Growing Apart, and Reconnecting, Somewhat

AMONG THE PLEASURES of encroaching dotage, few though there may be, is the enhanced opportunity in the digital age for renewing contact with long lost friends from one's younger years, folks who vanished from our lives decades ago. Ours is not a culture given to forming, much less nurturing nor renewing friendships. (see: 'Bowling Alone", by Robert Putnam). A friend of mine from Shanghai, who came to study in my small college town, said to me: "You Amellicans are the loneliest people in the world. You care more about your dogs and cats than each other." An insightful, cogent analysis of American culture, if ever here were one. You got that right, I assured him, moments before he headed off to find companionship and anonymity in the cold confines of Chicago. He had grown up accustomed to living in a city of twenty million, and small college town life left him lonely. So did Chicago, it turned out. For years I tried to stay in touch with my friends from adolescence and early adulthood. They mostly didn't reciprocate, and I eventually gave up. They kept moving around, changing numbers, and as middle aged manifested I, like they, became self absorbed in the present. Now for me its mostly a mater of curiosity. Whatever happened to them? I found out that a girl I spent one pleasant evening with changed course, and ended up becoming an award winning anthropologist. Most of my childhood friends became successful, as I knew they would, though there are a couple of fallen criminals and space cadets in the mix. Truly, it takes all kinds. Most of them married, and the divorce rate among my old friends ranks well below the national average. One in particular had the good sense to marry late, and the bad sense to have children late, truncating his chances of ever attaining the heartwarming status of grandparent. When I emailed him "what's up" after thirty years, he responded. He had moved around, teaching at a series of junior colleges, and had two sons, of whom he was inordinately proud. He showed no interest in learning about my life during the missing thirty years, which is fine, which is normal. He slightly miscalculated me level of interest in his life, and in his gifted and talented sons. I learned a bit too much about the ability of a fourteen year old to mix fast balls and sliders, and much too much about the prospects of a thirteen year old for future consideration for a Nobel prize. I decided to respond honestly, which quieted him. I passingly remarked that following and sharing his children's lives will be his greatest joy over the next several decades, regardless of their trajectory. I expressed joy at the thought that their success, or ack thereof, wouldn't really matter, but that only their health and happiness would. I then went on, teacher to teacher, to present my view of education in America, which includes my contempt for the label "gifted and talented", and too great an emphasis by the system, as I see it, on personal ambition and success and too little emphasis on being of service to others and to society. I expressed my view that if one does a good job washing dishes or cleaning streets, one has become successful, and one needn't become a major league star or Nobel Laureate to achieve success. I quoted Einstein to him, to the effect that a common, simple life yields more happiness than success. As you might suspect, I have not heard from him since, and probably never will. He has bigger fish to fry, people to tell about his gifted and talented sons, and the sons himself, which will require his close monitoring and mentoring. I learned that old friendships fade away for a reason, and that their renewal is at best a precarious proposition; over the years we change, and we grow apart. Unfortunately, I am not likely to ever learn exactly how successful his two great talents ever become, unless one of them wins the world Series and the other one the Nobel prize, and that will be my loos, or just maybe, my gain.