Editor's Column

by Allison Brandow

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Best Friends Learn
to Dance in Kitchen

Only one thing stands between my best friend and blue hair -- her boss. As soon as he gives in, Elizabeth will find a stylist to add color to her brown hair.

Elizabeth told me of this newest goal on New Year's Day as I dropped her off at her house. We had spent the night playing "Apples to Apples" with friends and watching "Ice Age" in my den.

She promised to dye only the tips or just to add highlights.

I gave her a disgruntled look. Then I tried to persuade her to be content with her hair. As usual, she would not change her mind. She argued, "I just get bored, and changing my hair is less dramatic than getting a tattoo."

With another dissatisfied look, I agreed. If she actually dyes her hair, our relationship won't change. I will just get to tease her more often.

Elizabeth and I met when we were 8 years old. One Sunday, 13 years ago, she walked into my church with her three brothers. A couple of months later, she joined our homeschool co-op.

I didn't expect Elizabeth to become a close friend. She lived 10 minutes away, which, I thought, was too far. My sister's best friend lived next door to us, and I prayed God would send me a friend like that.

Instead, He gave me more time with Elizabeth. At co-op, we hung out. She pulled me into games, and we learned together. Somewhere between ages 10 and 12, she grew from a co-op acquaintance to a frequent sleepover best friend.

The magnetism that brought Elizabeth and me together was our common interests. We both enjoyed reading, baking and watching movies. We both became journalists. We both loved God.

But our personalities should have driven us apart. Elizabeth planned nothing; I planned every detail of my future. She always needed to move and do things; I was content to sit and watch others. She talked and talked; I usually stayed silent.

Still, we became close friends. Eventually, I got her to think about plans a week ahead of time. Gradually, she pushed me to make noise and participate in activities. We balanced each other.

One night recently, Elizabeth and I decided to bake. We threw together some cupcake batter and added chocolate chips.

As I spooned the mix into a dessert pan, a voice from the CD player declared, "The measure of a man can be determined by the love in his heart and his ability to do the Chicken Dance."

Elizabeth laughed. We listened as "Adventures in Odyssey" character Wellington stepped onto the stage and reluctantly began to teach the Chicken Dance to the crowd.

I put down my spoon. "How do you do the Chicken Dance?" I asked Elizabeth.

Elizabeth showed me how to tuck my hands under my arms and flap them. Then Wellington told me to walk by bending my knees and jerking my feet back to touch my thighs. I started twitching my head forward and backward to imitate the incessant bobbing of a chicken's head.

We flailed around the kitchen, perfecting our movements. With each step, we looked more ridiculous; but since no stranger was watching, I didn't care.

Before meeting Elizabeth, I would have cared. Chicken-dancing in the kitchen would have been a huge no-no, even with no one watching.

From time to time Elizabeth and I drive up the hill in Oregon City to watch the city lights, talk and devour quarts of ice cream.

We laugh about the time we hosted a costume party at Christmas and dressed up as characters from "Clue." Elizabeth was Mrs. White and I was Mrs. Peacock.

We discuss our latest journalism projects and praise the perfection of Associated Press style.

We talk of our plans to wear wild colors when we get old, but not purple and red. We'll live in the same retirement home. We'll get dogs; mine will be a miniature schnauzer, and hers will be a Doberman pinscher.

Neither Elizabeth nor I completely understand why we are friends. I think God knew we needed to balance each other, and He wanted us each to grow stronger in our weaknesses. And, perhaps, He wanted us to learn the Chicken Dance.

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