They don't teach you how to do this in school.
My friend Gary and I attended grammar school together in Skokie, Illinois, a northern Chicago suburb. We attended two years of high school at Notre Dame High School in Niles, played football together, then enlisted in the Marines and completed boot camp together.
Then fell out of touch.
A few days ago we met for the first time in 48 years. (Fifty sounds better for a title.)
Body builder and super athlete, Gary had taken a health beating the last ten years. This included a brain embolism with subsequent induced coma and, a few years later, a massive stroke and heart attack. The general outline of Gary remained the same, but his once muscular frame had shrunk.
(Not that I'm any beauty. )
I stayed at his place in Phoenix. We watched the Masters and traded gruesome health tales, talked of our families, and our plans, and, of course, the past. But the key element was that the old days were not the focal point. In other words, our friendship had survived the decades. We were comfortable discussing the present and future. It doesn't always go like that.
We'd been roughed up by the decades. But, in some ways, we'd never ceased being who we'd been.
And it's hot in Phoenix. But I already knew that.
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| From left to right: Gary, myself and two other guys at Camp Pendleton. |
