In the mid-fifties, Thelma and Mac McAdams moved to Bisbee, bringing along their two children, Pat and Ted. Their house faced Campbell Avenue, but their back gate was only about half a block from our house on Yuma Trail if I walked there through Mrs. Corbett’s side yard.

Pat and I quickly became fast friends. Because there were so many kids in my family, we usually spent our play time at her house where she had a room all to herself. We spent hours on the carpet in her bedroom playing with her set of Queen Elizabeth paper dolls Incidentally, a few years ago, Pat sent me a vintage set of those paper dolls for my birthday. We were both in Miss Stammer’s fifth grade class where we used an unfolded wire clothes hanger to pass notes back and forth. That was our version of texting!

In high school where we both took journalism, we ended up being co-editors of our school paper, the Copper Chronicle. And during our senior year, we led an insurrection, if you will, passing a petition asking that one of our classmates, who was already married and pregnant with her second child, be allowed to walk through graduation with the rest of our class. That effort was squelched when the Superintendent of Schools called my father and informed him that I was due to be given a college scholarship which I would receive on class night—as long as we stopped passing the petition. We did. The classmate received her diploma by mail, and I went off to college. By the way, I’ve always felt guilty about that. It’s as though my success came from grinding my classmate into the dust.

In high school Pat hit the dating scene. (She wasn’t six feet tall, so boys actually asked her out!) My role was to stand on the sidelines and walk her through whatever drama arose out of those high school romances. Even though we’ve lived on opposites ends of the country most of our lives, we’ve stayed in touch and seen each other through troubled marriages, difficult divorces, and major health crises, including one several years ago where she suffered a stroke and lay on the floor of her garage for almost twenty-four hours before she was able to drag herself into the bedroom, pull a landline phone off the bedside table, and summon help.

At this point, the story is going to take a seemingly sharp detour but bear with me. On to Christmas. For years Jim Hunt, a friend who was a very talented interior designer, was in charge of our family’s Christmas decorations. By the time he was done—a process that started on the Saturday after Thanksgiving and ended just barely in time for Christmas, every flat surface in the house had some delightful touch of Christmas magic. That long ordeal always ended with our whole house, inside and out, looking like a department store window.

The first year after Jim retired, the kids and grandkids took over. They had grown up with Jim Hunt’s decorations, so they knew exactly where things went and how they should look. In a matter of a few hours the house was lit up like … well … a Christmas tree. When Jim stopped by to see the end product, he shook his head sadly and said, “I thought it would look a bit more forlorn.”

But times change. This year, when it was time to decorate for Christmas, the grands were all off in college. Faced with that old adage—If it is to be, it is up to me!—I launched off into it. I had a helper who brought the tree inside and set it up. He also brought the full boxes into the house from the garage and took the empty ones back where they belonged.

I decided to tackle the job one day at a time. On day one, Bill took the ornaments out of the boxes while I hung them on the tree. On day two, he unpacked all the decorative boxes that go under the tree while I placed them there. The next day was devoted to the soft Santas. Day four was spent on the hard Santas, day five went to the angels, and day six to the front porch. Whew! It was a lot of work, but all that decorating doesn’t amount to a hill of beans as far as getting those daily steps is concerned. By the end of those days, I had to practically crawl my way up to the goal line.

As far as decorations go, there’s not something on EVERY flat surface, but there’s enough. And I ended up being particularly proud of the tree, although I have to confess, that when Colt came home for Christmas break, he dropped by and put the angel on top of the tree without needing to use a step stool!

I thought the tree was done, but it turns out I was wrong. Two days ago, a package from Pat McAdams Hall showed up on the front porch. Inside was a wrapped package with a note saying “Seventy years and counting.” Inside was a lovely glass ornament. It features two little girls, a blonde and a brunette, sitting side by side and staring at a Christmas tree. The words written in the margin are these: “It takes a long time to grow an old friend.” Now the ornament is hanging where it belongs, and our Christmas tree really is finished!

And so, although I may be a day late and a dollar short in wishing my readers a Merry Christmas, it’s not too late to send along my hope that they, too, have the blessing of long-term friendships in their lives, not only during the holiday season, but throughout the coming year as well. Because that song we learned in Brownies all those years ago is as true today as it was back then:

Make new friends
But keep the old.
One is silver
And the other gold.