November 13, 2015: You never know when a good, hearty belly laugh with a friend will be the last one you will share. I said goodbye to a dear friend today. Ardelle was my probation officer. I rather enjoy saying that.
She had been in my life for as long as I can remember. She knew me as a joyful six-year old. She knew me as an angry, rebellious teenager. As an adult, she knew me as a friend.
Ardelle meant different things to me at different stages of my life. The most pivotal was likely the wise advocate and advisor to this chronic runaway. Last week, I was sharing stories with my sister, who also spent a bit of time in the Denney Youth Center. I told her that Ardelle was an adult I respected, at a time when I respected no other. My sister said it better. She said, “Ardelle respected US, when we really didn’t have it coming.” Amy was right … that undeserved, unwavering respect can change a person. After a time, you begin to believe it. You start to wish for better things from your life. The days unwind, the chrysalis opens, and eventually, if you’re lucky, you become the butterfly she saw in you all along.
I’m so glad I grew to be friends with Ardelle. We called ourselves the Beach Bums. The group of us would road trip it to the Oregon Coast. We’d walk on the beach, looking for sea glass and agates. We’d eat squirt cheese from a can. She’d challenge us to a balance-a-spoon on your nose competition at a Lincoln City beachside diner. We’d laugh. Laugh. Laugh. The kind of loud, raucous laughter that makes your belly hurt.
Ardelle was one of a kind. There won’t be another. Her presence was a glorious gift. But she isn’t really gone. She is a part of me, like she is a part of everyone she touched. Farewell, dear friend. Until we meet again …
