As I was lying in bed trying to fall asleep last night (it must have been the caffeine in the coffee Haagen-Dazs), I found myself reminiscing about my younger days, mostly the happy times, and about old friends. And I realized — not for the first time — how few of them I have left. Old friends, that is . . . not memories.

Since I retired and moved some 600 miles away from my long-time home, I’ve met some lovely people. But they’re new friends. And while it’s fun to learn new things about new people, there’s no history, no jokes about “remember when.” And I miss that.

It’s all part of aging, of course; someone has to be the “last bottle of beer on the wall,” and in my case, I seem to be the designated survivor. So I went searching for some stories of other people’s experiences, looking for humor . . . and what I found was understanding and empathy from a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist and author. It’s long, but it is so perfectly descriptive of my own thoughts, I’d like to share it:

“The thing about old friends is not that they love you, but that they know you. They remember that disastrous New Year’s Eve when you mixed White Russians and champagne, and how you wore that red maternity dress until everyone was sick of seeing the blaze of it in the office, and the uncomfortable couch in your first apartment and the smoky stove in your beach rental. They look at you and don’t really think you look older because they’ve grown old along with you, and like the faded paint in a beloved room, they’re used to the look. And then one of them is gone, and you’ve lost a chunk of yourself. The stories of the terrorist attacks of 2001, the tsunami, the Japanese earthquake always used numbers, the deaths of thousands a measure of how great the disaster. Catastrophe is numerical. Loss is singular, one beloved at a time.”

– Anna Quindlen, “Lots of Candles, Plenty of Cake”

*. *. *

They’re all gone now — first Simin (we told her to quit smoking!), then Amelia, Marilyn, Diane, and finally, my sister Merna. There are a few others left, many miles away, but still dear and in touch. The numbers are shrinking, though (as am I, dammit!), and reminiscing alone isn’t much fun. My family members, while great, don’t share all of the same memories as the friends I worked and traveled and partied with.

But that’s life, and we either roll with it or go bonkers. And since I’d rather my family didn’t get the idea that I’ve grown senile or descended into some horrible clinical depression so that they need to have me put away, I’d like to close with yet another quote — a much briefer and happier one — this time by a politically controversial but undeniably talented Irish playwright:

“You don’t stop laughing when you grow old,
you grow old when you stop laughing.”

– George Bernard Shaw

*. *. *

And now I shall exit stage right, chuckling merrily.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
11/15/25