CONTENTS UNDER PRESSURE: SAYING HELLO, GOODBYE HARD LESSON IN FRIENDSHIP

I was on my way to work one morning and noticed a boy, about 6 or so, rollerblading in the street. He called out "Hey!" to another boy, maybe 11 or 12, hurried up to him and asked if he wanted to play.

Then the negotiations began. The older boy wanted to know what grade the younger one was in, what he liked to do and so on.

I missed the outcome. Maybe they started racing up and down the street, maybe the older one said, "No way," and pedaled off. Maybe a younger brother came out.

Friendship is pretty straightforward when you're 6. You just ask someone if they want to be your friend. Or if you're really little, you stare at each other until your mothers get the idea and set up a play date.

You get older and you learn some people will say yes and others will say no, and the more you learn about people the less willing you are to just walk up and ask, "Will you be my friend?"

Remember the first day at a new school? Remember wondering who you'd sit with at lunch, and that sick feeling when you realized you'd probably have to sit by yourself?

That sick feeling is why I don't go to high school reunions. I don't want to relive my childhood, thank you very much; I prefer to just continue it.

The first friend I remember making was Kevin. We were both 4 years old and lived three houses apart.

I have no idea where Kevin is; his family moved away in junior high and we grew up and apart. That's the other thing about friendship. Sometimes you outgrow whatever it is that brought you together. Sometimes you outgrow yourself.

My friend Julie, who designs jewelry (whatever you do, don't call her Jules, or Jewels; she gets really huffy) sent me a pendant a few months ago. It's very simple, a nugget of rose quartz (my birth stone) wrapped in sterling silver wire.

Last month she called me and told me she's dying. She has terminal cancer, and her doctors say she has a few months to live.

"What am I supposed to do with that?" she asked me. "A few months? What does that mean?"

And of course, I had no answer for her. What does a few months mean when you've fought the disease off and on for the last decade?

When someone you love dies, you spend a lot of time remembering details, every quirk, everything they ever said to you, everything that makes them real people, not just memories or characters in a story.

Julie reads plays, listens to classical music and the Beatles, hates fish and rearranges all her sandwiches so the layers are in the right order. She does not wear skirts or dresses and thinks pantyhose are a symbol of the oppression of women in Western culture. She knows how to drive, but won't because it scares her. She makes me laugh, and laughs at my jokes.

We met in a record store when we were both reaching for the last copy of a Crosby, Stills and Nash tape. Some new friends and I went to their concert Saturday night, and it wasn't until they played "Ohio" that I remembered meeting Julie. The audience was chanting "Four dead in Ohio," and suddenly I heard Julie arguing that since she actually remembered the Kent State incident, she should get the tape. She did and sent me a copy.

I've worn the pendant she sent me almost every day since I found out she was sick again. It doesn't really go with office clothes, but that's all right.

Neither does Julie.

~Peggy O'Farrell is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.