Good neighbors don’t need fences

Making friends as an adult is a tricky, tricky proposition. If you’ve got kids, that’s a good place to start.  I’ve found it useful to identify potential friends among my kids’ parent group by complaining about something and seeing if anyone joins in.  Just a little bit, I mean they have to know what they’re getting into.  I like to make sure their kids aren’t too clean or perfectly well behaved, because I don’t need that kind of pressure in my life.  And then there’s the whole thing of being on your guard in case someone seems like potential friend material but then it turns out they just want you to join their multi-level marketing scheme or cult or something or group that actually stays out after 10:00 or something.   There are so many awkward stages, it’s almost worse than dating, because it’s highly unlikely that at any point in the proceedings, you’ll get to break the tension by making out.  I mean, not impossible, but highly unlikely.   So, yeah, tricky proposition all in all.

I wish that I could have just keep all my best friends from all of my stages of life with me as I moved from place to place and job to job.  Create some sort of nomadic caravan of friends that I’ve collected.  That way all I would need to do would be to pop out of the door and wander over to their tent or whatever.  But alas, that’s not the way our world works, and they remain scattered, accessible on a daily basis only through a computer screen. It was so easy back in college, when all you had to do was wander into a dorm hallway and start banging on doors.  It’s harder now, but having a neighbors as best friends sure makes things easier.

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The neighborhood keeps me sane

 

My healthiest relationship and longest neighbor friendship is with Vicky.  I was reminded today of how much she means to me because we had a stupid argument, and that’s what got me thinking. Don’t worry–it’s all fixed up and better, not two hours after it happened.  On the rare occasions when we irritate each other, we argue like professionals.  Seriously, we should be used as a model for couples counseling.  For example, today I said something rude to and insensitive and made Vicky mad.  Then she called me back and, using “I” statements, told me how she felt. Then she allowed me to respond. I took ownership for my mistake, explained my point of view.  She listened. Then I said that I was sorry and asked for her forgiveness. Then she forgave me and we talked about other things and signed off by saying “I love you.” We should take our game on the road, I think.  She is honestly the ONLY PERSON that I argue with correctly!

Vicky and Me and the Kids

Here we are taking the girls to vote in the 2016 election.  It was good to have a friend after that…

 

To wrap up my little musing on adult friendships, here’s a little something I wrote three plus years ago when a couple of our other neighbor friends moved away.  The feelings hold true today, as new clans fill in the empty spaces of our neighborhood circle:

I like things the way they are.  Maybe not everything, but I love my neighborhood the way it is, and I weep to think of losing it.  I like that our kids have known each other since they were in diapers.  They lope home from the bus each day, secure in the comfort of each other.  Games and imaginings sprout up at a moment’s notice in the backyard tree fort, sunlight dappling the most ethnically diverse locality in all of Franklin, people with the brownish-whitish souls that belong to us.  I like that they belong to US.  I don’t care whose house they are in—they’ll be fed, and scolded, and loved, and entertained, and secure in the knowledge that they belong.  I like that my ugliest secrets belong to these three women and they don’t care.  They are some of the only friends who don’t need anything from me but me.  When I grant them kindnesses or favors I do so not to uphold some carefully crafted image or façade, but just because that the way it is.  I like that our backyards and the lollipop of a street are enough of a world for our kids in the summer, that they can subsist on endless popscicles snuck from freezer after freezer all summer long.  I like that we’ve cried together and even more so laughed together.  I like that my girlfriends are my family, and that we’ve created a magical little village for ourselves that is so rare in today’s world.  I guard it and speak of it with pride and knowledge that it inspires envy.  –me, Friday, April 17, 2015

Four of us

We were always too busy to get better pictures.  Miss this.

They say you can’t go back

The following is written as a birthday gift to my dear friend, Sara (Juni) Vacek.  She hates this picture, but it’s one of my favorites.

Sara

Sara, future biologist for the DNR, honing her craft summer of 1997

Earlier this month I was, happily, forced to examine the question:  Can you go back?  It all began when my college friend, Sara, arrived on the train from St. Paul.  As I pulled up to the Milwaukee Intermodal Station, my palms were  quite sweaty.

Milwaukee Intermodal

Milwaukee Intermodal Station looking far more photogenic than I’ve ever seen in real life.

Sara and I had been thoroughly and completely besotted with each other those last few years at Lawrence University, and while we’ve stayed in touch, neither of us could claim that our friendship is a day-to-day reality anymore.  While we have spent time together in the 20 years since graduation, it has not been nearly enough.  Further and perhaps more importantly, we haven’t actually been alone together for any length of time in that past 20 years!

I know in my heart of hearts that my best girlfriends are those for which time and separation aren’t an impediment.  Still–a whole week just the two of us?  What if our ease of rapport had vanished?  This could have the potential for disaster writ in the form of awkward silences.

Ang Sara 98

Ang & Sara joined at the hip, c. 1998

Question #1:  Can you really go back to an intense friendship, set down for a time?

 

The first five minutes were, at least for me, a little bit awkward.  Fortunately, however, I guess that enough of each of us is still the same that the skills, attitudes, and knack of the friendship resurfaced in no time.  Fortunately for us, in the case of a true friendship, not based on selfish need, you can go back.  The silences were the comfortable kind, not awkward at all.  I was in charge of guest relations, Sara was in charge of explaining the world to me.  We did a jigsaw puzzle.  We listened to the sound of each other’s breathing at night–and then put in earplugs.  It was all good.

I’m trying to find some tangible reasons for why this was so–why we were so quickly able to revert to old comforts and patterns?  I think that partly it was due to the fact that our friendship was forged during a time of deep intensity, the fires of young adult optimism and exuberance.  My clan of this type of friends almost all share that in common–solidifying under the stress of a time of high emotion.  New motherhood, residency, education, death.  And the other bit?  It’s the mysterious question of how two people are cut to fit eachother, despite coming from a different bolt of cloth.  I don’t know.  If you figure out the magic formula, please let me know, because making friends as an adult is tough!

Great Friends

Perfect platitude for the occasion

Answer #1:  If it’s the right friendship, you can go back and just pick up where you left off.  

 

Sara came to town so that we could spend time taking a seminar at Bjorklunden, a halcyon place in Door County (more on this later).  On the three hour drive up north,we made a detour through our college town, Appleton, Wisconsin and wandered a bit around campus.  It was a Sunday, relatively early, so the student community was just starting to come to life.  We made a loop, littered it with remembrances and recognitions, grabbed a bite to eat and were on our way.

LawrenceUniversity-MapSM

Oh, you need a map you say????

Question #2:  Can you ever go back to a an important place in your past, like college?

 

LU 94

My version of Lawrence University, fall 1994.  

We pulled up to campus and parked in a visitor’s space.  As we walked around, actual memories mingled with anxiety dreams that featured Lawrence.  (My favorite is that I’m walking into my dorm and realize that I haven’t checked my mail for the entire term and don’t know my mailbox code.   These are the things that really eat at my subconscious, apparently.  Also the dream where I forgot to put on a top.)  The buildings were the same for the most part, as was the landscaping and, believe it or not, the smell of the place–some combination of fall mulch and youthful vigor.  But the actual life of the place?  The young adults wandering the campus?  Cut from a different cloth entirely.  Here’s a brief highlighting of some of the key differences we observed:

  • I didn’t notice any piles of forlorn Ice House cans outside of any of the buildings on the quad.  This is due, likely, to the fact that at this moment, only one of the houses around the quadrangle is occupied by a fraternity.  Other occupants include a house dedicated to the theme of swing dancing and another, Gaming.  This fact is thus far the only piece of Lawrence that has struck any sort of a chord of familiarity with my Big 10 -worshiping spouse.
  • The student union is a new glassy building dedicated to the memory of Rik Warch.  He was President during Sara and my tenure and, in fact, 25 years of Lawrence’s 200+ year history.  His figure looms large in our and many’s memory.  He had a way of making my awkward, 22-year-old self feel important and worthwhile.  And he was so. damn. smart.
    Rik Warch

    Rik Warch-Lawrence University president 1979-2004

    I imagine that for most current students, it’s mostly the oversized oil painting of the man in ceremonial garb that looms large.  Hey kids!  Why aren’t you talking about Rik?

  • Inside said Union, we stopped at the cafe for a quick bite.  While Mozzie Sticks are, in fact, still on the menu, there is no aggressive middle aged townie screaming out their readiness to waiting customers.  Instead, a sedate backlit sign displays orders that are ready.
  • Menu items included a variety of associated icons, and the tables displayed their key.  Among the 20 or so icons were the usual vegan, lactose free, gluten free.  They also, if memory serves, included commentary on the grazing experience of sourced pigs, type of music played for the dairy producing cows, and whether or not fisherpeople sang shanties during their voyages.  But as Sara so patiently explained, it’s so that these mysterious millennials can curate every decision and action in their lives.  Not a bad thing, probably a good thing, just different.
  • Finally, one difference that’s almost a similarity.  We were confused to find that a former small cafeteria space in Colman Hall had been converted into large apartment-style places for 18 students to live, with the unifying factor being that they prepare their own three squares a day.  Two of Sara’s collegiate causes were represented therein:  The environmental group Greenfire maintained the space and students who transferred their board their to dine with the group were members of the McCarthy House Co-op.  We begged a peek inside.  They were her people, but man alive was that space a lot neater than I remember the former Co-Op House, sprawled unceremoniously behind the Chapel.

    LU tree

    Best maple ever, c. 1997

  • The heartbrakingly gorgeous maple between the library and the art center is gone, gone, gone.  Sigh.

Answer #2:  So, in the case of college, nope you can’t go back.  

Lawrence the Place is still the same, but it’s just not ours anymore.  What an interesting characteristic of colleges and universities.  The students who pass through them fiercely lay claim to the institution, but really they are laying claim to the memory of their brief four years of the place.

Reflecting on this made it so apparent to me how difficult it must be for alumni directors of any short-term type place to create a sense of unity across decades of alumni.  Maybe that’s why there’s so much clinging to landmarks and mascots and, at some larger places, teams.  They are truly the few constants across time.  And almost everyone’s four years are completely separated in time, with very little overlap.  It’s almost like the question of how your body can really still be your body despite the fact that the individual cells that constitute it are continually dying and being replaced, (except for the central nervous system and, interestingly, lens of the eye).  So, the place was still our Lawrence University, but completely different;  it is a the same body, but made up of almost completely new parts.

So, for these two examples, the answer to “Can you go back?” is different.  But what of Bjorklunden and other such places?

 

If this entry left you reminiscent for those years at Lawrence, or Lawrence in general, check out a recent podcast put together by 2 students in 2016 on the mysterious disappearance of The Rock.  In it, people of my vintage are referred to as “somewhat old alums.”