“It came right out of his butt,” Nate said, his voice filled with awe.

He held out his hand and extended a forefinger in our direction.

“It’s still warm. And soft!”

There is was: an eraser-sized blob of brown, gooey squirrel poop, fresh from the squirrel perched on the branch of the tree forty feet over Nate’s head.

For the past fifteen minutes, while he jumped and flipped on the outdoor trampoline, Nate had been telling us it was raining squirrel poop. Here was proof.

Big Papa and I took a closer look at the poop as we sat nursing a glass of red wine. Warm sun hit our cheeks and sparkled on the fields of wheat growing off in the distance. We were visiting Walla Walla for three days, a much needed respite from the stress in our lives: a weekend of beautiful vistas, wine tasting, traffic free roads, and mornings where someone else makes the coffee.

That and time with close friends. Nate’s parents, Ben and Julie go back decades with Big Papa, back to the days when they all shared an apartment during college, back when Big Papa subsisted on beans and noodles and Nate wasn’t even a speck on the horizon.

During the six years I’ve been a part of Big Papa’s life, we’ve made four trips to Walla Walla together. On each trip we make sure to spend time with Ben, Julie and Nate. We might not see them frequently, but each time we visit, I am reminded of the role good friends have in our lives, particularly good friends who have a history together, who know things about each other that go without saying.

Big Papa wandered off for a bit to watch Ben dig a ditch on his day off for the new irrigation system to water their garden beds. Nate entertained all of us with his back flip prowess and Julie served wine and cheese while listening to our stories: an adoption gone awry, one sister with a serious illness, one mother with progressive Alzheimer’s, our seemingly endless litany of recent woes.

Then we all took off for a short walk across the fields behind their house to see how high the creek had risen. We poked around in an old barn and looked at owl pellets. We watched Tip, the dog, frolic and run.

Before we knew it, the sunshine began to fade and the chill in the air picked up steam. Red and orange lined the horizon and dusky blue crept into the edges of the sky. We headed inside.

Julie rummaged through the kitchen, looking for something to feed five for dinner. I felt guilty because we’d shown up without much warning and our impromptu visit had stretched on for hours.

“I’m sorry. Nothing’s here” she said as she offered up a plate of veggies to nosh on before we sat down at the table. Pasta and sauce followed for dinner.

Nothing here, I thought to myself. Why there’s everything here Big Papa and I need.

We spent the better part of an afternoon and evening laughing, trading stories and opening our hearts. We wiled away the hours in each other’s company. And now here we were sharing a meal with the best of friends. Hands down, that’s four stars in my book.

Friendships like this don’t fall from trees. They take years of careful cultivation, being there for each other through the ups and downs of life, listening to the stories of family members who’ve been sick or passed on, relationships, marriages, infertility, loss, wild toddler years, hopes, passions and dreams. A day like this day and friendships like this friendship are the exclamation point in life, the crème de la crème. Hot poop.