Kate has been my best friend for most of my life, but Daniel was my first best friend. He and I are under two years apart, like Grace and Johnny. Daniel and I were both born in Bloomington, Indiana, and even though I don’t really remember my first two years as a Hoosier, we’ve been told that we played for hours on the back porch making up words, games and ways to pass the time. There are some great pictures of the two of us in the earliest years, the years my kids are in now, but those photos are at my dad’s house, and I couldn’t get my hands on them in time for this blog post. We moved to Columbus, Ohio in 1974, and Daniel and I set up our playthings in that house on Tibet Road just the way we wanted them. We made elaborate Lego villages in the living room corner and played “Camper People” (AKA Fisher Price) nearby. We made up characters like “Go Go,” “June June,” and “Curly Cooper,” and we made up rules that we both agreed on and that only we understood.
Kate joined the Lightfoot family in June, 1975, but it wasn’t until 1976 or so that she tried to break into the well-established play world of her older brother and sister. When we moved to Boone, NC in 1980, Kate was five, I was eight and Daniel was ten. We were still playing Legos and Camper People, now in the fixed-up basement, and Kate was desperate to enter our circle. She was the baby, however, and didn’t play right—she didn’t know the rules. It was exasperating for Daniel and me. Daniel and I initially gave Kate three chances, three strikes, if you will, to get it right. After her chances were used up, we sent her back upstairs to help my mom bake carob-chip cookies or tofu spaghetti or whatever was up her sleeve that day. Kate always struck out within minutes. It went something like this: We would pretend Curly Cooper needed to go upstairs to take a bath. Kate wouldn’t use the doll house’s stairs, we pointed that out, and that was strike one. Then, there would be a house fire, but when Kate called 911, she’d forget to tell the operator the house’s address. Strike two. Or she would make the Lego people fly, or float, from point A to point B, rather than take a realistic number of steps. Strike three. Kate was banished, and Daniel and I were thrilled. Now I understand better why Kate has rejection issues and why she was a much better cook than I was at an earlier age.
Even when Daniel got more interested in playing with the neighborhood boys, and I spent more time being a nicer big sister, he and I still shared a bond (in good fun) over Kate’s shortcomings. We still do. It used to be we’d totally trip her up as to what day of the week it was and how many days of a vacation we’d have left, or quizzing her over how many cans of coke come in a six-pack. One of our favorites was to ask her what she liked about living in Bloomington, when, remember, we moved a year before she was born. Now, we find ourselves delighted when get an unflattering snapshot of Kate on the computer, so we can post it and all have a good laugh.
Kate and Daniel ganged up on me, occasionally—the most notable time being when they concocted “The Plan,” an elaborate scheme to get these sisters, who lived across the street from my grandmother, to play with me, a very shy, awkward girl at the time. Now they live only a mile or so apart, back in Boone, and they get to spend a lot more time together than I do with either of them.
We didn’t really become best friends until I left for college, but Kate has been my go-to-girl when I’ve needed any type of pep talk about my looks, my relationships, or my insecurities about, well, anything. She’s talked me through many “near panics” about finding our way to a party, what to take to the party, and what’s-going-to-happen-if-we’re-fifteen-minutes-late-to-the-party? She’s talked me through brunches, through the first Thanksgiving Dinner I hosted, and she’s always the last one to taste-test and approve any dish, if she’s around, before I serve it to my guests. Kate’s the one I want to rear my kids if something happened to David and me, and she’s the one who will tell me honestly if my butt looks too big in a pair of jeans. Kate and I were roommates, in Carrboro, for three years before I got married, and it was great to live with someone so familiar and so close to you that you could be cussing each other out one minute and sitting down to watch “Party of Five", all made up, the next.
We’ve had our fights, the three of us, that’s for sure. I remember the summer that my mom, grandmother, and Daniel picked Kate and me up from Camp Tekoa in the chevy van. It was hot, we were all tired and hungry and when we drove through the Mickey-Dees drive through, someone’s patience snapped and burgers went flying. I can’t recall if Daniel threw the burger at Kate or vice versa, but I do recall a soggy piece of pickle landing on my chin during the exchange. Then there was the time I got so mad at Kate, I threatened to shoot her with the B-B-gun, and the list goes on.
Now, we’re all three older, wiser, and by default, filling unexpected roles. Daniel reminds me that it’s not safe to talk on my cell phone while driving and that I should really avoid drinking diet sodas. Daniel took care of Kate during a major crisis about a year ago, and he offers to lend her money if she ever needs it. If I’m feeling really low, I always call Kate first, because nothing will ever be too bad for her to hear, and I don’t have to expend energy explaining myself or pretending like I feel well when I really don’t. When Daniel was moving to Durham and was looking for a place to live, I rode around with him, in August, 8 months pregnant, (me, not Daniel) weighing in on which apartments I thought were good and which weren’t.
We’ve all been hard on each other in the past, to each other’s faces and behind each other’s backs. One of the last things I promised my mom, as she lay there dying, is that we would all take care of each other. I think we have. I think we will.
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