A Friend from Long Ago (#4)

A couple of weeks ago, I got a Facebook message out of the blue from my best friend from childhood, someone I hadn't seen in 20 years. "Charles" and I were almost inseparable from age six, then he moved away and we drifted apart. Sure, I visited him two or three times in his new city, but the 300 miles soon came between us and we lost touch. That's really no excuse, because we were both literate enough to write a letter and lick a stamp.

So last week I got this message on Facebook, and Charles said he'd searched for me and still recognized my face even with the addition of 20 years and a beard. Maybe that's what a friend is. Someone who knows me as the deeper me, the part that doesn't change from age 12 to 32.

When we were kids, Charles and I used to hang out with another friend, "Jerry." We played Ewoks out in the redwood trees behind Jerry's house, and it felt like we were in the movie - after all, the film was shot in a nearby redwood forest. Charles and I shared a very close bond, and often Jerry seemed a little like a third wheel. But as we grew and Charles moved away, Jerry became (and remains) my closest and dearest friend.

Charles and I have spent the past couple of weeks catching up little by little via e-mail. He told me a little about his wife and stepdaughter, about his career, and his dreams for the future. I told him about my wonderful job doing science outreach for children, about my recent failed relationship, and about my desire to have a family of my own.

I never really felt the years slip by, but I feel like I'm at a midpoint of my life, (developmentally, if not chronologically). Charles sent me scans of yearbook pages from first grade and third grade: as I look at my own scratchy six-year-old writing, I feel old. At that time, I hadn't lost any teeth yet, and I remember Charles (who was seven months older) telling me, "When you turn seven, you'll lose teeth, too." He seemed so much older and more experienced than I was!

One day when we were seven or eight years old, we went out and had "an adventure." We bush-whacked through the woods behind my house toward the banks of the Mad River. It was a slow and tourtuous path as we braved the thorny bushes, through pungent mud and buzzing insects. I don't think either of us knew where we were, but a feeling of purpose and a vague sense of direction kept us going until we triumphantly arrived at the the rocky, muddy river bank. We scampered along the rocks for maybe a quarter mile until we got to the road to walk back. Our whole route was probably not more than a half mile, but we felt like we'd really done something noteworthy.

A couple of years later, we were racing our bikes and I ran into him, crashing and breaking my left arm. He only had a few scrapes, and he came with me to the hospital while I got x-rayed and put in a cast.

So why does this matter to me now? I'd always wondered where Charles was, all these years. Something was missing, some important part of my life and past. Part of me was afraid that we wouldn't have much in common anymore. But now he chose to take the action of seeking me out. And even though on the surface, our lives seem to be different, we still have a lot in common on the inner levels. It feels good to be connected with him again, and somehow the friendship does not feel like it's been interrupted. Perhaps that's the measure of a true friend.