There was a screened-in patio in the back of the driveway, three doors up the street from my house. I rode past it every day, and I would pause to gawk at the reddish wooden structure. One day a woman emerged from the enclosure, gardening hoe in hand, and said, "Hello, what's your name?"

I replied, "I'm not supposed to talk to strangers."

She said, "I'm not a stranger. I'm Mary Winkelman. What's your name?" I told her my name, and she said, "Pleased to meet you. I've seen you ride by on your bike almost every day for quite some time now."

I said nothing.

She said, "Would you like to come in for a cookie?"

I said, "I'm not supposed to accept cookies from strangers."

She said, "Well, we're not strangers. I'm Mrs. Winkelman, so now we're acquainted. Would you like to come into my patio and have a cookie?"

I visited Mrs. Winkelman once a week for the next twelve years. She marked my annual growth on a 2x4 in her patio enclosure with a pair of garden shears. When I was 18 years old, I went to announce tearfully that I would be leaving for college. She said, "Well, that's all right. You can come visit me on your breaks from school. I'll be fine." Her husband had died, and I had attended my first funeral; her son had stopped visiting regularly; her fungal issue in her fingernails had become severe.

Nine years later, I brought my fiancée to meet her. I rang the doorbell. She opened the door, and looked at me in confusion. I said, "Hi. Do you remember me?" She said, "Oh! Yes, of course. I haven't thought about you at all."

I could never remember when her birthday was, except that she had always said it was on Maryland Day. Still, in the days before the Internet and palm pilots, discovering the date of Maryland Day was just too much of a nuisance. But my parents, in their wisdom, always sent her a birthday card on Maryland Day. And she always sent my parents a Christmas card.

And then my parents moved away from that street. Yet Mrs. Winkelman kept up with the change of address, and the Christmas cards continued. Until one year, when they didn't. My parents had calculated that she must have been 96 years old, based on comments she had made about her age over the years.

I will always remember the day that I sat in her screened-in porch, and neither of us could think of anything to say, and I was embarrassed and remarked on the awkward silence. Mrs. Winkelman explained, "Being able to sit in silence and enjoy each other's company is a sign of true friendship."

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