This is my symphony

When my friends and classmates were reading Nancy Drew, Trixie Belden, and Bobbsey Twins in fifth grade, I turned up my nose at their lack of imagination. Pshaw! Why read about the same characters over and over? Now mind you, I often read the first book in a series–but after that, why bother? So yes, Anne of Green Gables–but not Anne of Avonlea. Or A Wrinkle In Time, but not A Wind in the Door. There were rows of books! shelves of books! that called out to me in my library. Series seemed so … lazy.

For nearly sixty years I was able to avoid series’ quite successfully. Until I couldn’t.

Last week I finished another book in the Thursday Murder Club series, and I couldn’t put it down. (Or figure out why I’d read the previous two!) You see, it’s not really my type of novel. I wouldn’t call the series literary reading (sorry, Mr. Osman …). The characters–if not exactly flat–are fairly stereotypical, the plots twists are more like gentle curves.Elizabeth and Joyce and Ron don’t struggle with stretching a pension or dipping into savings to replace a roof. Reality–at least my own–it is not.

And then I realized that for several years I have been budgeting out Armand Gamache and Maisie Dobbs and Flavia De Luce (series all) reading them when I most need a pick-me-up. My eleven-year-old self would have been appalled. But I’m not eleven anymore. I’m no longer part of the working world. I live alone. And choices I’ve made have circumscribed how I previously assumed my life would play out. So why do I find my life suddenly populated by Armand and Jean Guy and Ruth? With Maisie and Pris and Maurice?

Because, dear Reader, they’ve become friends. And what every person of a certain age needs are friends to return to again and again. Adult children are preoccupied with their own lives. I’m no longer anyone’s daughter; extended family is fractured. We live in a world that no longer weaves elders into the warp and woof of daily life, so a single like me isn’t folded into a neighbor’s barbecue as might have happened in the past. Even friends close the circle around family. Because times (and people) have changed.

Around the sixty year mark, I realized I’d made no new friends in years: work colleagues held that place, as did a husband and couple friends. Of course I’ve got my Ride or Dies. But let’s face it: at some point our group will begin to lose each other to illness, infirmity, or death. So I set out to nudge my friend account balance into the black: I joined the YMCA and chit-chatted in class; I sat in the hot tub and joined the conversation instead of remaining in my own bubble. I invited a neighbor for coffee. I made lunch dates after church meetings, and I started a book club–of strangers, no less!

Slowly but surely Barb and Melissa and Jill and Kathy and Leslie became part of my life–and are every bit as essential as Maisie and Armand and Flavia. I hope I’ll keep reaching out as I age–and that these new friends enrich my life like books in a series: to be continued …