Bookends

Many of my generation would call Bob Dylan the philosopher of the baby boomers. I disagree. Simon and Garfunkel are more to my taste. The duo did not put out many albums during their existence (I have only four), but most were classics. My favorite is Bookends, which I think was their fourth album. One tune from the album, Old Friends, has lyrics that begin:

Old friends, old friends sat on their park bench like bookends.

For the last two months that song has been tormenting my brain. A bit more than a month ago, I attended the funeral of my best friend, a gentleman I had known for 27 years. I kept thinking of the song, telling myself that I really wasn’t cut out to sit on a park bench with an old friend, anyway. But the loss of an old friend hurts.

I lost my father a bit more than 19 years ago. We were father and son, not the usual combination one thinks of as best friends. His loss was different. My definition of a happy childhood is a childhood without fear, a childhood of knowing that whatever may befall you, your parents can take care of the situation. My father gave me a happy childhood. He had all the answers to all my problems. Of course, eventually I grew up, and had to take responsibility for my own actions. My father no longer had all the answers. But he continued to serve as a sounding board, a source of advice, and let the record show, wisdom. I still feel his loss all these years later.

A bit more than four years ago, I lost another friend, Jim. Jim was a retired lawyer, but in spite of the fact that we practiced different professions, Jim was a mentor. I learned a fair bit about life from him, and even a little bit about the law. We had known each other for about 15 years when he died, quite suddenly. Kathy and I were getting ready to leave for a spring break visit to Taiwan, and I chatted with him on the phone just before we left. When I returned, a week later, I called him to tell him all about the trip. He never answered either his landline or his cell phone. After a few missed calls, I called a mutual friend, who told me that Jim had passed away while we were gone.

Charley, my friend who was died last month, was 55 years old when we met. He was able to retire from his employer in Connecticut with full benefits, but he was unwilling to be put out to pasture at that tender age. Thus, I hired him and moved him to Georgia, in 1992. We got along well, and soon became fast friends. He, too, was a mentor. He is the fellow who talked me into attending my very first jazz party, in Clearwater Beach, Florida. We attended many a jazz party together after that first event in 2000.

One day Charley told me that he had more music than he could ever listen to in the years he had remaining, and so he had decided to give me his entire record, tape, and CD collection of jazz music. I was overwhelmed, as he had some classics dating back several decades. Of course, I did the decent thing: I digitized all the records and tapes, and ripped all the CDs. I then presented Charley with a hard drive containing all the music he had given to me. It turns out that he had quite a few more years to enjoy that music. We also recorded all the music from the jazz parties we attended. I must admit that I am a bit behind on organizing and labeling the music from the last couple of jazz parties we attended. Charley will not be able to enjoy those tunes, but I will think of him when I play them.

I last saw Charley a couple of weeks before he died. He was complaining of various ailments, only one of which sounded remotely serious. As it happens, that is not the ailment that did him in. He suffered a heart attack, and passed quickly.

Given the timing of Charley’s death, I cannot help but feel a bit down this Christmas. Still, he had a good run, and more importantly, he made a difference. I cannot speak for others, but I can state with certainty that my life would have been very different, and much the poorer, if I hadn’t known him. That is, perhaps, the best that can be said for any of us.