Maybe it’s different now, what with parents arranging “play dates” and similar activities. But when I was a kid, these things (looking back on them now) seemed to develop haphazardly, utterly by chance, with friendships forming and disappearing like condensation on the inside of a window…
I have dim memories of my very first friendships, because those boys moved away within a year of my meeting them. (I remember, specifically, a name — Craig Brashear — although I’m not sure of the spelling, and no longer recall if he was the one who lived on Walnut Street or the one who lived on… was it Edgewood Avenue? Oakford? Craig, are you out there?)
But I do have specific memories of my friend Ron: I think he was the first one I started hanging out with on my own, rather than as a mob of boys who’d gather (say) in the Clipsham family’s side yard to play football.
Over the course of the years, Ron, his sister, and their parents lived in a variety of places around our small hometown. The one I remember best was a three-story half of a white-clapboard side-by-side duplex; Ron’s room was on the third floor. One reason this house stands out in my mind was its location: across the street from our elementary school, and right next to — I mean, like, mere yards from — the town’s one firehouse.
(A partially fictional memoir I wrote of those years said — completely non-fictionally — “you never knew when the siren would go off, interrupting your ponderous discussions about life and television by stopping the beating of your tiny heart. [I] thus always had the feeling, at Ronnie’s house, of skittering close to the edge of panic.”)
And I remember, specifically, a conversation with him on the front step leading up to the porch of that house.
It was October, 1962; Ron and I were both 11 years old at the time, in Miss Pearson’s sixth grade. We were not discussing, ponderously or otherwise, the World Series that year (Yanks vs. Giants, the former — of course — winning). Also not on the agenda: Johnny Carson’s taking over The Tonight Show (we couldn’t stay up late enough to care); the release of the Beatles’ first EMI single, “Love Me Do” (the, uh, beetles? huh?); James Meredith’s registration at the University of Mississippi (that was in the Deep South, and everybody knew that might as well be another planet); our growing fascination with certain suddenly-willowy girls (the same ones we’d been ignoring for six years, practically our whole life); or… well, or much of anything else.
No. What weighed on our tiny hearts that fall day was the Cold War, and the — obviously impending — destruction of the United States (specifically Philadelphia and our little town) by nuclear missiles launched from Cuba.
Somehow, we’d picked up on the national nervousness — who knows how. Newspapers, TV news, parental conversation (probably muted and thus of special interest to curious little ears). Whatever its source, we were sort of freaked out. We discussed, earnestly, the odds that our town (population less than 5,000) might contain targets of potential military and/or economic importance, and if so whether the first to go would be the cardboard-box manufacturer, the scenic riverfront, the railroad bridge over the creek…
Ron was the first friend with whom I had this sort of talk — talk about things we’d be embarrassed to bring up at school or the dinner table. And he continued to be this sort of friend for years.Over time, we each acquired other friends. By the time we graduated from high school, we were still friendly when running into each other but our lives (our words, the beating of our tiny hearts) no longer intertwined. As adults, I moved away from that town and Ron didn’t. I’d hear word about him from time to time, and he continued to touch my family who still lived there.
(In the mid-1980s, Ron was on the town’s Board of Education at a time when my mother worked there as a school secretary. Throughout the two years while my father was dying of cancer, Ron ensured that Mom suffered no penalties for extended periods of absence. For that kindness alone, I’ll always think of him as one of my best friends.)
Imagine my delight when I got a Facebook “friend request” from him, just a couple of weeks ago. Although I’d hesitated to respond to some people from those days, Ron got an instant acceptance. I checked his profile, saw his email address, watched as he started to post family pictures of his wife and daughters and grandkids (and commented on one photo of his parents and Ron, probably around age 3 or 4). I pulled out the memoir I mentioned above and looked it over, thinking he’d get a kick out of the passages applying specifically to him and his parents, especially his dad. (Other friends are mentioned by name in it — all of them first name only. But only Ron had a section which was about him almost as much as about me.)
Ron died the other day. I don’t know for sure, but I’m told he was mowing the lawn, and just, well, died. Through Facebook I located his wife, and from her I learned that he’d been able to retire early a few years ago. He’d been working part-time at a local golf course, so managed to enjoy plenty of free golf during that time. He loved gardening, she told me — a fact which likely would have surprised the 11-year-old Ron as much as it surprises me now.I hadn’t seen him in person for over 20 years, but I could see him in my mind’s eye even unaided by school and yearbook photos. I like to picture Ron and me still sitting on his front porch, earnestly discussing worrisome impending disasters.
And although your mind knows it can happen any time, sometimes, when you’re least prepared for it, the siren goes off.
Jules says
Oh my. I’m so sorry. That’s very sad.
But this is a beautiful post.
fg says
Dear John,
This post, this morning about Ron has quite moved me. He was obviously a dear friend and even though years passed he still did right by you. My best wishes.
Facebook is a funny business – I have a love/hate relationship with it but am slowly finding it surprisingly good for occasional, wonderful connections with old friends and far away friends – especially their photographs.
Re the little conversation with my father – I have looked it up and well, it is not quite the same point but it is I think an illustration of the emotional inexperience of youth. I had mourned animals dying on the farm where I was brought up but thats not my point. I feel sure that the energy of youth doesn’t allow fear of death as adults do. (a highly debatable point I realise and I am sure we all have our differing thresholds) Anyway let me know what you think… (I love it that you enjoy replying to comments.)
‘…Now as an “oldie” I cry watching films. My dad warned me about this when I was about ten years old. I often couldn’t sleep and would sneak downstairs and that night he let me watch the end of the late night film with him. Sitting snug on his lap I noticed he had started to cry silently behind my head at the film. I quizzed him about it and he told me that one day I would understand. I think I remember that the film was ‘Champ’, 1979 (dir. Franco Zeffirelli) about boxing and the scene was where the little boy is begging his dad not to go into the ring to fight because his is sure he will be killed. The little blond boy stands centre screen with tears streaming down his imploring face. When I watched it years later I was in floods – I would challenge anyone not to be…’
John says
Jules: Thanks.
I have to admit, I hesitated before hitting the “Publish” button. Reporting personal news like this seems to tread dangerously close to the line of wearing one’s heart on the sleeve — like “My life! I suffer!” — and soliciting sympathy and/or praise.
But then I re-read it. It’s not really about me; it’s something I should have done for Ron last week. So…
fg: I run hot and cold with Facebook. Right now I’m in a period of not visiting it much; fortunately, I get email notice of “friend requests” and so on, so I could pick up on Ron’s request right away. As I said, for some requests I’ve looked studiously off in the other direction (whistling tunelessly). But that one mattered.
Have to admit I never saw Zeffirelli’s The Champ. But plenty of movies have left me feeling undone. (This may be another guilty pleasure, and I think regular commenter Froog might have alluded to the same or a similar weakness.) The Missus is good about letting me pretend those aren’t tears, just a trick of the light, and waits to engage me in conversation until I’ve calmed down a little. :)
That’s a remarkable scene, of ten-year-old you on your weeping dad’s lap — wondering what all the fuss was about. It sounds as though you’ve attained the “some day” he mentioned.
marta says
Sorry for the loss of a friend. Glad you were able to reconnect before he was gone.
I’ve one friend I kept from childhood. We met when we were 14 and we’re still friends today. Recently, as you know, I’ve reconnected with friends from my hometown, but really she is my only true friend. Since I’ve no siblings she is the one person who can connect me to the kid I was. That is of great value.
The Querulous Squirrel says
I had a strong emotional reaction to this. Let’s just say I’d never open myself up to the emotional vulnerability of facebook. You’re courageous.
cynth says
A beautiful post, John. What was it about that hometown that makes us think so fondly of the days and nights we passed there? Looking back at those years always seems like it was done in sepia tones, with mellow music in the background. Do others look at their pasts like that? Thanks for the reminiscence, though. He would have been honored, I’m sure.
Jules says
I’m glad you hit “publish.” It’s a beautiful tribute.
I’m with FG on the merits of Facebook. I flirt with the notion of dropping it altogether sometimes, but then I’ve found one old friend and made one great, new one on there, so I think I’ll keep it.
DarcKnyt says
I’m sorry for your loss, John. There are special people who touch our lives in unique and unexpected ways, and regrettably, they sometimes pass out of our spheres for one reason or another, but they leave an indelible mark on our consciousness and spirit.
Ron sounds like such a person for you, and his manner resonates in your tender portrayal. A well-written, beautiful eulogy of sorts.
John says
[All: Thanks for the kind wishes!]
marta: I don’t make friends easily. Part of the reason is probably just that I do have three great siblings — tough shoes for non-relatives to fill. I sometimes thinks that each friend I’ve found outside the family has been unconsciously chosen as surrogates for one or more of the other three “kids,” because obviously the latter can’t always be physically present.
I’ve still got one other friend going back to first grade; he and his wife come to family reunions, meals, and so on — so he’s pretty much family despite the absence of a blood connection.
Squirrel: “Courageous”? Ha ha ha. I mean, I’ll take the compliment and heck, even include it in my CV if you think it will help. :) But alas, the only real reason I signed myself up for FB was curiosity. Depending on the system of Chinese astrology you use, I’m either a cat or a rabbit: not sure about the rabbit, but we all know what happens when you mix curiosity and cats…
cynth: The Other Sister just mentioned that weird hometown characteristic a few days ago.
In the first (I think) Lake Woebegone book, Garrison Keillor has a chapter in which a young man in the town nails a list of 95 items to the door of a local church (like Martin Luther). It’s just before he leaves town for the big world, as I recall, and he wants to tell the townsfolk what he thinks of life there. This isn’t a list celebrating wonderfulness, though; it’s a list of accusations — like this:
Considering all the text which precedes and follows it, it’s spectacularly unfunny — hard to read, really. I couldn’t imagine doing anything remotely like that in our hometown.
Jules: Facebook is so hard to keep up with sometimes. When I sign in and see the little status message, like, “You have 2 friend requests and 146 other requests,” it makes my head spin. I’ve got plenty of other things in my life to do that, I keep thinking. But it IS cool to see what people are up to.
Darc: Thanks, man. In Citizen Kane, an old man is reminiscing about his youth. He says (thanks, Wikiquote!):
I get that feeling a lot about people from my past.
s.o.m.e. ones brudder says
J,
So sorry to hear about Ron’s quick departure after being found again. Similar to Cyth’s sepia recollections it comes back to me again and again that somehow where we grew up was some kind of lightning in a bottle. It was perfect, for say – Stan & Kaye – cause it was Iowa in a with an East Coast slant. An iconic 50s – 60s place sort of next to Mayberry, too. Ron always struck me as so much of THAT place. He even seemed to be the one friend of yours that thought it was okay that you had a little brother. Nice. It is so the right word for him.
Had my own similar ruminations over the last weeks while stressing about last week’s medical stuff while getting ready for a party thrown by Bill Carl for his “girl” Deirdre. Bill is that “first friend” (Mrs. Lager’s Kindergarten class!) off our block and he is without question one of the most decent beings I have ever known. I am so blessed to have kept him within reach, and for him to have cared enough to do likewise. Thanks for the reminder of what IS good about the friendships that we make, whenever we make them, and to keep eyes wide open for the potential in them all.