There was a hit song in the ’50s called “Mutual Admiration Society.” I can’t remember what year it was popular or who sang it. Matter of fact, the only thing I remember is its title, which is because it describes perfectly one of my favorite — and rarest — kind of relationships.

From time to infrequent time, I’ll meet someone I immediately spark on, and who I know has sparked on me. This is my Mutual Admiration Society friendship.

Of course, we all meet folks we have rapports with, but the MAS is unique, in that it eludes any clear, cogent description. Instead, it just IS. And wordsmith I’d like to think I am, I’ll leave it at that.

Something else about MAS’s: They almost never conform to relationship norms. In other words, they form between people who no one would think could ever be pals. There might be huge differences between the people — in age, in culture, in religion, education, you name it. But none of that makes no nevermind — you know from the get-go you’ve just made a pal — a pal you’ll always have. This describes to a T my relationship with Lorraine LaValley.

I met her over 25 years ago, on the road to Tupper Lake — literally. A few days before, I’d dropped my car off in Vern Friend’s garage and had hitched home. Now, the repairs done, I was hitching back and my last ride had dropped me off at Middle Saranac.

About me and hitchhiking: In my Gildfed Youth I hitched a lot, sometimes for months at a time. In all honesty, I’ve hitched over half the U.S. and did it long enough to learn The Commandments of Hitching.

The First Commandment is thou shalt get rides from people like you. If they’re not in your demographic, forget it. So as I stood on the shoulder of Route 3, thumb out, vacuous smile on my mug, I expected I’d get picked up by a solo guy in an old car.

Imagine my surprise when a spanking new SUV pulled over and stopped. And imagine my further surprise when I opened the door and there behind the wheel was tiny woman of “a certain age.” She was the exact opposite of who, according to TCoH, would be picking me up.

We introduced ourselves and since she was a longtime Tupper Laker, I immediately launched into my Tupper Lake credentialing process: “Do you know Rene X? You do? Great guy. His wife’s a real doll too.” And on and on and on, Old Man River at his best.

I remember none of our convo after that, except she was a hoot. She was fun, funny, friendly and sharp as a tack. Then, far too soon, she dropped me off and we went our separate ways — at least in person, because in some way, she was now in my life. Of course, my next column was about my trippy TL trip and the newest member of my MAS.

Because we lived such separate lives, over the years, we rarely ran into each other. But when we did, I always had a great time shmoozing with her … and I think she did as well.

Then a couple of years ago, I established a once-removed contact with her through her daughter Donna.

She and her husband Tom are, like me, Sunday morning Cavu-a-holics, so almost every week, along with my b’fast I’d get the latest news on her mom. Even better, Mrs. LaValley frequented Cavu too, so I’d see her there from time to time, most recently, this past winter.

A few weeks ago, Donna told me her mom’s health was failing. It was something I heard, but which for obvious reasons, I also dismissed. Then last week, sadly, Mrs. LaValley’s obit appeared in the Enterprise.

On Monday I had the sorrowful task of going to Tupper to pay my final respects.

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Wet … but hardly wild

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The funeral was at 11 o’clock and I swore I’d get there on time. But in typical Dopey fashion, I left my house behind schedule … and behind the eight-ball as well.

Then, just as I started the car, I realized I’d left my umbrella in the house. And while the weatherman had called for rain, there’d been only a small sprinkling so far. Let’s face it, I thought to myself, weathermen aren’t prophets; the best they can do is make educated guesses. I put the car in gear and took off.

Unfortunately, by the time I was halfway to Tupper, the weatherman’s guess wasn’t just educated — it was spot on: The rain was pouring down. And by the time I got to the church, it was sheeting nonstop, monsoon style, looking like something out of a disaster movie.

I pulled into the parking lot in back of the church — the only one with an empty space — and tried to work out a strategy for getting in the church without getting drenched. Of course, there was no strategy for that. Twenty years ago, I would’ve sprinted to the church. Now, the best I could do was limp across the lawn at a snail’s pace (and a limping snail at that). By the time I got in the door, I wasn’t soaked — I was waterlogged. I sat in a small pew on the side of the church, in a puddle of my own making.

The service was lovely, from the readings, the music, the liturgy, to the singer’s gorgeous voice. But as much as I wanted to pay attention, something kept distracting me. It was a weird smell. It was faint at first, but got stronger by the minute. Finally, I figured it out: It was the smell of wet dog. I looked around for a service or support dog, but saw none.

I looked some more … and some more … and suddenly it dawned on me: It was me! I was the wet dog!

Or more exactly, my too-thick, wool sport-coat-cum-sponge was. And there wasn’t a thing I could do except sit there and take it … and hope no one else would.

The eulogy was given by Mark Moeller, husband of Mrs. LaValley’s daughter Susan. He did a great job and told an anecdote that showed perfectly what a pip Mrs. LaValley was.

She’d given Mark a big envelope and told him to give it to Susan after she died. In it were six other envelopes, one for each grandchild. After Mrs. LaValley passed away, Mark gave Susan the envelope.

And her gave her something else as well — a near-heart attack. For when Susan opened the envelope and looked in, looking back, in a manner of speaking, was a dead mouse. Freaking and shrieking (as Mrs. LaValley knew she would), Susan tossed the envelope across the room and tried to regain her breath … and some of her dignity).

But how’d the dead mouse get in there?

Because it wasn’t one, that’s how. Instead, it was a plush mouse — the mischievous Mrs. LaValley’s goof from the grave. And as a follow-up, Mark said that mouse was now resting at peace itself … in Mrs. LaValley’s coffin.

It was a lovely, heartfelt, and upbeat note to leave us with — the balm of Gilead, if you will.

After the service I went to say my goodbyes and when I approached Donna, she started to give me a hug. I stepped back. I was still soaked, and even worse, still smelled like the doggie blanket in the back of my car. On the other hand, I didn’t want to appear standoffish. So I compromised, gave her a big hug, and then explained the story behind me and my new cologne — Eau du Chien Noye’.

Being the sport she is, she got a big laugh out of it.

When she finished laughing, she said, “I know my mother is looking down right now and you made her smile.”

Traditionally, angels are there to protect us.

But if in return I made an angel smile– especially that angel — it was the perfect transaction.