It has been at least a few years since the last time my friend John and I sat down together to have one of our great conversations, but I still feel the psychic, extra-sensory connection we have shared for well more than five decades. We first came to know each other back in elementary school in the mid 1960’s. He was the oldest of five children in his family and I was the youngest of ten children in mine. I would often go out of my way on the walk to school to swing by his house so we could finish the trip together. We usually carried our baseball gloves so we could play catch outside of school before classes began. Even at the tender age of ten years old, I knew he was special. He had an uncanny confidence and charisma not readily seen in most people.
We went through Junior High together and then on to High School where our friendship really deepened. We talked and hung out together virtually everyday during that time. My mother had died when I was twelve and his mother came to serve in that capacity for me. She was a tiny thing who barely stood five feet tall, but she was a force to be reckoned with who wasn’t afraid to get in my face when I needed it. I came to love her as my second mom. My relationship with her didn’t get off to a great start. I attended one of the weekly parties that always took place at their house one night. I launched into an improv bit as an effeminate hairdresser which raised a great deal of concern with her. While it was in very poor taste on my part, John assured her that it was all in the spirit of good fun and that I was really okay. Little did she know that I would become a fixture in her home through the high school years. I was often parked at their dining room table, either drinking a beer or perhaps writing a book report or an essay of some kind on John’s behalf. He typically paid for my help with a twelve-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer which was the coin of the realm in our circle. I thought then that we would hang out like that forever, but then came adult life and our paths diverged. He started a family, as did I, and we each became entangled in our own pursuits and problems. Although the frequency of our direct encounters diminished, the depth of our connection remained strong. He would regularly stop by my house on Friday nights on his way to play hockey, and I would occasionally stop at his house to have a chat. These talks were often long and winding free-form discussions of considerable depth. We sometimes disagreed on issues, but that never was a problem. I recall one evening from nearly forty years ago when he and I sat in his living room talking for hours. At one point, the phone rang and he let his wife answer it. The content of the phone call was insignificant, but it prompted him to say that he always hated when the phone rang. He said he dreaded that it was going to be someone calling to tell him that his dad had died, or something equally horrible. This was the kind of weird darkness that often tinged our conversations. I remember thinking about his comments on my way home from his house that night. The very next day, John was at a game at Tiger Stadium when he was called to the phone over the P.A. system. The caller informed him that his father, a vibrant, larger-than-life character of less than 50 years of age had died of a heart attack that day while playing golf. We were both struck by the fact that we had just talked about this the night before. Such fateful events often seemed to be a part of our less frequent but still special communications. He appeared at my door the day one of his brothers died suddenly. He came in and we just talked until the pain began to subside. I still feel honored to have been able to provide some comfort to him at such a difficult time.
When John’s mother died after a battle with cancer, I was devastated. She had become such a part of my life that I felt like I had just lost my own mother all over again. When I learned of her death I sat down to write him an email to share my thoughts with him. When I went to the funeral home, he took me over to show me a memory board that was near her casket. My email was taped to it. He then told me something that has stuck with me to this day. He said “You have a knack for putting into words what other people are thinking”. I had, apparently, captured the sentiments that were in his heart with my words. I am still deeply moved by the intimacy of that moment, and that sentiment is something I think about whenever I write anything. I can’t think of any greater service that I can offer.
I am writing this now because my special friend is laying in a hospital bed less than two miles from me in an induced coma after being badly injured in an a collision while riding a motorcycle the other day. He suffered a great many injuries and faces a very long, tough battle. Still, his mind is intact and I feel his presence with me every minute of the day.
I could easily fill this space with a litany of regrets for how time and circumstance have placed such long gaps in our face-to-face contact, but that is not my purpose. My purpose is to recognize and celebrate such a rare connection with a fellow traveler. I’ve never asked him his thoughts on this spiritual connection I believe we have, although I think I know what he would say. I hurt very deeply for my friend, and my soul aches for John’s wife and children. I ask anyone who reads this to hold closely to those who matter in your lives. Things can change in the blink of an eye. Keep gratitude in your hearts for the special people with whom you share your precious journey. I believe this tragedy is temporary. My friend will recover. Let us all learn from this and cherish our loved ones while we can.
This End Up 