‘Old Days and Old Age’: A Friendly Reminder of What Truly Matters
‘Old Days and Old Age’: A Friendly Reminder of What Truly Matters
Four old friends reunite and prove that decades of loyalty and shared history can outlast politics—and that some bonds are worth more than any argument.
The text message arrived for a last-minute, miniature high school reunion of sorts.
Tom, an old friend who had settled out east, was back in town visiting family. He would pop by the house of another high school friend, Nick. Of all those who had been invited, my friend Paul and I, it turned out, were the only ones who could make it that night.
Since the last time we had seen Tom was at our 40th high school reunion and since he was only infrequently back in Michigan, we set aside our other plans and made the short trek to Nick’s house.
After picking up some pizzas for the gathering, Paul drove, and I rode shotgun, a question lingering as we neared our destination. Hesitantly, he raised it. He said Tom did not share our political outlook, and Paul did not know if Nick did either.
I acknowledged his assessment, and then pointed out to Paul that we, too, did not always agree on politics— he usually being more moderate and, by my reckoning, perpetually wrong. I told him I knew Tom’s political persuasion but did not know Nick’s. I did note that Tom and Nick likely understood both of our political beliefs (certainly mine), but that did not prevent our being texted with the invite.
We both agreed that our evening would not end in acrimony and recriminations over politics. After all, it was never a problem when we were younger, so why should it be now?
Still, Paul was compelled to astutely and ominously note that when we were younger, there was no cancel culture or articles calling upon people to boycott Thanksgiving dinner and cut relatives out of their lives based upon their political beliefs. I was loath to admit it, but Paul had a point . . .
When we arrived and reconnected with Tom and Nick, it was not like we were back in high school, bruised from football practice and trying to figure out where we could illicitly come into some beer to soothe our aches and teenage angst. Too much time— too much life— had gone by for that. We were vastly different people from those days— and thankfully so.
Nevertheless, there was a timeless quality to the evening. We had all been friends for decades. While we had not been constantly in touch with each other, our bond nonetheless remained. It was evident during the COVID lockdown when Tom initiated a biweekly internet meeting of the old high school class, because some of our number had been dealing with cancer. (Two of whom are still with us, thank God; and may the third rest in peace.) The meetings did tail off when the crisis ended for all intents and purposes, culminating in our 40th class reunion.
So, what did we talk about? What 60-year-old parochial school chums usually talk about: old days and old age. Sure, there was discussion of some current events, including the opioid crisis, to which Tom had a ringside seat and trenchant insights given his chosen profession. But there was never a moment when anyone was boorish or bored. The conversation flowed with the synchronicity of an aging rock band reuniting for a gig. We knew when not to step on each other and when not to take the song in a selfish direction. All in all, it was a splendid evening.
On the ride home, I did not tell Paul I had somewhat sandbagged him. During those COVID class reunion calls, Tom reached out to me to make sure they stayed apolitical. The reason Tom reached out to me was because—and this is no compliment—I was recognized as being the most politically involved, given my years in public life and office. But there was another reason. Tom and I had a minor spat on Facebook over an article I had written. It took a bit for me to tether my argumentative instinct, but I finally recalled something Paul McCartneyhad said about his often-bitter arguments with John Lennon:
One of my great memories of John is from when we were having some argument. I was disagreeing, and we were calling each other names. We let it settle for a second, and then he lowered his glasses, and he said, ‘It’s only me.’ And then he put his glasses back on again. To me, that was John. Those were the moments when I actually saw him without the facade, the armor, which I loved as well, like anyone else. It was a beautiful suit of armor. But it was wonderful when he let the visor down, and you’d just see the John Lennon that he was frightened to reveal to the world.
Tom and I had our “It’s only me” moment, working out our disagreement by agreeing to disagree and moving forward. Hence, when he made the request to keep our reunion calls politics-free, I wholeheartedly agreed.
Politics is a fleeting, divisive part of life. It certainly is not life itself. There are far more important and permanent things in life— faith, family, community, and country. And, yes, old days and old age for four aging high school pals to banter about over pizza and libations. Driving home, I recalled something else Sir Paul McCartney said about his fellow Beatles: “How lucky was I to have those men in my life?”
Amen, Sir Paul. Amen.
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