I have a friend.

She used to smoke Camel unfiltered.

The first time I was to meet her, was an evening at a dusty Irish pub in Matunuck, RI. She goes there often to talk of town business, and hear family stories from friends. She always asks the question, “what in the hell do you think so-and-so was thinking?” Then she tells us the origin of the issue, usually one or two generations back. She is always right.

I was terrified to meet her.

My husband is like an adopted son, or maybe nephew, of hers. She had grabbed him into her family when he gave a necktie to her son at high school graduation. My husband had an extra tie in his pocket. He waited tables, and made people laugh.

Years later, my friend got my husband a job, and he is still rooted there. She does stuff like that. Now she invites us over for Christmas stuff, Birthday stuff and St. Patrick’s Day. She makes two pots of corned beef and cabbage, so everyone can eat some. Some is gluten free. It is all salty, and the carrots and cabbage are cooked just right.

She holds grudges, like nobody’s business. But only when someone hurts her feelings, bad. You don’t always know if this is happening because she is a bit gruff, with a voice rusty from years of smoking. She doesn’t smoke anymore. She put short plastic straws in her mouth for a year. Now she talks. She sees behind lace curtains. If you don’t know what this means, you don’t deserve to talk back.

I was scared to piss her off, even though we had never met and my husband hadn’t said any of this. Some other people would be there too. My husband and I were engaged at the time. I was getting rolled out.

Years later, when I was having a particularly bad breakdown. An overwhelmed mother, no sleep kind of crack up, she asked my husband what he was going to do, with this mentally sick wife. She always cut to the chase. He said he loved me. She nodded and we all carried on. Okay to be sick. I was chosen again. Thank God.

Another time, I was driving around town in circles, too anxious to land anywhere. The quiet voice within told me to go to her house. I should have. I could have rested there and been restored with tea and husky voice. Next time I will.

I know her family now. I know another adopted son. She took him in when he was a young guy, and now he is grown with two grown kids of his own. His wife died. She was a friend of my friend. They ate soup made with Rosemary together. She liked orange. Everyone misses her, and everyone gets together and celebrates good stuff and eats.

Now my friend’s sons and daughter invite us to stuff. By text. And they sometimes take naps in chairs after big meals while we are all together. Just like my family. We are all together. My friend did that. She absorbed us.

While my own family avoids events that take work, or lots of cooking, she makes them happen all year long. And she’s always mad at someone in the family. But they are always family. And, she forgives, or if she doesn’t forgive, she loves, and complains. It’s all good. And now, her family feels like my family. She did that.

My kids love to go to her house. She yells at them if they run around too much. She gives them books, “Grumpy Gloria” “The Old Lady who isn’t Afraid of Anything,” “How to Babysit a Grandma.”

Because of years working in restaurants, I usually can talk with anyone. “An extrovert” people say I am. They are wrong, they don’t know that. I am quiet and over-sensitive for real. But I can do it when I have to. Showtime.

I was anxious to meet her that night at the pub with stuff all over the walls, and townies standing around. I knew she would see me. For real. I don’t know how.

And she does see me. That’s the thing. She sees the whole crap smile I have up, the scared soul underneath, the mental problems and big desires. She makes me laugh, or says something that scares me a little but is true. She sees my bullshit too, and calls it out by insulting another person nearby for the Exact. Same. Thing. She’s kind to me like that. “What in the hell were they thinking?”  She is always on my side. She nudges people she loves.

When my husband and I married, she said to his mom something about being happy he found me. I was okay. I kind of knew it by then. I knew I could call her, even just to rant about something. Or worry about something. Sometimes we rant together. Town politics are yell-able. Family dynamics, worrying.

Back then, my soul told me she was a force. Stronger powers of destruction– and raising up– than nearly anyone else I know. She understands the underworld. She can breathe fire. She has deep pains at times, and deeper love. She knows belonging. She makes people belong. She can get hurt easily. She makes big families. She raises teenagers into adults. She teaches life. She is most kind to those who have been oppressed. She is older than most old souls. She likes good conversation and stories. Its an Irish thing. She swears great.

I sat in the dark wood booth. I ordered a hamburger. All the friends were light, and were coworkers water-c0oler complaining. They talked. I may have cracked a joke. I  was okay to marry her kin.

When I think of all the elders I want to be like most, I think of her. I tell others stories of what she has said to me, how she has taken in our young family as her own. How  she asks me. Very. Pointedly. to make her favorite dishes for her and teach her Instapot. She doesn’t hold back on telling me what is expected.

I’m honored to fulfill some requests. I want to fulfill more. She deserves it.

I think she forgives me when I miss something, or when I disappoint her. But she never says “it’s okay” when it isn’t. I always know where I stand. She is fearless like that. She is a woman, but she is not here to please anyone. She is here to make people a part of something, to make stuff right, to teach younger friends. The older ones usually piss her off at some point.

She goes to the hospital now and again: a stint, a surgery, a digestion problem, a broken foot. She says when this happens, “oh, I’m not doing so good.” Then, a month or two later, she plans something for 3 generations of family and friends. There are always new little kids invited to come along, to eat fruit cut up by Stop & Shop, a pot of good supper, and bread thick with salted butter. She drinks Vitamin water. There is Barry’s tea too. Someone brings dessert or she finds something really great. She bakes less than before.

Her house is normal. It is clean some days, and dusty on others. Her trash can is too small for all the stuff that gets chucked into it. She may not recycle. She has her boys help her with her new iPhones and computers. She figured out how to watch British shows from her Amazon subscription. Her little dog Nora used to pee on everything, so she just put pads down. She loves dogs. I know the name of her dog from 25 some years ago.

She asks little kids, “so what’s good?” And if they can’t answer, she worries about them later. She doesn’t want any of her people putting on airs. That is just plain stupid, even if you are smart. It is crap. You gotta know how to be with everyone. Accomplished or not, are you good? Her kids do that. They let us come over and be loud.

It’s my friend’s birthday this week. She’s turning 80. My husband says death is afraid of her.

Happy Birthday Jean Maguire.

I love you.