Wondering…
One of the benefits I’ve been relishing during stay-at-home, surpassed only by getting reacquainted with wearing my hair long again, has been reconnecting with friends of old. Phone calls, Zooms, letters, cards, and emails. It‘s been an exercise good for my spirits and the re-provisioning of my serenity. However, today I found myself pondering some of the people I’ve crossed paths with, but who I’ve not been able to get back in touch with. There are a precious few of these folks who each had an oversized, incredibly important impact on my life. And believe me, as an amateur genealogist I know more than a few tricks about finding folks. But those skills have met with no success. With those I cannot find I’m left with a definite emptiness.
I’ve been wondering about Jimmy, my earliest childhood buddy. He lived in the house right next door for most of my elementary years. We were inseparable pals. Our favorite pastime was building dams on the creek behind our homes. We got damn good at it, too! Even made one that turned another neighbor’s entire backyard into a pop-up lake. We were super proud of that one, even if we caught hell for it! We spent every waking moment we could together. Then one day, early in 5th grade, Jimmy didn’t catch the bus with me. After school, thinking he must be sick, I raced to his house and while ringing the doorbell peered in their front window. I was dumbstruck seeing his house completely empty. I walked home in a fog and as soon as I saw my mom mumbled ‘Jimmy’s gone.’ I remember her response was a single, cold sentence. “They moved and I don’t know where to.” I’ve wondered about Jimmy ever since.
I’ve been wondering about Marcia, the first truly beautiful, free spirit I knew. As difficult as it was to lose my friend, Jimmy, I liked the family who bought their house. A friendly couple who eventually had two young children. They gave me my first babysitting job and often baked bread for me on the nights I worked. Then one summer day they introduced me to Marcia. She appeared at our front door with an introduction I vaguely recall of her living with them for a while. We became very different friends. She was a competitive swimmer and we had a pool. Having come from Colorado, she enjoyed knocking around in the woods like I did, and just walking and talking together. She was what at the time my folks saw as a ‘beatnik’. She was stunning with blond hair, which at times was adorned with a wildflower from the woods. Her smile was beguiling to me and from the first time I saw it I loved it. She was the first female friend I’d ever had. Her athleticism, wide range of interests, self-assuredness, and openness made for an immediate, trusting, strong, and valuable friendship. She expanded my universe and taught me how to be comfortable with a girl far my superior, especially one who easily surpassed my abilities and intelligence. It must have been the house, because one day that neighbor couple came over and crushed me with “Marcia’s gone and won’t be here anymore.” I’ve wondered about Marcia ever since.
I’ve been wondering about Roger, a fellow member of my Boy Scout troop. I loved Scouting, gave it my all, and attained my Eagle. Along the way an awkward kid, Roger, joined our troop. Roger had special needs, came from a single parent home (an oddity at the time), and was not at all accepted. For some reason Roger and I bonded and I made special efforts to partner up whenever we could. We studied for merit badges together, were tent mates on camping trips when pup tents were all Scouts had, and we worked especially hard on his first aid and swimming. For a few years our troop went on one, weeklong, summer canoe trip in northern Michigan. In order to go each Scout had to be able to swim two laps of the pool without stopping. Roger and I worked every day after school trying to accomplish this. Unfortunately, every one of those day’s practices ended the same; Roger just couldn’t manage it. When the day came for our official test Roger was the last Scout to swim. I remember crawling alongside the pool chanting support to Roger while the others ignored him. Then silence as Roger touched the end of the pool, exhausted, but having never stopped! I could see his amazing smile through my tears. Turned out his mom couldn’t afford the cost of camp, he didn’t go, and I never saw him again. I’ve wondered about Roger ever since.
I’ve been wondering about Jose and Arturo, my happenstance hosts in Angola. I’ve always been deeply thankful for the semester I spent as a student on Semester at Sea. It took us 111 days to circle the globe, taking classes at sea, and experiencing differing cultures in our ports of call. For our fourth port we docked in Angola, at the time a Portuguese colony. Unbeknownst to us our arrival had been noted on an Angolan radio station. As Tom, my shipboard best friend, and I took our first step off the gangway we were met by a total stranger. Perhaps in his 30s, with wavy, jet black hair, and a gigantic smile. He introduced himself as Jose, a Portuguese citizen. As if we were expected friends, he asked if he could “show you my country like no one else would.” We replied with enthusiastic yeses and we were off, being hosted for the next three days. Jose quickly added his cousin, Arturo, to the car and we set off seeing Angola in the way only locals can do. They drove us far and wide, so far we had to turn around due to the sounds of gunfire from the civil war raging there. We stopped at villages, beaches, and local haunts, always taking magnificent back roads. They even broke into the F1 racetrack outside Luanda letting Tom and me drive the course. We spent hours in deep conversations. Jose and Arturo asking about all things American. In turn, Tom and I quizzing them about Angola, Portugal, and the war, especially since Arturo had been conscripted. We spent our third day, joined by an ever increasing cadre of fellow shipmates, being treated to all the Carnaval festivities across the city of Luanda. As we weighed anchor that night I recall leaning against the railing of our ship and waving until they vanished from my vantage point. For some reason the only contact information we exchanged was Arturo’s ham radio call letters, CR6LW, Arturo Batista, but I’ve never been able to find him. I’ve wondered about Jose and Arturo ever since.
Jimmy. Marcia. Roger. Jose. Arturo. Important, impactful people, once upon a time in my life. Each gone to who knows where and I’m left with only the emptiness of wondering.
I guess Frank Sinatra was right when he crooned “Once upon a time never comes again….”