Sitting in the comfortable living room of the large colonial house I feel right at home. The decor has changed little since I visited as a little girl. The woman sitting next to me is still tall, gracious, warm and exceedingly sharp. The afternoon flies by in her company.

I don’t know how it started, really. I think the bond was forged shortly after Mom passed away. Mrs. B – I still can’t bring myself to call her Monica – was Mom’s oldest friend, dating back to their childhood in the UP. She was a constant in Mom’s life. And now in mine.

My trips to the Cities are frequently tailored around this detour to Roseville. The script rarely varies. I arrive late morning, and conversation begins simultaneously with our fervent hugs. Despite her almost-92 years, Mrs. B remembers everything from our last visit and we hungrily catch up on family news. From there we move on to current events, politics, history and the erudite selection of books she has most recently read. I note the fascinating titles to add to my own reading list. We pause long enough for Mrs. B to serve homemade soup, salad with her own dressing and coconut bread. And continue visiting over our shared meal.

It is a rare opportunity to spend time with someone who knows not only me, but my family from way back. She knows my history better than I do. She understands my roots. She has memories of my Mom that are still new to me. I relish the feeling. It is like having lunch with my Mom.

I am constantly in awe of Mrs. B’s clear and insightful mind. A seasoned mother and grandmother, she is in tune with the times and has decided opinions and insights on those roles that we now share. Her values remain unchanged, but she has lived enough to flex with the times. She is not shy about sharing her honest opinions, and I treasure her wisdom.

On this visit I bring along Michael, the newest addition to our collection of grandchildren at 9 weeks old. It is a sweet juxtaposition of ages. I can tell Mrs. B is anxious to hold him. Her next baby generation has yet to arrive. But her skills haven’t faded. She is able to coax a smile from him, and she has sage advice when Michael struggles with tummy troubles. Of course, it works. Mom was not well enough to hold her great-grandchildren. So I endeavor to conjure memories of her with my children as babies.

Mom was my biggest cheerleader.  She consistently urged me on and taught me to believe in myself.  It was Mom’s lifelong encouragement that gave me the confidence to follow my dream of writing.  She was gone by the time my first story was published.  But Mrs. B not only read it, she took out a subscription to Lake Superior Magazine to keep up with my work.  Predictably, today she asks “How’s the writing going?”  And listens intently.

The afternoon slips away far too quickly.  Even as I drive away I think of many more things to talk about. And ponder not only what she said but her life example.

Six years since Mom passed away, and longer still since Alzheimer’s claimed her mind, I have her dear friend to continue to connect me with her.  I am already eagerly anticipating our next visit.