WHY I WANT AT LEAST ONE OF MY OLDEST FRIENDS TO BE AT MY FUNERAL

There's something about the friends you've had forever.

Your husband can't share your childhood. Your children can't share your childhood. Especially when your parents are gone, your siblings and old friends are your only links to where you came from.

Plus, they usually make you laugh. With wild abandon, and deliberate joy.  They make you feel complete.

My sister, Therese, dated the same guy all through high school and most of college.   He is the closest thing I'll ever have to a brother.  When they broke up, he and I didn't.   We've kept in touch over the last 45 years, through the good, the bad, and the just plain ugly.  We call each other every couple of weeks, just so we can hear each other's voices.  Voices never age.

(It's funny, but after my dad died, one of the things I missed most was hearing his voice. Even to this day, I struggle to remember it's tone and cadence.  I especially try to hear him laugh.  And just when I think I've got it, his voice floats away. like smoke in he wind).

Anyway, back to my sister's old boyfriend. When I asked him what pen name he wanted for this blog, he said "Trigger."  Perfect.

Roy Rogers' horse, Trigger, sold at auction recently for $266,500. The stuffed version, of course.  

When I heard this, what really struck me was that the sale price was not a nice, round number. Somebody really wanted Trigger. So they threw in the extra $500.  I understand.  My Trigger is priceless too.

Then there's Kathleen. We reconnected recently, after her career as a deep-undercover CIA agent in foreign lands.  If she told me what she'd been doing over the past 40 years, she'd probably have to kill me.

Both of our dads were blessed with a multitude of daughters, to the exclusion of sons.  So they made a pact to take annual father-daughter ski trips.

But first they had to teach all seven of us how to ski.

Nowhere better to learn than on a nearby bunny hill in Wisconsin. The problem was, the only way to get to the top of the hill was by towrope. Can you think of anything more asinine than asking a bunch of beginner skiers to grab onto a turbo-charged cable whizzing by at the speed of light? All while their feet are strapped onto long planks that immediately head in opposite directions when put in contact with snow.

(Check out the poor little guy in the picture who's next in line to grab the towrope and being"encouraged" (i.e. ) by his father.  Doesn't he look thrilled?  I remember the horror well.)

Kathleen and I joke that we must've gone through at least 1 million pairs of ski gloves learning to ride that towrope. We still remember the acrid smell of the glove leather burning into oblivion as we mustered up the courage to take hold of the circular pulley from hell.

Once we did make contact, it wasn't long before we were on our fannies, horrified, as the poor souls behind us started to pile up on one another.  To make things worse, when we fell, the electronic Spawn of Satan followed us to the ground and started buzzing furrows in our wooden skies (yes, wooden!).  We would've cried, but our eyes would've frozen shut.  Imagine trying to ride that back-breaking contraption blind!

Eventually, Kathleen and I would get back up and start the whole ridiculous "athletic" exercise over again. Sisyphus, call home.

Once all the daughters had tackled the towrope, our entourage made the inaugural six-hour road trip to Michigan, so we could hit the big "slopes."  We skied in -70 degree weather, and thought that frostbite was just another word for cold fingers.  That was long before Thinsulite.  Or common sense.

At night, we slept in luxury at the Royal Motel:

It's still in existence!   Each night, Kathleen would cover the front picture window of our room with blankets, then go sleep in the bathtub, just to get away from what the Royal Motel now refers to as its "vintage Route 66 neon sign."  But let's face it, back then we were on Route 15 in the frozen tundra of Michigan's Upper Peninsula, and the sign was still delightfully tacky.

Breakfast at the Royal Motel was no better. We had to put our sausage links on the dining room heating element, just so they would cook through.  That's what passed as health food in the '70s.

I'm sure you have friends you've known forever. I hope at least one of them will be at your funeral, to remind people of your youth.  And that you embraced ordinary childhood moments that made your life extraordinary.

Under neon lights, with your own Trigger.