Several years ago, we moved to a new town that seemed like a good fit — but we knew no one here. My fear was easily articulated: I didn’t want to end up calling vague acquaintances “friends.” The town where I grew up, and where my parents aged and died, was both a reference and a model for me. They were surrounded by friends they had known for decades. This is not to say that they didn’t complain — about how Leila never shut up and Frances ate so fast that sharing Chinese food only worked if you loaded your plate early on — but no matter, they benefitted from and contributed to stable, caring relationships.
These friends knew one another. They could collectively and reliably conjure up characters or events while worrying or laughing together. They discussed not only whom they would vote for, but whom they had supported since first becoming aware of world affairs. If they hadn’t met each other’s parents and siblings, oft-told stories made them real. They also knew one another’s tricks and skills — that Freida could recall who played in any movie, and Bruce could create limericks for all occasions, including Passover. They were enlivened and renewed by the adventures and achievements, and sometimes the heartbreaks, of the children and grandchildren who grew up within their circle.
Are new, deep friendships possible as we age, at our age, especially in new places? Can vague acquaintances become real friends?
Day four of moving to our new town I saw a sign for the “Sholem Aleichem Yortsayt Variety Show.” Crazy and unlikely as this event seemed, and expecting maybe twelve people in attendance, I made my way to the theater The place was shockingly rocking, a full house of people who looked a lot like me. Larry Bush of Jewish Currents fame was one of the organizers. He and I took a walk on one of the rail trails in our area a few months later. “I don’t like small talk,” he began as we introduced ourselves. My kinda guy! And what a challenge!
“Let’s talk about something that surprised us in the past two weeks,” I said. “Or we could share a curiosity like, ‘Who was your favorite relative, ever?’”
No small-talk is always a risk. If the potential friend thinks your questions are inappropriate, she’s probably not for you. Or if you think my questions are inappropriate, perhaps you and I are not made for one another.
When I asked my new good friend Rebecca (whom I met at a local meeting of the historical society) about her major in college, she told me, “Ending the Vietnam War.” I majored in that, too, I realized!
Rebecca introduced me to Eileen, who has a serious meditation practice. I aspire to her generosity and kindness.
Estie and I separately joined a nonprofit board. She, an accountant by training, was methodical and meticulous, and I understood grantwriting. We were an obvious team.
In truth I feel extraordinarily lucky. In a small town and in just a few years, I have developed the kind of wonderful friendships my parents enjoyed. I am regularly invited into deep conversations, and celebrate an evolving and critical sense of our personal histories. As empathy expands, I feel touched by love.
There are, of course, happy alternatives to my goal of deep friendship. My friend Jackie moved to a new place and is working hard not to meet new people and not to join organizations. She’s diligently writing a family (auto)biography, designed for her children and grandchildren (120 pages so far). She takes walks with her partner, and she calls me and a few other old friends regularly. That’s plenty, she says. Her new neighbor who wants to be friends is not appreciated. That neighbor needs to look beyond the neighborhood.
Sadness is a fact of life, and as we age, we come to miss more and more people — they are gone. We are pained by their not being present. But if we are truly fortunate, someone, someday, will miss us. I miss my parents and their friends. But the love that surrounded them throughout their lives, as well as in their final days, offers direction and hope.
Recently I heard two elderly women chatting in the library. They had obviously signed up to meet others with shared interests. As their needles clicked faster, their conversations seemed to drag.
“I just use this cane for stability” one offered.
“Yes” replied the other. “Falling is the worst at our age.”
For me, boredom and loneliness seem even worse than falling. I am glad to have friends.
YES!