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Teaworthy

Litigator, Mediator, Writer, Photographer

Originally from Kentucky, Tiffany discovered Skirt! while studying English literature at the College of Charleston and continued following Skirt! while in law school in Georgia. Now practicing law in Lexington, she is thrilled to be part of the Skirt! community where she blogs about being mom to a ...

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The More We Get Together The Happier We'll Be

Do you know that song? 

 It was locked away in my VBS (vacation bible school) archive circa 1982 until my daughter started singing it one day from her car seat as we slowly crept forward in after school traffic. 

“For your friends are my friends and my friends are your friends. The more we get together, together, together. Oh, the more we get together the happier will be.”  She sang it continuously in a loop.

It sounds like the sweetest world peace message from her three-year-old voice.

I was moved this week to hear about a friend of mine who is spending today, July 4th, in the hospital donating plasma to one of her dear friends. What moved me about it is that she will be the 201st donor in one week to come donate to this person who is battling TTP.   He is in a medically induced coma and I have to wonder about the moment when he awakens and learns that the blood of 201 of his friends and family is now pushing through his veins in a tangible way.  I love to imagine the faces of all of those people coming into his mind at the moment he reads the donor names.  I think of them stepping forward in his mind and taking a little bow and stepping back again.  I hope that he will feel overwhelming love in that moment. 

I wish we all had 201 friends who would be there in a week to donate to us – that we all cared for each other as though we had all been lifelong friends.  I know that it’s not possible. But I like to think of it anyway. 

My grandfather was one of those people who really loved his neighbor as he loved himself and would definitely be happy to stop by, give some blood, mow your yard, talk your ear off, have you over to watch IU basketball and make you a Coke float whether he knew you for 10 minutes or his entire life.

He frequently befriended people he had little in common with and didn’t seem to notice.  I remember he became very great friends with a doctor and his family who Grandpa recruited from the Philippines and soon my grandmother and Dr. Magbag’s wife were sharing recipes and sewing secrets.  I still remember Mrs. Magbag’s carmel drop candies that melted away on your tongue just quickly enough to make you reach for another.

Late in his life, in an Indiana community of 700, surrounded by dairy and corn farms, many Spanish speaking people immigrated to the community, taking jobs in agriculture.  Some of the community members were not welcoming, but Grandpa invited people over having no common language and they ate together, watched basketball and at the conclusion of the game, his guests would indicate a yawning gesture to tell him they were heading home.  I’m sure he talked non-stop from the time they walked in the door until they left, not noticing any language barrier at all.

To Grandpa, this was how it was to be.  His town was founded by immigrants.  His family immigrated. His wife’s family immigrated.  We are all immigrants. Your friends are my friends. My friends are your friends.

The more we get together, the happier will be.

Happy Birthday America.