“It takes a long time to grow an old friend.” This quote is written on a rustic piece of wood that hangs on my family room wall—a gift from my childhood BFF, Stacey. Since the 3^rd grade, we’ve experienced life together, even when we’re apart. Some of the best times involve singing with our guitars and laughing hysterically when our harmony is off. We sing everything from classic rock to country. One song we claim as our song is “I Can See Clearly Now” by Johnny Nash. Another is “The Chain” by Fleetwood Mac.

As kids, sleepovers were the best. Sometimes we slept in my dad’s truck camper in the driveway although there wasn’t a lot of sleep going on—mostly laughter—and that is where we came up with nicknames for each other: “Toejam” and “Wipeoff.” Weird, I know. Later, our nicknames became “Staceroo” and “Lesfroo”—and those stuck. One night when trying to sleep in my room, we started laughing so hard, we both sat up straight, saw ourselves in the dresser-mirror, and laughed even harder until our stomachs hurt. At Stacey’s house for sleepovers, we made fudge in the middle of the night, and before it cooled, we melted a stick of butter on top and ate the entire pan of melted deliciousness.

With no cell phones or internet, we made our own fun—the best kind of fun. One weekend, we planned a wedding for Stacey’s dogs, Cleo and Nurge. It was an elaborate event as far as dog-weddings go. Usually, we would walk all over town, up and down dirt hills, and stop for cheeseburgers at Estes Drug or french fries enchilada-style at the Kopper Kettle. Our hometown of Morenci was small, and everyone knew each-other—it was a safe space.

In Junior High, we hung out in a tree house in my front yard. Camouflaged by leaves, we spied on the Perry boys who lived down the street and their friends, “the sophomores.” We had crushes on all of them. Sometimes, we camped out in sleeping bags on my front lawn, hoping to catch a glimpse of the boys as they cruised by. One night, Stacey stayed over and my grannie made cookies, which we ate too many of. The next day, Grannie called the school to say we were both too sick to attend classes, so we stayed at my house and had a good ol’ time in an empty lot, playing basketball with those same boys who also ditched school. It was great fun until a nosy neighbor lady spotted us and called the truant officer on everyone.

Stacey and I were in the 8^th grade school play together—she was Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, and I was Glinda, the good witch. After school, we hung out on the school patio with our very first boyfriends. I clearly remember we both wore plaid, cuffed bell-bottom pants with wide leather belts, and water buffalo sandals. In high school, we cruised the bowling alley, were cheerleaders together, partied at the river, and shared our deepest, darkest secrets.

One summer, our parents sent us off to Tucson for a few days where our sisters each had apartments. Stacey’s sister and her husband left us with their two-month-old baby boy while they were at work. The baby was sleeping in his crib, so we went downstairs to the swimming pool for a couple hours to flirt with some cute boys. Did we really think that was okay?! At my sister’s apartment, we spent more time at the swimming pool. By the end of the week, our skin was so sunburned we couldn’t wear clothes and spent most of the time wrapped in bedsheets.

While in Tucson, Stacey taught me to swim—or at least how to save myself in semi-deep water. Morenci had only one community pool, so during the summer, when school let out, everyone flocked to it. Not just for swimming, but for flirting. My friends played a game called “chicken fight.” The girls sat on boys’ shoulders, legs wrapped around them, wrestling each other until one fell off into the water. Or, with her hands on a guy’s head, the girl would hop over it, freefalling into the pool, going deep, then splashing up out of the water for the next round. While my friends did cannonballs from the high dive and frolicked in twelve feet of cold water, I watched from the sidelines, holding on to the edge of the pool, monkey crawling like a toddler. Stacey took pity on me and taught me to swim so I could face my fears and join in the fun.

After graduation, we went our separate ways and didn’t see each other often enough. One day, out of nowhere, I felt the need to talk with her. When I called, I asked what she was up to. “I’m just standing here watching my dad die,” she said. There must have been something about our bond that urged me to call that day. After that, we saw each other through more loss. And many good times too. As our own kids grew, they became friends. My kids and I visited Stacey’s family in Wickenburg for several years. During the month of February, we went there to celebrate Gold Rush Days—lively festivities and a street parade that was over in a flash.

We later attended each other’s kids’ weddings and celebrated the births of grandchildren. Together, we have experienced life’s many challenges and joys. This year, we celebrate our 65^th birthdays, and no matter what might try to divide us, our friendship is strong and everlasting.

Love you dearly, Staceroo.