To my surprise, I recently came closer to my goal of visiting all 50 states.

Arkansas and Mississippi were not on my immediate horizon – and then a close friend died. He was an Arkansan whose career had taken him around the country and now he was going home. This was not how I intended to shorten my list.

I first met Michael and his wife, Leslie, when they moved in next door to us in Warren in 1991. Their large, brick, turn-of-the-century house had begun life as the Methodist manse. We lived in an old Victorian next door and we shared a driveway, a common occurrence in Warren’s historic old town.

I got to know Leslie in that driveway and our backyards. Their children were 7 and 4, and within the year, their “Yankee Baby” was born. We were thrilled to have a younger family next door, as our teenagers were at the other end of childhood. Our daughter was at college, and our high school-aged son, Bart, was the perfect next-door babysitter. The children loved their crazy fun-filled nights with him, and the feeling was mutual.

The four years that Michael and Leslie lived next door were magic. In getting to know them, we learned many southern expressions and customs, and Leslie made world-class pralines. A New Englander and a western New Yorker, we had no trouble finding common ground with these soft-spoken neighbors. Michael and Tom loved discussing politics, history, and the military. And although we were almost a generation apart, our priorities, goals and family values truly bonded us. It was with heavy hearts that we allowed them to leave our side yard when a promotion took them to Tennessee – the first of nine more career moves.

Michael and Leslie took time from their busy lives to attend Bart’s teenage celebrations. Later, they traveled from Tennessee to share his graduation and commissioning week at the Naval Academy in Annapolis. We had become extended family, so it was with deep sadness that I learned Michael had died.

This past weekend, Leslie brought him home to his siblings and their family homestead in Lake Village, Arkansas.

I flew into Little Rock and had planned on renting a car for the 2¢-hour drive to Lake Village, but guardian angels were waiting in the wings.

Two lifelong friends of Leslie’s from the University of Arkansas (Go Razorbacks!) were driving through Little Rock to attend the memorial. Wanting to be helpful they told Leslie, “It’s no trouble for us to pick her up. Let us take care of that for you.” A true gift for Leslie. And especially for me.

The drive from Little Rock quickly rolled out into flatlands, which proved to be the landscape for the next two hours. But it was more interesting than I thought possible.

The endless farmlands, which I later learned later were locally owned farms of hundreds or thousands of acres, stretched to the horizon on both sides of the road. I saw miles and miles of soybeans, feed grain and, for the first time, cotton.

I was struck by how pretty it was, my eyes comparing it to enormous flower beds. Scattered cotton bolls twirled whimsically along the roadside. Huge rolled bales of the white crop were stacked, wrapped in hot pink or aqua, awaiting transport to the cotton gin. I thought as we sped by that I’d need a different kind of gin if I were responsible for all this land and farming equipment.

Tiny Lake Village, Arkansas offers very limited accommodations for visitors. So, I took my two sleeps in Greenville, Mississippi, just on the other side of Old Man River. Michael’s family took turns fetching and delivering me.

The family and friends of a lifetime came to Michael’s boyhood home from near and far. The warmth and respect accorded the family was palpable from everyone who hugged, signed the guest book, and shared the barbecue. Even this Yankee interloper was welcomed with sincere kindness.

Losing our treasured Michael and reconnecting with dear Leslie, has also been an important life lesson. Leslie and I spent Sunday night in Little Rock and talked ourselves hoarse. We two old friends had no trouble reconnecting or bridging the years of separation. The ties that bind us are tight.

More and more, I realize that good friendships are not only important for personal happiness, but for our mental health, our feelings of well-being.

When Leslie visits me next summer, we’re going to explore checking off some more destinations. Maybe she hasn’t been to Montana or Wyoming either.

Marcy O’Brien lives in Warren, PA with her husband, Dear Richard, and Finian their Maine Conn cat. She can be reached at Moby.32 @hotmail.com.