John Board called recently. “I wanted to make sure that you’re OK after not receiving answers to e-mails.” “I’m fine, but I didn’t get your e-mails. I’ll check my computer to see what’s wrong.”
How heartwarming it was that John called. He was my closest friend at Ball State. Both history majors, we’d sit in a booth at the Campus Cottage or on the steps of a church near the houses where we roomed, discuss everything under the sun and idealistically plan how we’d change American education. Sometimes we’d forget the 10:30 curfew for girls, and I’d throw pebbles at my bedroom window so that my roommate would sneak down and let me in.
Our paths diverged when John went to teach in Montana and married there, while I taught in Indianapolis and married Bill. We lost touch for many years until information about our fiftieth class reunion was published. One of the marvels of the computer is that it connects and reconnects people. John receives my columns, and we correspond occasionally about mutual interests such as books. A few months ago he spent a night with us during a visit to Indiana.
When I was younger I thought that I had dozens of friends, but now I see that I’ve had dozens of acquaintances, but very few friends. Acquaintances move on, but true friends are permanent. Like fine brandy, they pass the test of time. The friends of one’s youth, no matter how rarely one sees them, have a direct pathway to one’s heart. We don’t have to get to know each other. An old friend is like a familiar song whose words we may forget, but whose melody is never lost.
When I was a high school Freshman a group of girls befriended me. That changed my life dramatically as I had often been excluded from the various cliques. We hung out at Sullivans’ Drive-in at the east end of town, rode around in their fathers’ cars, had slumber parties at which no one slumbered, played euchre and clandestinely smoked. Thinking that we were ever so cool we called ourselves — wait for it — “The Nine Nifty Nicitinos.” However, we didn’t drink, and pot and other drugs were unheard of in little Knightstown.
I can still hear and see them with my mind’s ear and eye: Clara, Darleen, Linda, Amelia . . . and others — Sheila with whom I teeter-tottered during first grade, math whiz Laura Mae, farm girl Frances, sunny funny Jack Bundy who eventually died of muscular dystrophy . . . .neighborhood chums — the Forbes’s, Mardella, Rex, and Billy Vanduyn . . .
I think that family life may have been different then. Our friends’ parents didn’t try to be our buddies, but they were a kind, dependable and cheerful presence. Alas, the only one of them who is left is the beloved, still vivacious Vivian Forst who will be 104 years old in a few days. She is like a second mother to me and others.
When I was five years old I met someone who has remained my friend for over seventy years. One day Mrs. Ward was visiting next door and brought her daughter, Sarah, over to our yard. I don’t think that there is any adequate definition of the word “friend,” but Sarah Ward fills the bill. Sarah is one of the most dependable, tenacious and totally honest of my acquaintances. We strongly disagree about several things. For example, she’s the former President of the World Union and current President of the Indiana Women’s Christian Temperance Union. A teetotaler, she drinks sparkling apple juice at Christmas meals at our home while I quaff champagne.
No two friendships are alike. Each one of those unique friends and pals from my distant youth enriched my life and resides in a special trunk of memories in my mental attic. More to come. Next week: Wanda. wclarke@comcast.net