Where have all the flowers gone...

When I was 5, I attended public kindergarten. This was a very big deal, for several reasons: 1) I am the youngest of four children and the others never attended kindergarten at all; 2) when they did go to first grade, they were 7; 3) the first grade they attended was at a small, conservative parochial school; and 4) I was permitted to ride the bus.

It was on the school bus, in fact, that I met my closest childhood friend: Rhonda, "with an h". She was blonde and tall and glamorously dressed in sparkles and sandles, things I had never worn. She strode confidently to the busline, knowing exactly which bus to board, and when and how to get off at the right stop. I was starstruck. Then she spoke to me, offered to help me conquer my fear of bus-riding, and it was sealed. I had found my first public school friend.

We were inseparable that year in Miss Radell's class, finger-painting at side-by-side easels, teaming up for hand-clapping games, guarding each other from Tommy Peterson's cooties. And though my parents moved me to the church school in first grade, our friendship survived. Her home was a mere half-mile away, a simple bike ride down country roads, so our after-school hours were filled with catching up on the day's events.

Rhonda also was the youngest of four, but there the similarities ended. Their rental house had only 2 bedrooms, so the siblings were together in one with two sets of bunkbeds. Rhonda's dad, Walt worked at Gates Rubber Factory downtown, and her mom, Barbara was a secretary somewhere. Janine, her oldest sister was the high school slut; Troy, her only brother was reckless and ADHD; her youngest (and just 13 months older) sister, Kellie, was the middle child. Kellie tried to make it a three-way bond, but she never quite broke through the force-field of our friendship.

Walt was deeply into alcoholism by the time I met them and was hardly ever aware of much besides his work schedule and whether or not there was beer out in the shop. I remember Barb as beautiful, smiling and kind, and worried, and tired. She died of sepsis -- caused by an abscessed tooth never seen by a dentist -- when Rhonda and I were 9 years old. I recall sitting on the hard bench next to Rhonda in the front of the church during her service, gripping hands with her so tightly I thought my fingers might fall off; but there was nothing else I could do, so I did it. We never talked much about Barb after that.

Following Barb's death, my parents made sure there was a "scholarship" available to Rhonda each and every summer to attend the same summer camp I attended, high in the Rocky Mountains. Rhonda's crafts were always so artistic. Her ideas for cabin time were always received with enthusiasm. And Rhonda met all the cute boys before any other girl in camp. I was the perfect side-kick, the quintessential Skipper to her ultimate Barbie.

We remained closer than sisters until the fall when Walt married again and the newly-configured family moved away. Soon there was a baby, but Walt was the one hitting the bottle. At the age of 14, Rhonda's childhood ended and she became the only responsible adult in the house, raising her new little brother when his mother "couldn't handle it anymore." We had no cell phones, no email or internet, no way of bridging the ever-widening gap between us. I went off to boarding school while Rhonda dropped out of high school; I attended college and graduate school while Rhonda dropped off the face of the earth.

I was able to track her down only once after that, and then, never again. It's almost as if she never was. Almost.

Except that I remember..., I remember: the bus, the bunkbeds, the beer in the shop, the bench at the church, the boys at camp; and, I remember the baby brother that needed her. Rhonda did what she did because it had to be done, and she was the only one of them who could do it. She didn't even appear to resist or resent them, so I resented them for her at first. Not anymore.

Now I merely wonder... where have all the flowers gone?