The first time I saw Carol was in New Jersey over 30 years ago. As I looked out the window of my new home, a tall, regal-looking woman walking her just-as-regal-looking dog caught my eye. I'd like to meet her, I remember thinking.
     Months later, the opportunity presented itself at the introductory meeting of a women's consciousness-raising group. "You walk the large, black poodle," I said, omitting any mention of spying on her from my bathroom window.
     As it turned out, only one house separated ours from each other. Two women in our mid-20's, raising young children, we became best friends. We took an exercise class together but often skipped it to eat egg salad sandwiches at the delicatessen. We spent hours at the park, solving the world's problems as our children played. With our husbands, we attended neighborhood parties, went out to dinner, and watched the Watergate hearings in my living room. A few years later, I returned to Minnesota and a full-time job. Carol began a career, also, and moved to Pennsylvania. We fed our friendship with long-distance phone calls. She visited Minnesota-freezing in January, melting in July. We met in Chicago.
     Carol called last month to say she'd be coming to Minnesota for a convention. "Stay here the last night," I pleaded. She agreed, but said to do nothing special. Clean sheets were all she needed. "Of course," I said, as my mind went back to the 1970's consciousness-raising group. At that initial meeting we had agreed to meet in each others' homes once a month. Other than provide snacks and beverages, we could do nothing special. Under no circumstances were we to clean before the meeting. After all, we were feminists.
     Luckily, my first turn to host the group would be weeks away. I bought a rug for the dining room and made drapes. We had just moved in, I rationalized; these things needed to be done, anyway. I dusted and vacuumed, and cleaned every nook and cranny.
     This behavior was repeated for Carol's recent visit. The guest bathroom got the new shower curtain we'd talked about since the painters left last November. Towels, too. The guest bedroom's comforter and dust ruffle went to the cleaners. Faded, worn sheets were replaced with 400 thread count Egyptian cotton. We rushed the Toulouse Le-Trec posters, purchased at Chicago's Institute of Art last summer, to the frame shop. They were hung the morning of Carol's arrival. I dusted and vacuumed, and cleaned every nook and cranny.
     We picked Carol up at the convention center Friday afternoon. After dinner, dessert, and some good wine, we headed home-and talked way past my bedtime. Saturday morning, still in our jammies, we drank coffee and talked some more. By the time we remembered to look at the clock, we had only ten minutes to get ready and out the door. She never even had a chance to check out the scoured shower in the guest bathroom.
     I want to ask Carol back for a visit ASAP. We should probably entertain her in the garage or the basement, two areas that could use some heavy-duty cleaning in every nook and cranny.
     The funny thing, though, is that it won't matter to Carol where we entertain her or how clean it is. As she's told me time and again, she doesn't visit to see my house, she visits to see me. Now, that's what I call a true feminist. And an even truer friend.