Paul and I were boyhood buddies, giggling together in First Grade. We palled-around until Junior High pulled us from our Tom Sawyer/Huck Finn adventures on lake and in field and forest. Then we crossed the shadow-line. Alone, but somehow together. Recently I was reading about growing up in the eyes of Joseph Conrad:
One closes behind one the little gate of mere boyishness—and enters an enchanted garden. Its very shades glow with promise. Every turn of the path has its seduction. And it isn’t because it is an undiscovered country. One knows well enough that all mankind had streamed that way. It is the charm of universal experience from which one expects an uncommon or personal sensation—a bit of one’s own.
One goes on recognizing the landmarks of the predecessors, excited, amused, taking the hard luck and the good luck together—the kicks and the half-pence, as the saying is—the picturesque common lot that holds so many possibilities for the deserving or perhaps for the lucky. Yes. One goes on. And the time, too, goes on—till one perceives ahead a shadow-line warning one that the region of early youth, too, must be left behind.
This is the period of life in which such moments of which I have spoken are likely to come. What moments? Why, the moments of boredom, of weariness, of dissatisfaction. Rash moments. I mean moments when the still young are inclined to commit rash actions, such as getting married suddenly or else throwing up a job for no reason.
Paul and I crossed the shadow-line. But not together. After we stepped over that line, one went to war. The other to peace marches, seminary and a sedate life. One was torn inside as a medic stitching up broken comrades and Viet Nam villagers. One studied theology, the ways of God and how humans love and hurt one another. One bore the scars of war the whole rest of his life as a tender, compassionate healer to everyone he met. I went on to be more busy than compassionate.
Paul died several weeks ago. I am honored to have shared early years with him. Our screwball boyish misadventures make me smile to this day. We had a fond reunion this past fall over dinner in Brunswick. We laughed. We cried. We said “I love you.” And we said “Goodbye.” I miss my longest-time friend.
We have all crossed a shadow-line and left mere childishness. We have closed the door to early youth. And young adulthood. And middle and lengthening age. We are getting on with life, as with all before us. Give thanks with me for those who share or have shared with us our amazing journeys. Dick Sears
