We tentatively set it up for last Friday, and she got busy on the phone and online. We drove up to the north suburbs from our home in Somonauk at 5:00 on a Friday. I expected to hit significant traffic, but except for a few slow-downs, we sailed right along. When we arrived, we found everyone gathered in Wendy and her husband Andy's beautiful backyard.
It was not a big gathering, about a dozen of us, but my dearest and most cherished comrades in arms, from that pivotal time in our lives, were there. Of course, the initial catching up amounted to a litany of all our ailments. I was in my wheelchair; Bob had just gone through cancer treatment, looked thin, and as if he had just endured a great battle; and Joe, who I had seen leap up onstage during an outdoor Pink Floyd concert and juggle along to the music, and who backpacked solo across Scotland, Wales, and New Zealand (pre-Tolkien), had lost his left leg to diabetes.
As we enjoyed homemade pico de gallo and guacamole with tortilla chips, turkey and roast beef sandwiches, and an assortment of libations, talk turned to old times. In so doing, it wasn't long before I whispered to Joe, "Did anyone bring smoke?" He said, "I think somebody may have some." Joe got up with the use of his cane and spoke a few words to a few other people. Soon a pipe was inconspicuously being passed around.
After the pipe went around, hilarity ensued. Both the years and the hours melted away. From where I was sitting, as twilight turned to darkness, the crescent moon hung in a clear sky in the fork formed by the canopies of two tall trees.
These were the people I partied with thirty-five years ago, and it was so much fun to party with them again. It was a perfect night to sit outdoors, relive old stories, and tell new ones. We talked about how incredible it was that we had children and grandchildren the same age that we were when we met. We looked in each others' eyes and collectively said, "Uh oh."
Grant, looking older, but quite distinguished in white hair, had driven down from central Wisconsin. Wendy's college roommate Sandy, whom Wendy said, "will take secrets to her grave," kept things lively with a nonstop stream of chatter. A neighbor ran over, accepted the offered pipe with glee, and rollicked us with stories about Wendy.
Bob and Wendy's mom was there. "Hi, Trudy," I said. "It's nice to see you again." Like any good Jewish mother she said, "I had a brain tumor. Eat something!"
Even with all the shenanigans, Trudy reveled in seeing all the old friends together again. Bob was sitting next to her. I stretched out my arm and said, "This is nothing new for her. All our moms knew what was going on back then." She beamed a knowing smile.
I was regaling Mark and his wife Barb with a story about my two-year-old grandson.
"One time, my son and grandson came over because the girls (my daughter-in-law, mother-in-law, and two granddaughters) were going shopping. We happened to be having whole trout for dinner. My wife Shellie bought them when she stopped in at Whole Foods after work for their one day only sale on cherries. We had the trout laid out on a baking sheet at the table where I was dressing the fish with lemon slices, sliced garlic, fresh dill sprigs from our garden, coarse sea salt, cracked pepper, and melted butter.
"Owen was sitting across from me and I said, "Owen, look at this." I opened and closed the fish's jaw and talked in a funny voice. "Owen, are you going to eat me?" He sat there stunned for a minute, then shook his head. "Owen, will you put me back in the water so I can swim away?" He looked at the fish, he looked at my face, then we both started laughing.
"I stuck the tip of my finger into the fish's mouth and quickly pulled it out. 'Oooh, Owen, he bit me!'
"He looked at my finger (which I was holding up) with this look of concern, then his whole face lit up. Of course, we had to make a game of it. It was the cutest thing."
I stopped and said, "How corny is that!? I haven't seen you in thirty-five years and I'm talking about sticking my finger in a fish's mouth." Barb said, "No, those are the things that make life worth living."
I was saying that my granddaughters, who are six and nine, are getting to the stage where you could tell them stuff. "I have the six-year-old believing that we have a family of talking raccoons who live in our backyard. Every time I see her, I bring her messages from the raccoons. Sometimes I tell her one of our raccoons is missing, and I say to her, 'Did you take home one of our raccoons!?' She gets this big devious grin, but she won't admit it either way."
Mark said, "You have all this wisdom, all this experience, but your kids won't listen to you."
"You know what?" I said. "When we were young, we thought we knew it all - and we DID!"
"But your grandkids will listen to you," said Mark.
"Kids never think their parents are funny," Barb said, "but our grandchildren laugh at everything Mark says.
I had a few minutes to talk to Joe quietly. "How are you getting along with the one leg?" I asked him.
Joe looked directly at me, as if daring me to challenge his righteousness, "Taking it for all it's worth. I cash my disability check every month. I carry an Obamaphone. People buy me free drinks. They let me get ahead of them in line."
"You know why!?" he said. "Because I'm cute!"
Joe was right. He is cute. He's a big, gregarious, open-hearted Scotsman. A confirmed bachelor, he is married only to the love of his life - music. Joe is a walking encyclopedia of classic rock, in fact, he listens to his voluminous collection of classic vinyl in alphabetical order by band. He also keeps up to date with the latest talent. He's currently focused on the "second generation" as he calls them, the sons of the famous rock stars who have groups of their own. Joe said he used his disability to get VIP treatment at concerts and meet the musicians backstage.
It was amazing to see Wendy again. I got a hard hug when I arrived, and a soft kiss when I left. She is still the free-spirit she was when we were younger, and unspoken, except for in our eyes, was the thought of what might have been.
My wife Shellie said the best part of the evening for her was seeing me so happy.
The night was wonderful, special, and magical. There was so much love in the air. We toasted to all who weren't there (including some who had passed), and to all who were. It was so great to be with everyone again. It felt so right, so natural.
I firmly believe that things happen in their own time for their own reasons. It may happen that all of us may never again be gathered together in one place, and I am thankful to Wendy and whatever powers may be, for the time we were allowed to share.
