Two and a Half Years too Late

I had a friend in fourth grade named Art. We were inseparable. We spent something like three years together, third, fourth, and fifth grade, before middle school where we split off and went to different schools, and I never saw him again. 

I mention fourth grade specifically because that was the first year we ditched school, and it is forever etched in my brain - A beautiful core memory. 

We had misbehaved and our 4th grade teacher, Mr. Courtney, made an offhanded comment to the effect of “I don't even know why you guys show up to school. All you do is mess around and you don't learn anything. You might as well not even come to school.”

“You might as well not even come to school.”

Being the rambunctious 9–10 year-olds that we were, we took that literally even though we knew better. The following day, we met at school, told a friend or two goodbye for the day, and went to the river bottom. It was June, and just a couple of weeks before summer break, so we were already in vacation mode.

We took our shirts off and splashed around in the water and caught pollywogs, without the burden of school work, responsibility, or grumpy old Mr. Courtney. Honestly, it was one of the best days of my life. 

Of course, the school noticed our absence and called our parents to see why we hadn’t shown up. They were kind enough to ask if our parents had simply forgotten to call in, and expressed concern for any possible health issues that would keep us from school, and distract our parents enough for them to forget to call in. But of course, this was not the case, and our parents promised to get to the bottom of this.

Given that Art and I were notoriously close, our parents figured something rebellious was afoot and worked together with other family members and peers to figure out where we were. Art’s uncle, only about eight years older than us, was our buddy. Or at least he was friendly enough with us to know where we were likely to hang out. The problem with that, though, was that he had no legs and used a skateboard to get around. Getting the to the river bottom deep in the fields was not going to be possible for him. So, he relayed the location to Art’s cousin, and my mother, who was eight and half months pregnant with my brother at the time, and it was they who came out to find us.

Art’s cousin arrived first on his BMX and I saw him atop the hill and the dirt road that lead to our riverbank. I glanced up at him and asked Art “isn’t that your cousin?”

Art glanced over his shoulder and confirmed that it was but went back to his cup of pollywogs and continued counting them, or whatever. His cousin didn’t say anything. He just watched us and that unnerved me. I kept glancing up at him until I saw my mother waddle up beside him with a tired and angry look on her face. Eight and half months pregnant waddling through the June heat was not ideal for her. At that point, my blood went cold. We were caught!

After that, my memory is fuzzy. We got in trouble. Detention for both of us, and additional chores for me at least. I’m sure I was grounded for much of the summer, until my brother was born, and the attention paid to me waned, mercifully. 

Anyway, life continued and eventually Art and I parted ways never to see one another again. I have fondly told this story countless times over the last forty-five years, and occasionally followed it up with “I need to track down Art and relive this day with him”, but I never have.

Until today. I briefly mentioned this story off-handedly elsewhere and finally decided to track old Art down. Goddamn, it’ll be fun to finally reminisce with him after all these years. See if I’m remembering right, or at least differently. I’ve always been curious to know why he dismissed the appearance of his cousin like it was no big deal and went right back to his pollywogs. And to relive one of the greatest days of your life with the person you spent it with is necessary for nostalgia, friendship. The soul. I wondered what he’s been up to this whole time. How he was doing. Talk to him about our lives, our families. To reconnect with my best childhood friend.

I googled him and his birthday (the year at least; I didn’t know the day) to make sure I got the right guy, and I found him! Rather, I found his obituary. My childhood friend passed away two and a half years ago. I told this story a hundred times over four and a half decades before I finally decided to tell it again with the actual person I shared this day with, only to find out I was two and a half years too late. My friend is gone, and that story only lives within me now.

Go find your old friends and go relive those days. You never know when they are just not going to be there anymore, and you must carry the story by yourself. Goodbye, Art, old buddy. I miss you.