less so. At Lala's, when her cook was not there we lived on Special K cereal, Coke in a bottle and Sprayberry's BBQ. It was wonderful. Lala was always dressed to the 9s. Satin, kitten-heeled slippers in the morning and evening, brightly colored silk dresses with equally bright lipstick during the day. Her dressing room was right off of her bedroom and always seemed to glow in a soft pink light. She had a dressing table that hypnotized my 5 year-old self with shimmering bottles of perfume, and powder in cut crystal boxes with silver lids. When Lala visited my grandmother's home, I remember them laughing and laughing and laughing.

Each reunion that I was able to witness was not complete without an end of the evening "foot rub", as the two friends called it. I have not thought of this ritual in probably 20 years, or more. I guess it has been that long since Lala died. But how many people would you volunteer to rub their feet? For me not many. I gladly do for my children, (and the oils), without a second thought. Rubbing feet is closely kin to washing feet. Washing feet was not a chore for the rich, but the servants, in ancient times. I think "feet" associated tasks always have that connotation. Not a task for everyone, but for people of the servant nature. Or those with a servant nature, and servant heart.

Whether at Lala's sprawling antebellum home, or Khaki's comfortable, inviting and practical house in the country, they treasured this time with each other. Both now widows, one holding the other's feet, no matter what age had done to them, remembering when they looked younger, felt younger. The laughter quieting, but still there, as they settled in to the night.

Lala and Khaki.