Late Friends

August 3, 2018

“You ought to join; you’d like it.” My daughter was once more prodding me to come to the Sinclairville library’s writer’s group, and I was resisting. I hadn’t yet retired, and one more thing on my plate was more than I was willing to handle. Besides, Friday afternoons were committed to New Horizons concert and jazz bands; giving up the entire day seemed a little much. But finally in retirement, I relented. 

It’s been four years now. Retirement gave me time, a most precious commodity, as any senior citizen will tell you. In childhood, time moves slowly; we can’t wait to get to the next stage in life. No self-respecting adult will tell you, “I’m seventy-one and a half,” but for a child, those milestones are stepping stones into a future filled with promise. Moving to semi-retirement has at times been a challenge, as like Cinderella’s ugly stepsisters attempting to wedge size 12 feet into a size 4 glass slipper, I try to squeeze more into each week than fits comfortably. 

Group was smaller today, but worth every minute shared amongst friends. For a couple weeks now, I’ve been urged to bring a guitar and sing an original composition. Today I obliged with a couple little ditties set to the same tune. Around the table sat my good friends Rell, George, and Don; Beth and Arlene. Clark, Dennis, and Chuck were missing, as well as my daughter who got me into this to begin with. The guys outnumbered the gals for a change, but every one of us guys is an old codger. Most of the time, we’re able to avoid being curmudgeons, but we’re all on borrowed time. “Therein lies the rub.” Was it Shakespeare who penned that phrase? I don’t know, but it fits. Especially for a writer’s group.

Just before breaking up for the day, Don spoke up. “I’m not an early morning person,” he announced. “It takes me awhile to get going, so usually it’s ten o’clock before I’m really moving much. Except on Fridays. This group means so much to me that I can’t wait to get here.” 

I feel the same way, but alongside each week’s anticipation is the sober reality that these friends I found late in life are just that—late in life. Someday, “late” will become an adjective describing our demise. Sadly, I’ll never be able to say of these men, “We’ve been best of friends for thirty years.” We don’t have that kind of time left. But if we did, these are the men I’d choose, and I am grateful for their wisdom and friendship as we walk these later miles together on Friday mornings.