Skipping at the Hanks’

 

 

 

My husband, Joe has known Tom and Linda Hanks for a long time.  They grew up in the same town in upstate New York, which is a very cold place.  Meanwhile, I grew up in Savannah, Georgia, which is a very warm place. The good news is that Joe and Tom and Linda had enough sense to move South, which made it easier for me to meet them.  

 

When Joe and I started dating, the Hanks became our first couple friends. And it’s now been close to ten years that we’ve remained friends despite our political differences, and the fact that Tom and Linda have much better taste in decor, attire, and especially cuisine as Linda is an excellent Italian chef, and I failed brownies as an ill-fated Home Economics major in college.

 

We’ve had some great times with the Hanks, but recently some tough ones, as most likely everyone else has.  I’ve had four eye surgeries and now contend with three pairs of spectacles and light-up magnifying glasses. Joe’s had shoulder surgery and a second knee replacement. 

  

But that's nothing compared to Linda’s almost lethal bout with appendicitis, and Toms near-death experience after being hit by a car while riding his bike, and the loss of their beloved dogs within just a few months of each other. 

And then, of course, there was (and is) the pandemic.  Although we fared better than many, like most people, we spent our days and nights afraid to go anywhere or to see anybody, or to cough in public, or God forbid, to sneeze behind our masks. But just recently, we poked our heads out of our long hibernation and took a risk.  Not a huge risk as each of us is triply inoculated, but still a risk. 

We went to the Hanks' for dinner, something we often did before the operations, before the near-death experiences, before the losses, before the thing that changed everything. 

We had such a lovely time.  We dined at their beautiful table, enjoyed Linda’s delicious cuisine and their well-paired wine, and laughed at Tom’s outrageous opining.   

And we skipped. 

What? 

  

Skipping like what you do to “my Lou”?   

Is skipping a new cure for Covid or a side effect of too much Moderna? 

The skipping happened because of something I noticed during one of the about a thousand football games Joe and I have watched this season. I noticed that players who score seem to skip a few steps in celebration, perhaps now that they can’t be over the top like in the good old days.  Just a couple of skip steps instead of a hearty throw down.  

 

That led me to thinking about the last time I skipped, which had to have been over 50 years ago.  Joe didn’t have to think about it because he maintained that he had never skipped.  During a commercial break, I tried skipping, and to my great sadness, I realized that I couldn’t.  My old legs and my old arms just didn’t have enough giddy-up.  I tried with my arms up, I tried with my arms down.  With a lotta jump and just a little.  Nothing worked.  Joe even tried, but, sadly, to no avail.  We decided to let it go.  We had to for our emotional health. 

But at the Hanks’, after dining on the delicious fare and drinking the exquisite wine, we tried again, as did the Hanks, all four of us gathered in their beautifully appointed foyer on their most-likely hand-dyed, hand-tied rug.  

Linda was the only one who actually managed a good skip.  I did a bit of hopping in place; Joe galloped; and we aren't quite sure what Tom did. 

But the moment was sublime.  We tittered.  We guffawed.  We laughed until we cried. 

It felt so good. We felt alive again, carousing in the foyer, spending time with good friends, feeling better about the future.  Looking forward to more fun, more trying new (and old) things. 

More life.