The League of Old Ladies

My mother had a group of incredibly dear friends.

The League of old Ladies (the LOL’s for short), as we called them.

They worked together at a tiny, but mighty church charity shop. Monday and Thursdays for years.

Two days after she died, my daughter and I snuck in through the volunteer entrance.

Here they were, my mother’s beloved team, drinking tea, eating cake, working and chatting.

Getting on with it.

When they saw me they swarmed with hugs, lots of words, lots of tears.

“You were so important to my mother,” I said.

“We loved her,” they said.

One told me she’d spoken to my mother just hours before she died. The contents of a conversation I hold like a ruby in my heart.

“And listen, we can tell you what she wanted at her funeral…”

Because of course they could.

Because they also baked casseroles, sang hymns, held hands, buried each others’ beloved, and their own beloved members.

The getting on with it was something they’d been practicing for years.

I left them an hour later with an entire service written out in the beautiful looping cursive no one can do any more, and the stern instruction “don’t let them talk you into to hymn #56, your mother thought that was too showy for a funeral.”

Last night I ate dinner with MY LOL’s — women who’ve been meeting for 23 years of Wednesdays.

In the early days of our 20’s, we were just an excuse for a mid-week beer.

Nobody is twenty-anything anymore.

Over the past decades, there have been break-ups, marriages, babies, miscarriages, new homes, promotions, health issues, kid issues, marital issues, job issues, money issues, and death.

And we are sitting together getting on with it. Lucky mom. Lucky me.

Each of us goes through this life alone (but I’m so grateful for the company).