They Were Our Friends

Some of my old friends, very few, remember every single person that they ever knew. They remember all of their classmates, all of their neighborhood friends, everyone's parents, and all of our teachers. If one of our old friends on Facebook asks a question about anyone in town, they answer it in detail. It's amazing.

Not only do they remember everyone, but they kept in touch with a seemingly impossible number of people from our town, or in some cases, from their high schools. When I mentioned a certain Sister J., one of these social geniuses informed me that, “she just died last year. I had been visiting her at the Dominican's residence in Amityville. She was a wonderful woman.” My teacher in the second grade was Sister J., and she was indeed a wonderful young woman, only fifteen or barely twenty years older than her students, and so stunningly beautiful that she had become my first childhood crush. It never occurred to me, however, to keep in touch with her for our entire lives. But like I say, some people are social geniuses. God bless them. They are a useful font of information, and often they also remember us more clearly than others do. Fondly, it is to be hoped. In my case, they remember things that I had forgotten.

Memory Note: My wife has a great memory. Names of people, hotels, all kinds of stuff. She remembers our room number on hotel visits years ago. I tend to forget things that are outside of the range of my major interests. She told me once, “don't worry, you're just getting old.” I answered, “oh, Honey, my memory was never that good.”

I'm not in that group that can remember so many people and details. I could, and did, lose track of friends without half trying. I'm sure that this made me an inadequate friend back then. I began young to live my life on a daily basis, dreading every day waking up in the morning, and moving between anxiety and dread all day. Having awoken, my goal became to make it through the day without starting to scream and not being able to stop. God knows that my miserable parents were disappointed in me enough already, without getting a phone call from the hospital telling them that I had been admitted and sedated, and what would you like us to do with him? I'm sorry to say that this is still my modus operandi. Living like this has caused me to frequently forget about people who had been important to me only one month previously. Mea maxima culpa. I wish that it could have been different.

It's part of being this age, I believe, that makes us think about our remote pasts and wonder what ever became of the friends that we had then. In the rush of life we all became somewhat preoccupied with making a living, paying the bills, and maybe raising children and maintaining a marriage. Now many of us wonder, what happened to so-and-so? Something may draw our attention to a boy that was in our company at boot camp, an individual that we may not have had a single thought about in fifty years. We forget details of daily life easily, but suddenly we remember his name and wonder, how did he do out in the fleet, and thereafter?

Facebook has an interesting role to play in all of this. Facebook allows some of those childhood friends to become our friends again in the present. I am grateful to have reconnected with many friends from long ago on Facebook, and also many people of about my age whom I did not know back then. Friends of friends. That last bit is interesting. Some of my new Facebook friends I remember from the old neighborhood, but I had never interacted with them. Only seen them around and knew their names. Several remember me for some reason. Facebook is, however, a mixed blessing. In this pre-fascist/ near death of democracy period of American history, some of those old friends have turned into paranoid, political monsters. It's a terrible thing to witness. Quite a few of the wonderful, sensible teenagers of long ago, kids that I knew well, are now dyed in the wool Trump repeatocons. If he said it this week, they'll repeat it next week. It's depressing to watch American democracy die this way, allowed to die by people who really should have known better. That's how it happens, though. People believe the lies, and then the lies take form and the terror starts, and then it's too late and everybody shuts up. Unless it's time to shout, “I love Big Brother!” But I loved my friends then, and I love them now, Trump or no Trump. They are entitled to their opinions, and within the bounds of the law they are also entitled to their biases and their prejudices. Que sera, sera.

It is likely that the virus, and the accompanying cycle of worry and terror, add to the urgency of our search through the files of our pasts. Some days I can hardly stand the knowledge that many of my memories are unique to me, and that they will pass from the earth along with me when my time comes. That's a silly thing to worry about, but unfortunately pride is one of my shortcomings.

My memories of the dead are tender, at least for those who were good to me, but I have no beautiful words for them. Death, for me, means only that their file is marked, “deceased” and moved to the basement for long term storage. I love them still, and I remember them well, but that won't last much longer. They live in my heart, but that's just a sand castle that the next tide will wash away.

For those in the “what ever happened to . . .” category, I cannot address them all individually. These are the names from the past for whom the trail ended suddenly. There have been several that I tried to contact over the years, by letter when that was our only recourse, and by e-mail or Facebook later on. I had only negative reinforcement in those efforts, with one notable exception (thanks, Michael!). I may be more sentimental than most. For the bad boys whose names come to mind, the answer may be that they are either dead or in prison, although they may have successfully made the leap to organized crime, where, come to think of it, “dead or in prison” remain likely outcomes.

Many of my missing childhood friends probably just moved away without fanfare, as is usually the case. There were also a large number of children, mostly boys, who after a certain age were rarely seen outside of their homes unless it was in travel to or from school. My town was tough, very tough, and taking a beating or some very rough teasing was always a possibility. We either had to learn to deal with it or stay inside. I was more afraid of my mother than I was of the tough boys, so “out” was always my first choice. It's not as though the tough boys ever killed anybody, and they reserved their worst beatings for each other. A couple of the bad boys are now Facebook friends of mine, although when they discover my politics it renews their old urge to bounce me off of a wall.

There have been several friends who gave up on me and cut me off. Compassion fatigue, you know, people just get sick of the negativity that comes along with depression. It is also likely that I have habits which some people might find annoying. To those few who had been great friends to me for decades before giving up, just know that I love you and I understand. Thanks for everything; no hard feelings.

To all of my friends, known and unknown, I hope that your paths have not been too difficult. I believe that that is all we can politely ask of fate, or God, if you will. It's the only prayer that I pray. “Thank you, (fill in the blank), for never letting the worst happen.”