How terribly strange to be seventy

Strange and wonderful.

My friend Don and I and share September birthdays, an octave apart. Mine was yesterday, the 19th, his the 11th. I turned 64, he, 70. We met in 1965, 47 years ago. I can remember a time before Don, but in truth nothing of much import happened before we met at the WMBG Radio studio on West Broad Street in Richmond, Virginia. I was a junior in high school and the brand new "Coke Teen Time Reporter" for J R Tucker HS; I was bursting with enthusiasm. I was to meet a real live DJ, one of those immensely cool guys who played records on the radio, and got paid for it! Incredible.

From that star-struck beginning Don and I quickly became fast friends. That summer was, without doubt, the best of my young life. Don and I led a group of friends who laughed, played, danced and ran our way through an action-packed yet carefree and fun summer. The biggest song of the summer was the Stones' (I Can't Get No) Satisfaction and right behind that was I Can't Help Myself by the Four Tops. Other hits from that summer are indelibly written into my life playlist: Mr. Tambourine Man; What's New Pussycat; Cara, Mia; I Got You Babe; Help Me, Rhonda; Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me; Unchained Melody; Help!; Ticket to Ride; Papa's Got a Brand New Bag and I've Been Loving You Too Long by the immortal Otis Redding.

In 1966 Don joined the Air Force, I graduated from high school and went on to Notre Dame and we were apart for several years. By September of 1971 I had moved back to Richmond and shared my buddy Wayne's apartment less than a block from Don's. I was on my way out of the closet and Don helped guide that journey. I remained in Richmond until July of 1979, during which time Don and I had many adventures and, truth be told, a fight and separation or two. We cruised on the Queen Anna Maria to the West Indies, the Carla C through the Caribbean and the QE2 from New York, again into the Caribbean. We rode countless roller coasters at Kings Dominion and Busch Gardens and even went down to Florida with my first boyfriend Sandy to ride more. We took the sleeper to Jacksonville to visit my parents and drive a car back when they moved to Richmond. And, just as we had done in those magical days of 1965, we talked, and talked and talked some more.

In later years we cruised the Rhine River and hung out in Amsterdam; we toured Vienna -- there we are in the photo above --  Salzberg and Prague and spent two wonderful days in St. Wolfgang at the foot of the Schafberg mountain in Austria. We've also made trips to Washington, DC, over Memorial Day weekend to take in theatre, museums and restaurants, as well as visit my parents' grave in Arlington National Cemetery. 

And again, we talked and talked, and talked some more.

Most days we exchange an email or seven; we talk on the phone pretty often too. We're just like any two long-term friends, except that we live 400 miles apart.

What matters most to me is that Don is a constant. He's always there, and he's been always there for forty-seven years. As an Army brat I moved every two or three years until I was in my twenties. I have one friend from grade school, but I have only seen him once in the last 30 years. I have no friends from high school whom I still see and only one from college whom I see with any regularity. Other than my brother, some cousins and two aunts, I've known Don longer than just about anyone.

He's now seventy years old and as I listen to Simon and Garfunkel I marvel at all the years that have streamed by and wonder how many more we have left.

"Friendship is a gift you give yourself" claimed some tacky aphorism book I once saw. Maybe true, for no one I knew all those years ago loved me enough to give me such a great gift.

Except Don.

Old friends, old friends

Sat on their park bench like bookends

A newspaper blown through the grass

Falls on the round toes

Of the high shoes of the old friends

Old friends, winter companions, the old men

Lost in their overcoats, waiting for the sun

The sounds of the city sifting through trees

Settle like dust on the shoulders of the old friends

Can you imagine us years from today?

Sharing a park bench quietly

How terribly strange to be seventy

Old friends, memory brushes the same years

Silently sharing the same fears

Time it was and what a time it was, it was

A time of innocence, a time of confidences

Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph

Preserve your memories, they're all that's left you

(Paul Simon, 1970, five years younger than my friendship with Don)