There’s something special about our oldest friends. I mean the ones who you knew when you were in the single digits.
If you’re of a certain age, you still might recognize each other’s handwriting. You remember what the inside of their childhood home looked like. Not only do you know the names of their brothers and sisters but you actually know each other! You certainly know when their birthday is. You know their parents’ names because you knew them.
I remember my friend Vicky’s childhood phone number. Vicky and I met in kindergarten and the story goes that when she came to my fifth birthday party she would not let her father leave. Her father, whom I came to call Uncle Jim at the same time I began calling her mom Aunt Judy, used to do the New York Times crossword puzzle every day, religiously. I don’t think I ever really knew what he did for work—it wasn’t something as clear cut as my dad, who was a child psychiatrist. All I know is he had something to do with filmstrips. Our fifteen minutes of fame came in sixth grade when Uncle Jim brought me and Vicky in to sing, “Yankee Doodle Dandy” for a filmstrip about US History. Remember filmstrips? If yes, you know how many years ago this was!
My earliest recollection of Vicky’s house at the top of a hill (treacherous in the winter, I would learn when I got old enough to drive—I even got stuck there a couple of times!) was they had a plastic pool way up high on a deck where Vicky and I swam in kindergarten.
Aunt Judy had met Vicky’s dad—who was an American radio operator/gunner in B-24s leading bombing runs over Germany—in London after the war, and they had come to live in the United States shortly thereafter. To me, Judy was a calming presence with a British accent (though according to her family in England she sounded American); there in the background whether Vicky and I were in their familiar kitchen making one of our concoctions like the famous, open-faced grilled cheese with garlic butter sauce , or in their cool, upstairs living room dancing to ABBA or The Bay City Rollers. Their house was cool, not only because of its mid-century modern design, spiral staircase up to the TV room and raised living room, but also, in my opinion, because they had cushiony toilet seats that I thought were the cat’s meow. Speaking of cats, the downstairs bathroom had a little cat door so Tex (fat, grey, fluffy, grumpy and deaf), Rosemary and Nutmeg (I remember them as kittens—were they brother and sister?), Sneakers and the others whose names I cannot recall could easily go in and out.
I learned what Scotch eggs were when Judy made them for Easter (though Vicky says they are made at Christmas).
I picture her often doing laundry. She was so nice when I committed a faux pas by saying, “You got a haircut…<long , awkward pause>…it looks really good from the back.” That foot in mouth moment became an inside joke because of Judy’s reasonable nature. She had an easygoing nature but had not had an easy life, like many of our parents’ generation (my mother—of the same generation—is a Holocaust survivor). She had lived through the Blitz in London and had her own story of fear and survival during World War II. I’m not sure when I found this out, but at some point she sent me some of her recollections of those times and I wrote back with encouraging comments. I am so glad she got to put pen to paper and preserved those experiences for her grandchildren and those who come after them.
Vicky’s parents let Vicky and her sister Liz each invite a friend to visit their house in Nantucket two summers in a row during Junior High. Vicky, Liz, Liz’s friend Susie and I played “Jeopardy;” made the grilled cheese with garlic butter sauce (our signature dish!); danced to The Night Chicago Died and I Shot the Sherriff; and hung out at the beach. In seventh grade I had major surgery on my legs and one day in Nantucket only a few months later, I lost my footing and fell down their loft stairs. I remember how scared I was, and I can recall exactly how it felt to slip and bounce down the bare wooden stairs on my hip. And though I didn’t remember Judy ministering to me, I was in no doubt that she had, and was not surprised when Vicky told me she remembered her mom scooping me into her arms after I fell.
At some point Judy said I could drop the “Aunt”,” which had become sort of tiresome, and just call her Judy. She generously hosted my wedding shower on the same terrace that years before I had thought was so high (it wasn’t).
I hung out a lot over the years at Vicky’s house at the top of a steep hill. Judy was always a quiet, supportive presence in the background. She died the other day at age 91. I am sad that she’s gone; the world is poorer for it. Rest in Peace, Judy.
Judy Rolls Kantor
Nantucket summer(that’s me on the right in cutoffs).