When I die, let them judge me by my company of friends
Let them know me as the footprints that I left upon the sand
Let them laugh for all the laughter
Let them cry for laughter’s end
But when I die, let them judge me by my company of friends
Danny Schmidt, Company of Friends
There is something in me that hates public recognition, something that amounts almost to a phobia. One of my former partners once got up on stage at a firm retreat in front of several hundred people to say something nice about me and I, sitting in the front row and unknowing he had planned to do so, had an almost unconquerable urge to duck under the table in front of me to avoid being noticed. The only reason I didn’t was a fortunate realization that I would be making an embarrassing scene if I did, and that my behavior would be highly visible and inexplicable to everyone else. I had to sit there and take it, something far harder for me than facing off against the government over the draft those many years ago.
It doesn’t pay to ask me why this is, since I hardly understand it myself. I have no idea whether it’s genetic or something learned at my mother’s knee. I’ve often thought about why I am so bothered, but have been unable to find any real answer. I’ve gotten a bit better about dealing with it, but I suspect my friends, if they were reading this statement in congress, would look at one another and smile, knowing that any improvement I might have achieved is only one of degree.
On the other hand, there is nothing so pleasant for me as meeting with friends in a convivial atmosphere and sharing the stories that frame a friendship – especially the oft-repeated stories that remind you not only of the initial event from which a particular story springs, but of all its previous communal retellings in which you shared and the memories of where you were and who you were with during those retellings. For such things only happen when you are with family, and close friends are a family earned – not a family designated by genetics.
I enjoyed the company of such a family last night, one originating from my life at work. Helen announced last weekend that she had arranged a dinner to celebrate our anniversary. Since our anniversary is January 1 and since we typically avoid being out and about on nights when the moon is metaphorically full, we usually celebrate our anniversary on some other date. I found it a bit odd that she had simply made a reservation at a particular restaurant without discussing it with me first as is our custom, but I didn’t really question her announcement since the restaurant involved is one of our favorites and the waiting time for reservations is significant.
When we arrived, we were greeted politely by the hostess, who then proceeded to show us to the basement. Since the basement is without view, I came close to telling the hostess that we wanted to be seated upstairs with the rest of the adults – but, fortunately, I held my tongue. For when we arrived at the bottom of the stairs, I found myself among a roomful of friends, each of whom holds a special place in my heart; each of whom has helped define who I am and doesn’t seem to care whether or not I learned everything I should have from their particular means of informing my life and beliefs; each of whom is graced with a sparkling laugh and equally sparkling eyes.
I was caught wholly unaware, but instantly found myself looking forward to the evening instead of dreading the occurrence of an occasion. For I immediately recognized I was among friends who not only understand my foibles but are resigned to them. I knew I could laugh together with them about my eccentricities in the way only a family can – openly, unashamedly, convivially, happily, and mutually.
So began one of the most pleasurable events of my life, one of the kind you recall easily; one of the kind that truly graces a life because of its relative scarcity.
As the evening unfolded, I came to realize this was the second such grace note to my life that I’ve enjoyed in the last month. At the end of December, I was equally surprised by a close-knit family of friends, a company bound together by a shared interest in the arts and a strong affection for one particular artist. The larger part of this group turned up to celebrate my retirement, unexpectedly and unknown to either Helen or me, at what had been billed as the annual Christmas/birthday gift sharing with our friends Tom and Carrie. While Tom, Carrie, Helen and I were celebrating Helen’s and Carrie’s respective December birthdays and the spirit of Christmas in Tom’s and Carrie’s living room, the company members were quietly assembling in the back of the house – all with the goal of ushering me into a new phase of life with laughter, sincerity, conviviality, and joy.
Only after I inadvertently discovered the rest of the company in Tom and Carrie’s back hall while on my way to use the facilities, did I realize the meaning of some of the incongruities of scene I had already noticed- the extra leaves in the dinner table, for instance, that had momentarily puzzled me when considered in contrast to the placement of only four chairs, and the long, congratulatory paper runner down the middle of the table that had been so lovingly prepared by hand. And so began another such evening as last night, an evening in the company of friends – nay, in the company of family.
I would have retired long ago (or used the facilities more often) had I understood it would lead to such joyous evenings. After all, what are friends for if not this? In fact, I may go back to work and retire anew in a year or so if I can be certain they will give me a second send-off. Or, better yet, perhaps I will become a serial retiree.
I wish I had Danny Schmidt’s facility for lyrics, but I do know enough to appropriate and recite them when the time is right:
“Every moment has a face
Eyes of purpose, lips of place
To know and speak of only grace
And to make right the time
* * * *
The only gift that’s handed down
Is the gift to grow from muddy ground
So plant your feet and place the crown
And make right the time.”
* Danny Schmidt, Make Right the Time
