Friend leaves a lasting impression

If you look closely at the palm of my right hand you’ll see a very distinct crescent-moon shaped scar.

It’s actually the shape of a fingernail – Denise Vargo’s fingernail to be exact.

The first time I saw Denise she was riding a twowheeler. I was in front of my house and saw her up the street at the corner riding her bike with her dad right beside her. It was the summer of our 6th birthday – Denise turned 6 in May, I was about to hit that milestone in a month. And there she was, darn it, riding a two-wheeler, and if Denise Vargo was riding a two-wheeler, then gosh, I wanted to too. So, that day, I learned to ride my sister’s Schwinn.

A few years later Denise and I would form a friendship that taught me more than she ever knew. She impacted my life, probably more than she ever realized. And our friendship always reflected the day I saw her riding the bike – she led by example, and I was happy to follow.

I had the opportunity not too long ago to tell her how much her friendship meant to me when we were kids – but, as what happens when someone dies – I don’t think it was enough. I’m afraid she died without realizing just how much her friendship during those young years helped shaped me – in very good ways — I think.

Once Denise and I decided to join forces in the 4th or 5th grade, well, we were together just about every day – through school days at St. Patrick’s to summer days and nights in the North End.

There were about 4 places you could find Denise and me when we were kids – Logan Square, Rittenhouse, her house or my house. We spent our summer days wandering through Sears, Blocks, Woolworth’s, Ice City – always stopping at Baskin-Robbins for the free taste or Betty Kent’s for 5 cents worth of Spanish peanuts. We thought we hit the jackpot when we discovered we could buy stationary items at Blocks for cheap, and then we’d go back to my house with our bargains and pretend we were running an office.

There’s probably not an inch of Logan Square that we didn’t hit — and each store offered its own magic. Sears — the music department featuring the latest hits and of course the clean ladies room that had a cool sitting area; Blocks (see above regarding bargains); Woolworth’s – toys, especially Duncan Butterfly Yoyos and always great stuff for Halloween costumes; Ice City – Christmas decorations in the winter, pools filled with heavily chlorinated water and floats in the summer; even the parking lot – snow forts in the winter, unobstructed bicycle riding in the summer (the Blue law was still in effect).

I remember like it was yesterday the first time I tasted Sicilian pizza. Denise and I stopped in Via Veneto’s (Vio’s, actually) when the pizza shop was at its first location, between Penn Fruit and PSFS in Logan Square. Denise and I never had “square” pizza before – so, when we learned you didn’t have to buy a whole pie, that you could get a single slice — we were determined to broaden our horizons. We got our pizza, went around the side to a ledge on the side of Penn Fruit, and on the first bite, we were hooked. And not just on the pizza – it was a moment of total freedom – the realization of what it felt like to be independent, in charge of your own fate because we did this on our own – at that moment we were not dependent on adults for pizza or anything else. Yes, all that from a piece of Sicilian pizza. It was one of these Logan Square adventures — we were probably in 5th or 6th grade — that I learned what a moral compass was, without knowing what a moral compass was. We cut through Woolworth’s to get to Hardees (which was where Dunkin’ Donuts now stands), and once we sat down with our sodas (bought with the money we got for trading in soda cans we found at Rittenhouse) I pulled a little bottle of nail polish out of my pocket. I proudly showed Denise with a “look-what-cool-thing-I-just-did” grin. She picked up the bottle, stood up and said “Let’s go.” I asked where we were going, and she

said, “Back to Woolworths and you’re going to put this back.” I argued that I had gotten away with stealing it, but I might not get away with it if I put it back.

“Well,” she said, “you shouldn’t have taken it in the first place. You don’t even wear nail polish.” So, I put it back, and never stole another thing.

That’s when I learned that it felt a whole lot better to do the right thing than it did do something selfish and stupid.

As the teenage years encroached on our childhood – we did a bit of growing up and learning. Well, Denise did the growing up, and I tried to learn. Denise

tried like heck to teach me to roller skate — to this day, whenever I hear “Proud Mary,” (Denise thought the rhythm of the song would help me) I think of Denise and me on the top parking lot of Sears on a Sunday (remember, the Blue law), her encouraging and advising me, me falling on my butt every time. We spent hours on her front lawn with her trying to show me how to do a cartwheel. After what seemed like 8 hours (which was probably really just 30 minutes), I convinced her it was useless, and honestly, I don’t need to know how to do a cartwheel both finally gave up and played Seven Stars.

Logan Square was the break we’d need from Rittenhouse (Junior High), where we spent hours on

the basketball court. As a 2-man team we were just about unstoppable in pickup games. She was the defensive specialist, I was the gunner. The only team that we couldn’t beat was the force of Kevin Shields and Phil McKenna (St. Pat’s best boy athletes, and I say — humbly — that Denise and I were the best girl athletes) — so we’d have to mix up the teams just to make the game competitive (Kevin, see what I did there?). It was during one of those games that Denise blocked my shot and stabbed me with her nail. She felt terrible – but I didn’t care that she drew blood – I was more annoyed that she blocked my shot.

As what sometimes happens – life pulled Denise and me in different

directions. Each year, we took steps farther apart, but in good ways. She forged her path and I forged mine – and occasionally those paths crossed. Each time they did, I grew more convinced that I couldn’t have had a better best friend during those growing-up-years.

I saw and talked to Denise more in this past year than I had in a while. When my husband died, I went to her for the flowers. We stood in her shop, Sunflowers by Denise, as my sister and sister-in-law talked — I looked at Denise and just said, “I’m a widow,” and she flew around the corner and hugged me — almost willing her strength into me.

A few weeks later she called me to see how I was doing. And she called

several more times, just to check on me.

It was during one of those calls I told her how much I appreciated growing up with her, and how much her friendship meant to me.

As I’m writing this, I flashing on so many memories that it’s staggering – trick or treating through the neighborhood (homemade costumes always designed by Denise), playing pickle block while walking to Louise Eckert’s house to go to basketball practice; Denise’s mom driving us down to St. Pat’s for volleyball practice; going door-to-door selling candy as a fundraiser for school; memorizing prepositions at my house and doing a science experiment at hers; playing badminton in her backyard while her dad

struggled to light the grill for a July 4th picnic; going to visit her grandmother in Swedeland (or Swedesburg?) and buying fresh baked rye bread in the bakery, then going back to her house where Mr. Vargo made us bologna on rye sandwiches.

And I think back to that day when I first saw Denise Vargo – the little girl on her big 2-wheeler – the little girl who would grow up to have such a positive, wonderful influence on her first-ever friend – who was – I absolutely am sure – the first in a long line of friends that Denise embraced.