There is a picture in our hallway of me bring raise in the air by my father. I must have been only a couple of days (maybe a month or so) old at the time. Unfortunately, that is about as close I ever got to knowing Dad.
By the time I was able to remember things, he was not at the house. My mother, good Catholic that she was, never lied to me about him. She simply said he was sick.
And that was true. The problem was it was a sickness we didn't know much about in the late 50s and early 60s. We didn't know what to do with people who had "personality" disorders. So, we stuck them in a hospital. I am not sure my mother, a nurse, even knew exactly what occurred at the hospital. All I ever knew was we went there to visit him every now and then. At holidays, he would come home for a short time. (Odd. I can't remember if he stayed at home overnight.) I don't remember his voice at all.
But I have been told by my older brothers that, when he was well, he was a terrific fellow. Somewhere, there is a picture of my brother Frank with Dad in New York City. They are riding on elephants. That's right. Elephants in Central Park. Frank said he was seven or eight at the time. Dad's departure because of illness (I am guessing, among other things, it was an early form of Alzheimer's) was tougher on Frank and my oldest brother Johnny because they knew him a bit as a dad. Me? He was simply a guy who came around at times. He was pleasant enough. But I don't recall a single son/dad interaction (like playing catch) with him.
(I was lucky, though. I had a wonderful Big Brother and several other adults who filled in the best they could.)
So, I have to take the word of other people about him. I have been told he had a great sense of humor and he was a kind and caring man. Uncle Cletus, who I lived with from age 2 to 6, never said a bad word about him. Uncle Emmett, who was married to Dad's only sister, praised him, too. Aunt Mary Jane, who was married to Dad's brother, once described him as "impish." At the time, I had no idea what that meant. Now that I do know it, I would like somebody to call me impish just once.
On a day like today, we tend to remember happily and (if they are still with us), spend time with our dads. What I always will remember about Dad is an amazing incident that occurred 42 years ago.
Mom passed away from cancer on May 17, 1969. Two days later, the wake was held. It was a miserable cold, rainy spring day. What I remember at the funeral home is thinking of how strong Dad was that day. How he greeted Mom's old friends and family. I can still see him smiling, shaking hands and hugging everyone. I didn't know how sick he really was. And I was only 15 years old. But I remember being amazed at what I was seeing.
I have never asked my brothers if that is the way it really was. I think we all want to have a good memory of our dads. This one is mine and I don't want to lose it.
Dad slipped badly after Mom died. He suffered a stroke and a loss of memory. I moved on with my life and was in college when he died. I remember going back to that same funeral home when Mom had been. This time, there were only a few people -- my brothers a couple of family friends.. When dad died, there weren't enough people left who remembered him to have pallbearers. My brothers and I helped carry the casket to the hearse.
I felt bad for Dad. I am sure this wasn't the way he planned it out. It was just the way it was. All sons, I suspect, want to do something special for their dad. I had never gotten the chance to do so. The dice just didn't fall that way. There was nothing to do but accept it and move on.
A few years later, though, I was able to finally do something for him. I was in Detroit for business and made a quick trip to the cemetery to visit Mom and Dad's graves. On Dad's marker, I noticed the year of his death had never been etched in. Mom had paid for the stones years in advance. When Dad died, they simply put the marker in. Nobody noticed. Because none of my brothers live in Detroit, they never saw it either.
But it bothered me to no end. I went to the marker place across the street from the cemetery. A kind woman looked up the bill. Nothing had ever been noted about putting the year of his death on the marker. I inquired how much it was. When I got back to town, I mailed them a check immediately. The woman called me back a few days later to say it had been done. Would she like me to send a picture of it. I said that wasn't necessary. But I appreciated the gesture.
A couple of years later, I was back in Detroit for one day. I rented a car and sped to the cemetery. I ran anxiously to the site. The year had been carved in. Whoever did it was a real marksman because it looked to the world as it had actually been done at the time of death ... not 30 years later.
Visiting a cemetery to see your parents' grave is usually a sad experience. This one was, too. But it was tempered by the fact that, at long last, I finally was able to do something for my dad.
Happy Father's Day, Dad. Looking forward to sitting down with you one day.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Nice to be among some old-fashioned journalists again
I just finished two days at my one of my favorite gigs of the year -- the AAA baseball tournament. In Minnesota, we have classes for high school baseball. Howard Voigt, the grand poohbah pr guy of the league, always opts to hang with the Class A schools- the smallest ones -- in Jordan, just south of Minneapolis.
It's a good idea because most of those schools are from out of the Twin Cities. There are always a lot of small town radio stations on hand. I suspect it makes them feel good -- and it should -- that the head guy works with them. The next level -- class AA -- assembles in St. Cloud and are left in the capable PR hands of the folks from St. Cloud State and St. John's. A few TC schools always get there but, again, it is mostly an outstate contingent. This means small dailies, weeklies and small radio stations descend en masse.
The big schools -- most of which are from town -- go to Midway Stadium. There are always a few outstate schools, too. This year, Bemidji and Rochester Century represented the intruders, The other six were from various parts of the area.
As a result, there are usually fewer radio stations, often no TV and only a few reporters. It's a good thing, too. Midway Stadium's press box isn't very big. For some games, I had to dispatch bloggers to a small, covered area just outside the press box. I hated doing that but space issues dictate the folks from the daily papers get first crack at the best seats.
We live in an era where journalists -- in print and on the air -- seem to want to climb over each other to be colorful and controversial. That may work with pro and college teams. But it doesn't usually play well at the prep level.
The three daily reporters who were on hand this time knew exactly what the hell they were doing. They had only one concern -- to write, interesting, accurate stories. The nod to the modern era was they had to provide Twitter and/or Facebook updates and then get something up quickly for their paper's website. This is a departure from the way things used to be. To be honest, it can be a major pain-in-the-rump.
But Ken Hanson (Rochester Post-Bulletin), Amelia Rayno (Star Tribune) and Tim Leighton (Pioneer Press) did so uncomplainingly. In the case of the latter two, they knew their print stories would be chopped down because there was a lot of other big news around town. They weren't covering Ricky Rubio signing with the Timberwolves, the press conference announcing a new Wild coach or the return of Joe Mauer to the adoring multitudes at Target Field.
Perhaps they wished they had one of those plum assignments instead. (I don't know. I didn't ask.) But I was fascinated to watch all of them work. You see, these three knew their duty. They went out and did it without worrying about anything else. They asked for help when they needed it but didn't bury me with unnecessary questions. They appreciated whatever extra info I passed onto them ... even if it was something they didn't really need or would use.
In short, they were professional in their actions ... and their words.
Normally, that would not be cause for comment. But such is the state of journalism these days that it is, indeed, now news when you run across three low-maintenance types. It was a pleasure to be able to not worry about a lot of little things ... and to actually be able to watch and enjoy a few games.
It also restored my faith there are a few solid journalists left out there. After you watch some cable TV and read some of the breathless commentary by columnists on subjects (and people) they know little about, a fellow begins to wonder.
It's a good idea because most of those schools are from out of the Twin Cities. There are always a lot of small town radio stations on hand. I suspect it makes them feel good -- and it should -- that the head guy works with them. The next level -- class AA -- assembles in St. Cloud and are left in the capable PR hands of the folks from St. Cloud State and St. John's. A few TC schools always get there but, again, it is mostly an outstate contingent. This means small dailies, weeklies and small radio stations descend en masse.
The big schools -- most of which are from town -- go to Midway Stadium. There are always a few outstate schools, too. This year, Bemidji and Rochester Century represented the intruders, The other six were from various parts of the area.
As a result, there are usually fewer radio stations, often no TV and only a few reporters. It's a good thing, too. Midway Stadium's press box isn't very big. For some games, I had to dispatch bloggers to a small, covered area just outside the press box. I hated doing that but space issues dictate the folks from the daily papers get first crack at the best seats.
We live in an era where journalists -- in print and on the air -- seem to want to climb over each other to be colorful and controversial. That may work with pro and college teams. But it doesn't usually play well at the prep level.
The three daily reporters who were on hand this time knew exactly what the hell they were doing. They had only one concern -- to write, interesting, accurate stories. The nod to the modern era was they had to provide Twitter and/or Facebook updates and then get something up quickly for their paper's website. This is a departure from the way things used to be. To be honest, it can be a major pain-in-the-rump.
But Ken Hanson (Rochester Post-Bulletin), Amelia Rayno (Star Tribune) and Tim Leighton (Pioneer Press) did so uncomplainingly. In the case of the latter two, they knew their print stories would be chopped down because there was a lot of other big news around town. They weren't covering Ricky Rubio signing with the Timberwolves, the press conference announcing a new Wild coach or the return of Joe Mauer to the adoring multitudes at Target Field.
Perhaps they wished they had one of those plum assignments instead. (I don't know. I didn't ask.) But I was fascinated to watch all of them work. You see, these three knew their duty. They went out and did it without worrying about anything else. They asked for help when they needed it but didn't bury me with unnecessary questions. They appreciated whatever extra info I passed onto them ... even if it was something they didn't really need or would use.
In short, they were professional in their actions ... and their words.
Normally, that would not be cause for comment. But such is the state of journalism these days that it is, indeed, now news when you run across three low-maintenance types. It was a pleasure to be able to not worry about a lot of little things ... and to actually be able to watch and enjoy a few games.
It also restored my faith there are a few solid journalists left out there. After you watch some cable TV and read some of the breathless commentary by columnists on subjects (and people) they know little about, a fellow begins to wonder.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Brightness amid the gloom
It's pretty damn easy to get depressed about the state of affairs these days. We have a nationally known politician (the badly named Mr. Weiner) whose activities on Twitter suggest he is either naive, foolish or just plain icky. None of those attributes are positive and reflect well on a fellow who used to have some influence.
Here in Minnesota, we are less than three weeks from a statewide shutdown that will send thousands of employees to the sidelines. If the folks who will be charged with this mess (the state legislature and the governor) are concerned about that fact, they are keeping it a good secret. All the public talk has simply been posturing to their fans. Strangely, they will be allowed to get paychecks while keeping others from theirs.
As Tom Lehrer once put it, "Actions like this make you feel like a Christian Scientist with appendicitis."
But leave it to some young folks to perform actions that give you hope. There were two separate events 75 miles apart. Neither will change the course of history. But they give me hope nonetheless.
The first happened Thursday night at the state high school girls' softball tournament in Mankato. St. Paul Johnson's team was about to take the field for its game when rain and lightning halted play. The Johnson team repaired to a tent near the press box. I was standing near them watching the rain. After a few minutes of conversation, it became obvious the game would not start for a while. So, this group of 15-16-17-18 year olds simply improvised some sort of singing game. It is hard to describe but it ended up with one girl having to go in the middle and sing or do something to "tag" somebody else. Then that person went into the middle and did the same to another girl. This went on for half an hour or so. The Johnson girls were having a wonderful time, just laughing and riding each other when someone made a mistake or didn't do the ritual right.
Eventually, their game was called and they had to return at 8:00 a.m. the next morning. High school kids are pretty resilient. On a gray, ugly morning, Johnson gave it a good effort, losing 2-1 to end their season. But they played hard to the end and smiled on their way out of the complex. They didn't like losing any more than any other team does. But these kids seem to understand it was just a game and the companionship meant as much as the final result.
The next incident happened this morning at the local playground. I was walking The Happy Dog when I came across 10 kids, who looked roughly 10-12 years old. They were about to start baseball practice. The coach (I presume) said something and the kids sprinted en masse towards a cone in the outfield. The fellow who got there first was beaming as if he had just won the lottery.
The coach walked slowly out there with a tennis racket and a tennis ball. A kid asked him what was the deal. The coach explained he was going to hit them tennis balls because it would the easiest way to learn how to catch flyballs. Besides, if they got by a tennis ball, it's not going to hurt as much. "Don't be afraid of the ball," he said.
The youngsters didn't seem sold on this idea. But then the coach whacked the first ball in the air. A young guy named Mason raced to his left and caught the ball. He then jumped in the air excitedly. When the coach got ready to hit the next ball, there was a rush of candidates. The next two failed in their quest but a fourth guy caught a ball and earned high fives all around. I'm not sure there were any future major leaguers in the bunch. Parents sitting on chairs looked up from their blackberries and put down their coffees to applaud him.
It was a gentle reminder that, when adults seem to be doing their best to screw the world up, kids, with their inherent optimism and enthusiasm, can ride in and still do something that will make you smile.
Of course, some day, those same kids will become adults. They will then have their chance at doing act as stupidly as Anthony Weiner or as stubbornly as our fine legislators are doing here in Minnesota.
For now, though, their world isn't very complicated. Enjoy it while you can, kids.
But thanks for acting your age. It was enough to make this craggy, occasionally cranky adult smile amid the gloom the rest of the world seems to want to impose on us.
Here in Minnesota, we are less than three weeks from a statewide shutdown that will send thousands of employees to the sidelines. If the folks who will be charged with this mess (the state legislature and the governor) are concerned about that fact, they are keeping it a good secret. All the public talk has simply been posturing to their fans. Strangely, they will be allowed to get paychecks while keeping others from theirs.
As Tom Lehrer once put it, "Actions like this make you feel like a Christian Scientist with appendicitis."
But leave it to some young folks to perform actions that give you hope. There were two separate events 75 miles apart. Neither will change the course of history. But they give me hope nonetheless.
The first happened Thursday night at the state high school girls' softball tournament in Mankato. St. Paul Johnson's team was about to take the field for its game when rain and lightning halted play. The Johnson team repaired to a tent near the press box. I was standing near them watching the rain. After a few minutes of conversation, it became obvious the game would not start for a while. So, this group of 15-16-17-18 year olds simply improvised some sort of singing game. It is hard to describe but it ended up with one girl having to go in the middle and sing or do something to "tag" somebody else. Then that person went into the middle and did the same to another girl. This went on for half an hour or so. The Johnson girls were having a wonderful time, just laughing and riding each other when someone made a mistake or didn't do the ritual right.
Eventually, their game was called and they had to return at 8:00 a.m. the next morning. High school kids are pretty resilient. On a gray, ugly morning, Johnson gave it a good effort, losing 2-1 to end their season. But they played hard to the end and smiled on their way out of the complex. They didn't like losing any more than any other team does. But these kids seem to understand it was just a game and the companionship meant as much as the final result.
The next incident happened this morning at the local playground. I was walking The Happy Dog when I came across 10 kids, who looked roughly 10-12 years old. They were about to start baseball practice. The coach (I presume) said something and the kids sprinted en masse towards a cone in the outfield. The fellow who got there first was beaming as if he had just won the lottery.
The coach walked slowly out there with a tennis racket and a tennis ball. A kid asked him what was the deal. The coach explained he was going to hit them tennis balls because it would the easiest way to learn how to catch flyballs. Besides, if they got by a tennis ball, it's not going to hurt as much. "Don't be afraid of the ball," he said.
The youngsters didn't seem sold on this idea. But then the coach whacked the first ball in the air. A young guy named Mason raced to his left and caught the ball. He then jumped in the air excitedly. When the coach got ready to hit the next ball, there was a rush of candidates. The next two failed in their quest but a fourth guy caught a ball and earned high fives all around. I'm not sure there were any future major leaguers in the bunch. Parents sitting on chairs looked up from their blackberries and put down their coffees to applaud him.
It was a gentle reminder that, when adults seem to be doing their best to screw the world up, kids, with their inherent optimism and enthusiasm, can ride in and still do something that will make you smile.
Of course, some day, those same kids will become adults. They will then have their chance at doing act as stupidly as Anthony Weiner or as stubbornly as our fine legislators are doing here in Minnesota.
For now, though, their world isn't very complicated. Enjoy it while you can, kids.
But thanks for acting your age. It was enough to make this craggy, occasionally cranky adult smile amid the gloom the rest of the world seems to want to impose on us.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Farewell to a WS hero
Every baseball fan has his team. It may not be the first team you knew. But it is the one that really caught your fancy. If you're really lucky, that team ends up a winner.
Mine was the 1968 Detroit Tigers. A few members of that team are gone now. But, with all due to respect to Joe Sparma (who pitched the game that won the pennant), none of the major contributors from that club had left us.
Until today.
Word has come that Jim Northrup has died at age 71. Northup was a left-handed hitting outfielder who filled in nicely that season when longtime star Al Kaline broke his hand.
Although he only hit .264, he seemed to get his hits in bunches. I remember a July 4 game against the Angels when he bombed two home runs in a 13-10 win. One of them (as I recall, off Andy Messersmith) went to left field - a rarity for a pull hitter. Earlier, he hit three grand slam homers in one week. Two of them came on consecutive at-bats in a game at Cleveland. The third came on a rare Saturday night game at Tiger Stadium off a Chicago pitcher name Cisco Carlos. I can still see it -- a line drive that snaked inside the right field foul pole. Later in the same game, Northup just missed hitting another one. It landed in the upper deck but was foul by a couple of inches. That's better than most guys do in a career.
In the World Series, the Tigers looked doomed until they rallied for a dramatic victory in the best baseball game I have ever seen, a stirring 5-3 victory that kept their hopes alive. In Game 6, they buried the Cards early with a 10-run 3rd inning, tying a famous record. Northup capped that rally with ... you guessed it ... a grand slam home run.
Now it came to game 7. Mickey Lolich, on two days' rest, battled the great Bob Gibson on even terms for six innings. In the 7th, Detroit, which had recorded just one hit all day, got back-to-back singles. That brought up Northup, who hit a line drive to center field. Curt Flood saw it late, stumbled slightly and watched hopelessly as it sailed over his head for a two-run triple. The Tigers added two more runs and won the game and the Series.
Northup, who was a tall, handsome left-handed hitter, was the toast of the town.
The man played a dozen seasons, batting .267 with 153 home runs and 610 RBI. Those were numbers a fellow could be very proud of. But, to those of us who reveled in that glorious season of 1968, Jim Northup will always be remembered as the guy who got the big hit that brought the Tigers the World Series.
The stories in the paper noted Northup suffered from Alzheimer's at the end of his life. I hated to hear that. I prefer to remember him as the carefree, smiling guy who had what many players dreamed of -- a magical season capped by a World Series championship. His numbers were not the type that put you in the Hall of Fame ... except in the eyes of a 15-year old who was crazy about baseball.
R.I.P. Jim.
Mine was the 1968 Detroit Tigers. A few members of that team are gone now. But, with all due to respect to Joe Sparma (who pitched the game that won the pennant), none of the major contributors from that club had left us.
Until today.
Word has come that Jim Northrup has died at age 71. Northup was a left-handed hitting outfielder who filled in nicely that season when longtime star Al Kaline broke his hand.
Although he only hit .264, he seemed to get his hits in bunches. I remember a July 4 game against the Angels when he bombed two home runs in a 13-10 win. One of them (as I recall, off Andy Messersmith) went to left field - a rarity for a pull hitter. Earlier, he hit three grand slam homers in one week. Two of them came on consecutive at-bats in a game at Cleveland. The third came on a rare Saturday night game at Tiger Stadium off a Chicago pitcher name Cisco Carlos. I can still see it -- a line drive that snaked inside the right field foul pole. Later in the same game, Northup just missed hitting another one. It landed in the upper deck but was foul by a couple of inches. That's better than most guys do in a career.
In the World Series, the Tigers looked doomed until they rallied for a dramatic victory in the best baseball game I have ever seen, a stirring 5-3 victory that kept their hopes alive. In Game 6, they buried the Cards early with a 10-run 3rd inning, tying a famous record. Northup capped that rally with ... you guessed it ... a grand slam home run.
Now it came to game 7. Mickey Lolich, on two days' rest, battled the great Bob Gibson on even terms for six innings. In the 7th, Detroit, which had recorded just one hit all day, got back-to-back singles. That brought up Northup, who hit a line drive to center field. Curt Flood saw it late, stumbled slightly and watched hopelessly as it sailed over his head for a two-run triple. The Tigers added two more runs and won the game and the Series.
Northup, who was a tall, handsome left-handed hitter, was the toast of the town.
The man played a dozen seasons, batting .267 with 153 home runs and 610 RBI. Those were numbers a fellow could be very proud of. But, to those of us who reveled in that glorious season of 1968, Jim Northup will always be remembered as the guy who got the big hit that brought the Tigers the World Series.
The stories in the paper noted Northup suffered from Alzheimer's at the end of his life. I hated to hear that. I prefer to remember him as the carefree, smiling guy who had what many players dreamed of -- a magical season capped by a World Series championship. His numbers were not the type that put you in the Hall of Fame ... except in the eyes of a 15-year old who was crazy about baseball.
R.I.P. Jim.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Some thoughts on friends
My wife and I went out for dinner and drinks with some friends last night. Lynne used to work with one of them and still runs into him in their professional duties. They happen to live near us. Still, we hadn't been together since New Year's Eve.
There was no real reason for this except that we all had busy schedules. Time just got away from us.
That's a pity because we always have fun when we get together -- good food and companionship are in abundance.
While we were out and about, I ran into another old friend, who stopped and joined us for about a half hour. He, too, is a wonderful fellow who I got to know about 25 years ago when we were covering the same games. We see each other 3-4 times a year but we do correspond via email and Facebook.
The point of the above is that watching people's friendships can be interesting. My wife is very lucky. She has a group of friends she has known since she was very young. One group is from the neighborhood where she grew up. Another is from one of her first jobs. In both cases, she got to know these people as they were forming their lives. She was able to grow and adjust with them. I asked her if any of them had changed radically since she first knew them. The answer: no.
I envy her for having groups like that. But, as she points out, she has lived here all her life. Thus, it is easier to stay in contact with these people. (There are exceptions to this. One of the friends from that group moved out of town several years ago. But Lynne has managed to keep in contact with her and visits her in her city when she can.)
When you grow up in one town and go to school in another, it is not so easy to develop those kinds of close relationships. Most of the time, you are meeting people when their personality and traits are already developed. If you meet someone when they are, say, 25 or 35, their tendencies are fairly well in place. But you often don't know what those tendencies are. You find you learn them piece by piece ... as situations come up. You may think you know your new friend well but then they surprise you. For example, they may like a politician or a movie star you can't stand. They may have a social preference that is not the same as yours. If you had known this person all (or most) of your life, you would have already known this. When we catch up to them as adults, there are always a few missing elements. We find them out later.
That's not a bad thing at all. But it does serve as a reminder that friendships that are initiated when the two folks are adults are not and can never be the same as those developed when you are young. It doesn't mean they are better or worse. it just means they are different. In just about every case I know, it is almost impossible to have it develop as deeply as those friendships with people you have known most of your life. I leave to psychologists to tell us why for sure. All I know it is true.
C'est la vie. It just happens that all the friendships I have developed evolved in adulthood. They are wonderful people and I cherish each and every one of them. But I do so knowing that there is probably some aspect about that person that I simply don't know ... because the situation that would let me know that fact has never come up. I am willing to bet I have a friend out there who is deathly afraid of snakes or spiders. But I have never seen that person near one. So how would I know this?
As a result, you discover sometimes to your chagrin that some people just weren't who you thought they were. I can think of one personal case where a person who I thought was a friend made a promise that wasn't kept. It was a promise I was absolutely believed would happen. When it didn't, I was disappointed at myself more than that person. I hadn't done my homework diligently enough. I trusted that person. And I shouldn't have. I didn't know that person as well as I thought I did. This happened a while back. I have moved on but I will never, never forget it.
The flip side happens, too. People surprise the hell out of you with an act of friendship you didn't know they had in them. Those kind of moments are delightful.
In the end, what I am looking for in friends can be boiled down to one word: trust. Trust that I will always attempt to do right by and for you and that you will do the same for me. Trust that if you told me something in confidence, that I won't run home and tell someone the first chance I get. And vice versa.
It is easier to develop these kinds of relationships when you are very young. It does happen in adulthood, too. But not as often.
My goal for the rest of 2011 and beyond is to work on developing my friendships. I suspect I have (quite unintentionally) been slack in this department. It doesn't mean you have to see or talk with them every day or even every week. But it means you must pay attention to them and check in to make sure all is well.
I'm hoping it doesn't take six months for us to get together again for dinner and drinks. I had a ball last night ... and I think they did, too. The simple fact is, as we get older, we have to work a little harder on our friendships. Otherwise, we risk losing them or getting snookered. I didn't mean it so much when I was 8, 18 or even 28 years old. You can still recover quickly from whatever happens and move on. At age 58, however, it is a different story. And, frankly, life is difficult enough without having to deal with that kind of issue, too.
There was no real reason for this except that we all had busy schedules. Time just got away from us.
That's a pity because we always have fun when we get together -- good food and companionship are in abundance.
While we were out and about, I ran into another old friend, who stopped and joined us for about a half hour. He, too, is a wonderful fellow who I got to know about 25 years ago when we were covering the same games. We see each other 3-4 times a year but we do correspond via email and Facebook.
The point of the above is that watching people's friendships can be interesting. My wife is very lucky. She has a group of friends she has known since she was very young. One group is from the neighborhood where she grew up. Another is from one of her first jobs. In both cases, she got to know these people as they were forming their lives. She was able to grow and adjust with them. I asked her if any of them had changed radically since she first knew them. The answer: no.
I envy her for having groups like that. But, as she points out, she has lived here all her life. Thus, it is easier to stay in contact with these people. (There are exceptions to this. One of the friends from that group moved out of town several years ago. But Lynne has managed to keep in contact with her and visits her in her city when she can.)
When you grow up in one town and go to school in another, it is not so easy to develop those kinds of close relationships. Most of the time, you are meeting people when their personality and traits are already developed. If you meet someone when they are, say, 25 or 35, their tendencies are fairly well in place. But you often don't know what those tendencies are. You find you learn them piece by piece ... as situations come up. You may think you know your new friend well but then they surprise you. For example, they may like a politician or a movie star you can't stand. They may have a social preference that is not the same as yours. If you had known this person all (or most) of your life, you would have already known this. When we catch up to them as adults, there are always a few missing elements. We find them out later.
That's not a bad thing at all. But it does serve as a reminder that friendships that are initiated when the two folks are adults are not and can never be the same as those developed when you are young. It doesn't mean they are better or worse. it just means they are different. In just about every case I know, it is almost impossible to have it develop as deeply as those friendships with people you have known most of your life. I leave to psychologists to tell us why for sure. All I know it is true.
C'est la vie. It just happens that all the friendships I have developed evolved in adulthood. They are wonderful people and I cherish each and every one of them. But I do so knowing that there is probably some aspect about that person that I simply don't know ... because the situation that would let me know that fact has never come up. I am willing to bet I have a friend out there who is deathly afraid of snakes or spiders. But I have never seen that person near one. So how would I know this?
As a result, you discover sometimes to your chagrin that some people just weren't who you thought they were. I can think of one personal case where a person who I thought was a friend made a promise that wasn't kept. It was a promise I was absolutely believed would happen. When it didn't, I was disappointed at myself more than that person. I hadn't done my homework diligently enough. I trusted that person. And I shouldn't have. I didn't know that person as well as I thought I did. This happened a while back. I have moved on but I will never, never forget it.
The flip side happens, too. People surprise the hell out of you with an act of friendship you didn't know they had in them. Those kind of moments are delightful.
In the end, what I am looking for in friends can be boiled down to one word: trust. Trust that I will always attempt to do right by and for you and that you will do the same for me. Trust that if you told me something in confidence, that I won't run home and tell someone the first chance I get. And vice versa.
It is easier to develop these kinds of relationships when you are very young. It does happen in adulthood, too. But not as often.
My goal for the rest of 2011 and beyond is to work on developing my friendships. I suspect I have (quite unintentionally) been slack in this department. It doesn't mean you have to see or talk with them every day or even every week. But it means you must pay attention to them and check in to make sure all is well.
I'm hoping it doesn't take six months for us to get together again for dinner and drinks. I had a ball last night ... and I think they did, too. The simple fact is, as we get older, we have to work a little harder on our friendships. Otherwise, we risk losing them or getting snookered. I didn't mean it so much when I was 8, 18 or even 28 years old. You can still recover quickly from whatever happens and move on. At age 58, however, it is a different story. And, frankly, life is difficult enough without having to deal with that kind of issue, too.
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