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鈥淒o you know that one?鈥� Nancy asks, as she and Martha engage in light gymnastics in their sensible sandals, imagining a series of elastics between their legs, like cat鈥檚 cradle.

They鈥檙e standing here because Martha thought it would be neat, 70 years later, to walk back to school. So she wrote to the Star, not telling Nancy about that part until it was a sure thing. Martha is spontaneous like that.

鈥淚 said, 鈥榃haaaat?鈥欌�� Nancy recalls, the more cautious of the two.

鈥淵ou don鈥檛 jump into the fire,鈥� Martha says with a laugh.

As the streets fills with convoys of adults, children and dogs, the old friends walk by the brick homes that have the same bones but slightly different faces than they remember. One belonged to a veteran who built a bomb shelter in the basement. Another was home to the boy who gave Nancy her first kiss.

Martha leans into one front yard, running her fingers through the wet grass. This is the yard of four-leaf clovers that made them late for lunch. None today.

They have umbrellas for this walk, but Martha doesn鈥檛 remember it raining in her memories.

鈥淲ell, it must have,鈥� Nancy says, laughing.

They walked this route four times a day 鈥� in the morning, back and forth at lunch, and in the afternoon. Nancy was the shyer of the two, and Martha was good for her. They were teens in the 1950s with rolled-up jeans and curls, singing in the church choir 鈥� Nancy a soprano, Martha an alto. Nancy wore glasses. Martha wanted glasses so badly. Nancy was taller, but wished she were Martha鈥檚 height.

In the 1960s, Martha travelled the world while Nancy was changing diapers. 鈥淪he always wanted to hear what I had to say,鈥� Martha says.

鈥淲e were just a phone call away,鈥� Nancy adds.

They play bridge once a week, celebrate their May birthdays together, and go for coffee at the midpoint between their homes, a Tim Hortons in a plaza near Victoria Park Ave. and the 401. Martha takes cream and sugar, Nancy takes two sweeteners, and they talk in endless waves, about current events, grandchildren and old times. They only have to say 鈥渞emember when,鈥� and the events replay in their minds like a film.

Their four-hour chats have led to run-ins with municipal parking authorities. Martha plans to fight the latest ticket in court; Nancy paid already.

鈥淭his is the difference with us,鈥� Nancy explains. 鈥淚 said the heck with it.鈥�

Separately, each woman gives a near-identical answer about the other: She listens, she never judges, she helps me. She is reliable, she is kind. I can tell her things I couldn鈥檛 tell anybody else.

When Nancy鈥檚 mother became ill, Martha visited her in the hospital, and she looked in on Nancy鈥檚 dad after she died. Nancy drew strength from Martha鈥檚 kindness. And Nancy has always been there for Martha, too.

鈥淪he鈥檚 just been . . . she鈥檚 my rock. You know, you talk about wings 鈥� what鈥檚 that Bette Midler song? That鈥檚 how I think of Nancy,鈥� Martha explained on the phone before the meeting. 鈥淪he just knows when to say things. There鈥檚 another song 鈥� 鈥榊ou鈥檝e gotta know when to hold 鈥檈m.鈥� 鈥� Yes, 鈥淭he Gambler.鈥� She鈥檚 the epitome of that, too.鈥�

They stand on the steps of their old school as high-pitched voices float out the windows. Inside these walls in 1945, their kindergarten class played a get-to-know-you game. Nancy Wylie had her hair in braids and 鈥渁 pretty smile.鈥� Martha Colby had a short, fuzzy perm and was just 鈥渟o cute.鈥� They didn鈥檛 roll the ball to anyone but each other. They have never looked back.

鈥淪ome of these kids we saw today 鈥� maybe they鈥檒l meet their best friend,鈥� Nancy says, before we say goodbye.

Then they walk down the street for coffee, lost in conversation. Seventy years later, there is still so much to say.