It’s a Wednesday in the spring of 2019.

I meet you in the parking lot and we walk in together. “We’ll sit at the bar,” we say to the host. At approximately 4:30 p.m., we assume our positions. You order a glass of the house Chardonnay and I spend entirely too long debating what to order from the sprawling menu. I finally decide on a glass of rosé and we order an appetizer (or three). The bartender brings us our drinks and we clink our glasses: “Happy Winey Wednesday!”

I nannied today, and you worked at an estate sale. We’ll be working together this weekend, you say, at the house over by where you used to live. I pepper you with questions about the home’s owner, the contents, and the plan of action for the sale. It always amazes me how much you know about antiques, and more importantly about people. Your ability to disarm and dazzle the characters you encounter with wisdom and a little bit of sass is so fun to watch. I hope I have some of that in me.

They’re always an adventure, our Wednesday chats. We talk over upcoming travel plans, our crazy work stories, the estate sales next on your calendar, our family. We share a salad and a pizza and our lives. During a year of much uncertainty (not knowing where I was going, what I was doing, all those fun things), this routine was a comfort to me. I could always count on Wednesdays to air our grievances. Lamenting about the state of the world over a plate of delicious fresh food is almost certainly a therapy technique.

I moved to Nashville, and we transitioned to virtual chats. Still just as memorable, but with an admittedly less exciting menu. It turns out, my meal kits are no match for delicious authentic pasta.

These days, I pick you up for Winey Wednesday. I don’t mind at all—think of all the places you drove me when I was little (and probably performing a looping chorus of screaming in the backseat about not wanting to be in my car seat, demanding ice cream, and are we there yet?). We chat on the drive about the latest and greatest: how long I’m in town, how long it’s been, what we are both working on lately.

We arrive and saddle up to the bar once again, ordering our usuals and settling in for a chat.  Our conversations are peppered with “Lulu-isms,” which are my favorite surprises. Your latest is deeply true: “We’re well past twists and turns, we’re on a spiral staircase.” In our time together you have taught me many lessons: the value of hard work, the importance of a sense of humor, the joys of running away to the beach, and how to create a meal from a hodgepodge of refrigerator leftovers.

But maybe most importantly you’ve taught me that everyone has a story that matters. Your work necessitates almost constant interaction with people, not all of whom are pleasant. The journey of preparing an estate sale is never dull, and you get a unique look into the behind-the-scenes of people’s lives. They, or their families, really have to trust you. And you never betray that trust.

The people you meet remember you, and you remember them. You make them feel seen, like their story is interesting and they matter. They may be different from you in every way, but you always find something you can learn from them.

I’m grateful to you and to Winey Wednesdays for this reminder. Oh, and the ever-important life lesson: to always order the tiramisu.

Olivia Harre

Olivia graduated from Calvin in May 2018 with a double major in business and writing. She now works as an editor in Nashville, Tennessee and is eating her way through the restaurants of her new town. She enjoys weekend trips with friends, petting other people’s dogs, and drinking coffee like a Gilmore Girl.