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• When I was 10 I met my friend's mom Terri. 
• When my mom died of cancer years later, she became my sounding board and took me seriously. 
• I've known her for 58 years now and appreciate her more as I grow older. 

We don't need institutional studies to know that having good friends makes us happier and healthier. And when we think of friendships, more often than not, we think of people who are generally around our own age.

But I've learned that intergenerational friendships, defined as those with someone at least 15 years older or younger, can be the most rewarding of them all.

One of my most unique and enduring, yet unlikely, friendships is with Terri, the 96-year-old mother of my lifelong friend, Kathy, which developed over the course of 58 years.

I was just a kid when we met

I was 10 when we met. She was a 38-year-old divorcée, singlehandedly raising her daughter in Riverdale, NY. Although she was my parents' age, she seemed hipper, perhaps because I could talk to her about subjects I would never bring up with my parents.

Along with her glamorous friends, she was emblematic of the swinging '60s — wearing stylish clothes and twisting to top 40 hits in her bathing suits at our building's swimming pool. She would give us money to buy ice cream and yell at us when we did cannonballs too close to her cabana, getting her just-coifed hair wet.

Six years later, when my own mother died from cancer, Terri gradually assumed the role of surrogate mother, becoming a non-judgmental sounding board. She opened my eyes to life's possibilities through stories about her travels to India, her days running with Frank Sinatra and his rat pack, and her work as a designer in New York's garment center.

Most importantly, she took me seriously and treated me like an adult, not just some neighborhood kid. She spoke softly and was accepting and encouraging.

She made room for me in her life

The daughter of Italian immigrants she always had a pot of sauce on her stove and a place for me at her table. Along with homemade panzerotti, she dished out advice, urging me to accept myself for who I was and not be deterred by life's setbacks. She instilled in me the belief that if I set my mind to it, I could achieve anything.

Years later, when my work transferred me to California, we shared tearful goodbyes. Despite the distance between us, we would speak at least once a week by phone, and since my job brought me back to New York regularly, our reunions were frequent. Those homecomings were always special — she'd whip up shrimp étouffée or osso buco, she and Kathy would get dolled up, and I'd take them out to fancy restaurants. We celebrated when I landed a job at a Hollywood studio and cried together as she silently sat vigil alongside me at my sister's deathbed.

I appreciate her more as I grow older

If I fail to call her, she rings me up and starts the conversation with "If you're busy I can call you back." Just four years away from her centennial birthday she is still a force of nature, still chic, and still venturing out to her lucky newsstand twice a week to buy lottery tickets.

The older I get, the more I appreciate her, perhaps because as I age, I realize that time is finite and precious.

Because it is, I recently told her how much she means to me. Being a sentimental soul, she cried. She has given me so much, and I've often wondered what I have given her in return. So, I asked her.

"You are the son I never had," she said. I could hear her getting choked up and didn't press her to elaborate on her feelings. I realized then that some things don't need to be said. The feelings of love we share speak for themselves. That may be the greatest lesson of them all.

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