Who is that girl sitting in the next row? Why doesn't she look this way? The sun is shining all around her, even though it's a gray Seattle day. She has a haircut like that French girl, Joan of Arc. She's intent about something on her desk. I don't see anything on it. I'm new to Briarcliff School; I've just come to Seattle from St. Paul. That girl eventually looked up from her desk, and we became friends. She was Gretchen Fall.
At first Gretchen Fall and I didn't laugh much. It was serious in Mrs. Waddel's class. Everyday at rest period we would peek over our folded arms and watch Mrs. Waddel while she sat filing her nails, creaming her hands, pushing back her cuticles. She loved her hands. It was the certainty about them. They belonged to her. Gretchen and I and thirty other classmates belonged to her too, but it was different.
Gretchen has hands, Mrs. Waddel, our fourth grade teacher would have died for: lovely moons, perfect shape, healthy cuticles, and an upturn at the ends of the fingers for a bit of fun. There is strength about them with an artistic flare. She shakes them all around when she gets excited. They look the same now as they did when we were kids. When they touched the piano, they frolicked over the keyboard. Gretchen could play by ear. She was always ready to make music.
Gretchen seemed to know about many things. She took me to her home. It was a big two-story affair. Expensive looking. The windows opened towards the garden. Her Dad had helped design and build it. Her mother put the book she was reading onto her lap. She draped one hand, holding a cigarette, over the arm of the Queen Anne chair to greet us. She had long red manicured nails. Nails Mrs. Waddel had never dreamed of, I'll bet. This must be sophistication. To have time for oneself. To be assured. To smoke. To use ones mind.
We had another teacher, Mr. Bilodue. Mr. Bilodue was handsome. He was so handsome, I can't remember what he taught. All us girls loved Mr. Bilodue. He had dark wavy hair and saucer big blue eyes. He was friendly. He liked his job as a teacher, he told us once.
Gretchen was a natural athlete. Always good in sports: baseball, kickball, tennis, swimming, you name it. She was one of the first chosen for any team. I was one of the last. I sat out games as much as possible.
One day at lunchtime, I was watching kickball from the second floor window. Mr. Bilodue came along and asked “Why aren't you down there playing with everybody?” “Oh, there wasn't time,” I told him. “My mother packed an extra big lunch today.” He had a twinkle in his eye. I don't think he believed me.
Gretchen ended up moving to an even bigger two-story home in another district. It was darker inside than the other one. Here, I became acquainted with the rest of her family. Her father had a deep voice and a powerful presence and called Gretchen his “beautiful pink-haired daughter.” Her older brother always seemed to have a secret and was either going up or down the stairs. The two grandmothers were there a lot. One was friendly, the other a bit prickly. There was her mother, who made us delicacies: sweet breads. And Suki, the shaggy dog.
I never knew that Gretchen didn't want to live in that house or that she was worried about her father. She felt ashamed she told me years later, because it was in a less expensive neighborhood than where I lived and all her other friends. I thought at the time she was lucky to be in such a huge place. Her Dad had become ill and couldn't work anymore. So eventually Gretchen was the only one of our clique who had to go work. She worked six days a week at Warren's Ice Creamery where she was paid 50 cents an hour, which was less than the 75-cent minimum wage. I thought she looked sophisticated behind that ice cream parlor counter, pulling levers, opening cans, making ice-cream splits, using a cash register. I didn't know she felt bad about having to work. She was stoic even then and proud and strong.
Many were Girl Scouts, but she and I joined Bluebirds, the junior Campfire Girls. We went to camp Sealth two summers in a row. I could have done it without her. It all seemed so rugged and cold. Gretchen's friendship warmed the chilly atmosphere and gave me courage to be away from the security of the known safe suburbia and my family. I can remember our bunk bed, the Spartan cabin, the bland breakfast oatmeal, writing letters to home standing on shore watching Gretchen swim in the icy water.
At Campfire meetings we laughed and laughed. We created an atmosphere of giggles. Much of the time we didn't know what was funny. One of us took the Indian name of Laughing Maiden.
Gretchen and I were not the most beautiful girls at camp, or in our class, but our irrepressible joy made us appear pretty – at least to each other. Like most adolescent females we worshipped Natalie Wood, Sandra Dee, Debbie Reynolds, and all those magazine models. None of them wore glasses we realized. Could Gretchen and I look like them if we didn't wear ours? Before long, life outside the classroom became one big blur. We were terribly nearsighted. But without glasses we were beautiful.
Seventh grade came. In our school bags we kept Kotex, bras, Noxema and mirrors. Mirrors were everywhere. If we weren't dashing to the girls' lavatory to primp, we were sneaking looks at mirrors in our purses. We wore neon hot pink lipstick. Our lips looked like small searchlights.
Gretchen and I practiced kissing a couple of times. It's hard to say who was better. We fell into it one night as I was staying over. We were in her double bed. I turned to her and it just happened. I felt like I was floating in pools of soft golden light that would somehow carry me to the shores of bliss. The next day we were going to the swimming pool downtown next to the Bon Marche. I pushed Gretchen up against the dressing room door as I'd seen them do in the movies. This felt so good but I wished she would play the pusher -up-against-the-door-person just so I could feel what that was like. It never happened. We turned our talents to boyfriends instead.
Gretchen became close to Leslie Anderson; a nice person you could bring home to meet your folks. He would walk Gretchen the three miles to her home, carrying her books all the way. They would laugh and talk. They got to know one another as people. Leslie was smitten with Gretchen.
I chose a blonde handsome hot shot that was smitten with excitement and danger. So I'd say, Gretchen, yes Gretchen, you were probably the better kisser.
We went to Tenny's, the local diner, after school and had French fries and cokes. Our clique of girls, Gretchen, myself, Lynn, Patty, Gail and Marilyn Weber stood to one side of the sidewalk – the clique of boys, David, Leslie, Dick, Gary, Bud Gould and maybe Paul would stand to the opposite side. They would look at us; we would look at them; both sides trying to look nonchalant and important. Other days, we all went to the Magnolia bowling alley and had French fries and cokes. We would look at the boys; then go home and talk on the phone to each other for hours.
Friday nights we went to the Magnolia movie theatre. No one watched the movie. Once in awhile there would be a school dance. Gretchen and I would go the Gym, which was almost dark. We danced the Bunny Hug; hugging our partners and ever so slightly shuffling our feet, which were in white bucks with colored socks.
We slipped our legs into black net stockings, put on top hats and tails and squeezed into short shorts. We became the Petty Girls, a chorus line of seven: Gretchen, myself, Patty, Marilyn, Beverly, Judy, and Joel - until her mother thought it unseemly that Joel be seen in net stockings. We were sexy but safe, kicking and strutting at school assemblies.
High School happened. Gretchen and I took different paths, always to come together and go our different ways again.
Gretchen, you became even more popular; joining clubs, becoming a cheerleader, going on to college, being voted homecoming queen. An “A” student. You taught English, traveled Europe. Came to New York, met and married the Harvard man, moved to Santa Barbara. Your home was busy with interesting people and you were always entertaining. You found your way to become a talented potter, then got a doctorate and a new career as a gifted psychotherapist. You could talk, drink, dance and think anyone under the table; you have a heart full of compassion and good will. You have always been brimming with curiosity. And all those exasperating questions! The ideal, the top banana; hands down Gretchen, you are the epitome of “Friend.”