"CALL YO' [FRIENDS]" . . .

       Paul "Bear" Bryant, legendary football coach at the University of Alabama, long ago filmed a t.v. commercial for a telephone company with the rehearsed line: "Call yo' mamma."  His ad lib comment was retained in the final production: "I wish I could call mine."

    Recently, I remembered that segment when reading a column by Barry Saunders of the Raleigh (NC) News and Observer.  Mr. Saunders (who is one of my favorite columnists) had recently lost a long time friend to death.  Admonishing his readers to cherish rather than neglect their friendships and to call them while we have the chance, he wrote,  "Good Lord! How much effort does it take to press one button on speed dial and say, 'What it is?' or 'How ya' doin', pal?' "  To his chagrin, he  replied, "Too much, apparently, for me. Don't let the same thing happen to you."

    I often commend to my older clients Dr. Charles Wells's book, Dear Old Man: Letters to Myself on Growing Old.  Just yesterday in rereading it, I noted his observation that "aside from good health and a caring family, friendships are probably the most valuable assets a person can carry into old age."  (p.102)  About a year ago, I and other former ministers were invited to a celebration of a congregation's 100th year in their building.  Mr. Davis in his brief remarks observed that he had learned that Relationships were to be prized above all else among humans.  

   Alas, like Mr. Saunders, I have had long-time friends die without having seen or spoken with them for too great a time. Last Fall, my undergraduate fraternity brother, Charles, his wife, and I drove to see our friend, Bob.  Knowing that his health was fragile, we acknowledged that this was our Farewell visit and indeed, he died within a couple of months. Even in the midst of profound sadness, there was a celebration of precious memories and gratitude for our friendships. Bob's roommate from those years, Fred, has also died since the last class reunion five years ago.  Both were good men and I lament still their passing with a strong intention to nurture remaining friendships and be open to developing new ones.

    This Summer I attended the annual reunion of my small high school class.  Then,  a couple of weeks ago, I returned for a 55th year gathering of my undergraduate class.  While there, I learned the whereabouts of a college friend who had been like another son to my parents.  Ben, originally from Bolivia,  was often in our home in those years and when I 'found' him on FaceBook, I promptly invited him to renew the long ago tradition of spending Thanksgiving with our extended family.  And, Harold, another close friend from those years, recently sent me pictures of him at the end of a LOONNGG  Bike ride.  Today, we met David, a friend  from Wake Forest University grad school years, and his wife for a glad reunion after many years and we spoke of getting together again soon.  Because of increased geographic distance, we don't get to spend the time with J.R. and Bev that once occurred. Our friendship goes back to our year together at Boston University School of Theology.  We have seen each other through some of life's 'tough spots'.  At his wedding rehearsal dinner, I gratefully offered the toast, "J.R. and I are brothers.  We just have different parents."  A couple of years ago, we met at a 'half way point' for couple of days visit and plan to do that again early in November.

With Fraternity Brothers  October 3, 2015

With Dr. Dave and Judy , October 20, 2015

Ben, from his FaceBook page

With J.R. , Fall 2013

    Critics have long noted that warm, intimate friendships seem to be more difficult for men than for women and, as a generalization, I think that is a correct assessment.  There are several 'reasons' for this impoverishment. Maybe in a subsequent writing I can ponder some of those. For now, I need to express my gratitude to friends whose companionships have enriched my travels.

     "Thanks" to Coach Bryant and to Barry Saunders for their 'spot on' reminders.
                            Satchel

    

MOVING EXPERIENCES

      Judging by a recent flurry of activity across the street, we are about to have new neighbors.  Someone is preparing to move in.

    How  many  times  have  you moved ?  Changed places of residence, that is?  My SWAG statistics survey indicates that few people list 'moving' among their favorite life experiences.  The topic came to mind recently when two separate clients talked about their moving travails . . . Packing boxes,
              lifting boxes,
                 deciding what to trash/what to keep, 'that was Baby Sue's favorite doll 25 years ago', 
            'do we two really need a house this size ?', 
                    hire a van line or Haul it ourselves ?, 
                         where to place that chair and sofa,  
    . . .  on and on the tasks multiply.  
                And what is the saying about three moves being comparable to a burn-out?

    In the days since I began ruminating on this topic, moving vans seem to be 'everywhere'. Don't know who said it, but I remember someone's assertion that the Moving Van should be our national symbol.  In 1972, Vance Packard, American journalist and social critic, wrote A Nation of Strangers, describing ways in which society was being negatively impacted by "frequent geographic transfers of corporate executives." (Wikipedia) Geographic mobility on the American continent, however, is hardly a  post-World War Two phenomenon impacting primarily corporate executives. Horace Greely's "Go West, young man" advice summarized a pervasive nineteenth century sentiment.

    Americans move . . . to say the obvious . . . for many reasons. 
(Currently on a global scale, thousands are 'on the move', many not by easy choice. E.g., the Syrian refugees.  For the moment, my focus is more narrow.) Improved economic opportunity has long ranked high as a reason for relocating. The first family move that I remember occurred because dad seized just such an opportunity to better provide for us.  And, during my sophomore year in high school, he again took advantage of 'upward mobility' by becoming employed by Metropolitan Life Insurance Company.  This also necessitated our move to another town some 15-20 miles away, not a great geographical distance, but one with many new 'ground rules'.  As a 16 year old, I outwardly made the transition o.k. but there were also several adjustments that required longer.

    This is not a SWAG statistic but actual count . . . I have lived in twenty-seven different residences (counting college/university dorms and army barracks).  Prior to college, I had no say-so in my parents' decisions.  But the subsequent nineteen moves were different. Usually they came as consequence of graduate school or new employment.  A ten year stint as a United Methodist minister brought two moves. 

    In none of those did I engage professional movers.  Instead, family, friends, college fraternity guys, church members, and occasional neighbors gave a hand.  Truck rental agencies should have given me 'frequent mileage points'.  Sometimes I boasted that I was 'learning a trade'.  Memories from my 'internship' include a power line  brought down in one front yard in 1966 when  the height of the truck relative to the height of the line was underestimated.  I honestly do not remember who was at the wheel at the time, but do not think it was I.  My younger brother occasionally reminds me of the time in 1984 when a State Trooper stopped him late one night to ask why he had been following a particular U-Haul truck so closely for so long.  With the tail lights ahead quickly disappearing from view, he explained to the officer that he was helping me move but not knowing directions had been trying to keep me in his sights. . . and now I was gone and he was still 45 miles from his destination.

     Earlier in that same move, one of the college guys walked into a sliding glass door and the impact put him on his derriere to the great amusement of his fraternity brothers.  I had engaged four or five of them in exchange for a keg of their favorite libation for their social gathering. They were satisfied that they were receiving a good deal.  My then-16 year old daughter became very upset when the same guy who bumped the glass door also backed the  truck into the  Toyota station wagon that was her primary set of wheels.

    The fourteen years at my current address is my lifetime record for living longest in one place.  While not having been exactly a nomad, I recognize that my mobility has meant missing some of the presumed benefits of the 'roots' of 'place' and long-term relationships.  

     If you are contemplating a move and need a how-to manual, pick up a copy of my How to Keep Smiling While Packing and Unpacking.  You will find it in the bookstore's Fiction section.

    Satchel