The shattering of friendships

In her enigmatic song, “The Smithereens”, Annie Lennox laments the shattering of relationships that occur from time to time throughout one’s lifetime. Sadly unavoidable, part of the human experience involves the coming together of people, and the falling apart or breakup that occurs for a variety of reasons. Once broken, such relationships just simply cannot be put back together. Heartbreaking though this is, and as much as we all try to avoid it, it happens to all of us.

 

This happened with a couple of friends of ours a number of years ago. We knew this one particular couple, and shared a number of interests, one of which involved old homes and restoration. Over time, we had spent quite a bit of time together, worked on projects together, had some dinners together, and really enjoyed each other’s company. Then, tragedy struck.

 

One day, we visited them at their new project-house. They had purchased an old bungalow very close to the beach. Like many of the old homes that were near the beach, the home had suffered severe neglect. It looked fine from the outside, but the “bones” of the house were in sad shape. And the boys were tackling it hard-core. They had completely removed many of the floors to replace the all-but-gone support joists. Had they not gotten to them soon, the house would literally have collapsed in on itself. When we visited, the house had no floor – NO floor. We were walking on dirt, several feet below where the floor would have been. On the one hand, I admire their hard-core determination to do by-hand proper restoration. But on the other hand, I really saw it as a misplaced effort. Despite being old, this particular home was not what one would call architecturally significant. For all intents and purposes, it was a lower-end cookie-cutter home of the 20’s – affordable, small, and easy to build. In the decades since, beach property went at a premium. And what very little yard it may have had at a time got swallowed up by other building, leaving it now squeezed in between other houses without enough room to even walk in-between. So, in effect, they were putting in a tremendous effort on a place that really did not deserve the work/time/materials that they were putting into it. Yet, we supported them in their endeavor, and admired their effort. It just isn’t a project that I myself would have chosen to do.

 

Within a week or so after we visited, we got an email from one of them expressing his upset. In his email, he stated how hurt he felt that one of us had referred to their new home as small. In his explanation, he went on in a bit of a tirade venting that just because we live in a large house, theirs is no less of a home because it is small. Both Paul and I were quite stunned by the intensity of emotion conveyed in the email.

 

“Paul,” I asked. “Did YOU say that their place was small?” He shook his head, no. “I didn’t think so. Do you remember me at any point mentioning that their place was small?” Again, he shook his head, no. 

 

I was quite puzzled. Not only do I not recall either of us making such a comment, but even if we had – so what? The fact is, their home IS very small. That isn’t an insult – it is a fact. And it isn’t necessarily a bad thing. That is what they wanted – ok, fine.  It isn’t what I would have done, but what of it?

 

In response, both Paul and I sent emails conveying our regret for any misunderstandings or hurt feelings. Neither of us falsely owed up to making the “small” statement, but we both emphasized the value of our friendship, and our admiration of their efforts. We both received a much relieved response which signified (to me, at least), that the issue was over. But… it wasn’t.

 

Things just went oddly cold after that. Whenever we suggested getting together, they would either have to get back with us, or were busy. Emails went unanswered. Text messages went unanswered. Being that I really despise passive-aggressive behavior, I called one of them. As I expected, the call went right to voice mail. And no, I never got a call back.

 

As Mz. Lennox would surmise, our friendship shattered into Smithereens. I think we saw them once or maybe twice in several years since that time. On the one hand, I regret the fact that what could have been/should have been a great friendship fell apart like that. We were not only a good match in terms of interests and conversations, but it was a great support system. After all, how many friends can you call upon to help work on restoration projects that actually LIKE doing it, and know HOW to do it? But sadly, they made their choice. And if such a quirky misunderstanding is enough to cause a cancellation of a friendship, I’d rather find that out earlier.

 

Smithereens – a sad, yet unavoidable lesson of the human experience.

Angie

They say that music has the power to calm the savage breast. No, that is not a misspelling, nor a misquotation. This expression refers to the soothing and calming power of music over an otherwise manic mind and body such as, oh gee, my own. Music captivates and haunts, emboldens and tranquilizes, helps us to forget, and also helps us to remember. How many times has a song encapsulated a moment, a feeling, an attitude, or a generational ideal? Would the 50’s have been the 50’s had Bill Haley not taught America to “Rock around the Clock”? And did not Stephen Stills bold and brazen tune, “Love the One You’re With” embody the rebellious sexual energy of the 60’s love generation?

 

While flipping through the radio channels the other day, I landed by chance on an oldies station. There, I heard the unmistakable lament of Mick Jagger’s voice calling out for his lost love, “Angie”. Now, I do not mean to offend any hard core fans out there when I tell you that I am not, nor have I ever been a particular fan of the Rolling Stones. Their music really doesn’t do anything for me. As for the band, well… they just ain’t pretty. Take Mick, for instance. The man’s lips are capable of simultaneously French kissing a moose and the entire state of Ohio. But, I digress…

 

Hearing his impassioned cry to Angie took me back to when I first heard the song. It was the summer of 1973. Polyester was the fabric of choice, computers were Big Huge Things that nobody understood yet, and America was trying to adjust to life following the return of some very young and seriously messed-up soldiers. Yet, all of this was lost in the eyes of a naïve and chubby five-year old growing up on the sands of Cape Cod. Natives and tourists alone had one refuge from the still heat of a Cape Cod summer, the beach! Some of my fondest childhood memories trace back to the beach. Clam-bakes and barbecues bring back memories of charcoal-grilled linguica and icy cold sodas. And whenever I could get away from The Adults who always swarmed around “the boy”, I was in the water – always wanting to go further and swim deeper than I had ever gone before. I loved the water as a kid. As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be in the water. But just like any other Cape Cod kid, The Adults had taught me to see the water as a fun danger – and one to be respected. I had seen visible signs of what the oceans could do through winter storms. Remnants of shipwrecks could be seen, from time to time, peaking out like bleached bones from the tan sands of the Cape.  And what the ribs of the ships could not convey, old and faded photographs of shipwrecks expressed loud and clear. Water could be dangerous. Water could destroy. Water could kill.

 

It must have been fairly late in the summer season. Despite what began as a warm and sunny day, the afternoon began to fade. The sky darkened, and a chill came over the air – enough to demand some additional clothing in the late afternoon. As usual, I did not want to leave the beach as long as there was still daylight to be seen. But then, one of The Adults pointed to the distant sky, and the approaching storm. I stared at the imminent rain in utter awe. As a child, I really did not understand weather, what made it work, or anything about it. But having gone through some storms before, I knew how ferocious and intense they could be. There was to be no argument. If The Adults said it was time to go because of a storm, it was time to go! Storms were scary!

 

We quickly got ready to make the trip out. Now, unlike most trips to the beach, which involve a nice drive on pavement up to the seaside, such is not always the case on Cape Cod. To get away from the throngs of tourists that hit the mainstream beaches, we often let the air out of the tires and drove dune-buggy style over miles of sand over the dunes to the farthest beaches available. Trips to the beach were quite the trek – as was the return. And depending upon the time of day and the tide, some retreats were cut off.

 

I remember our party leaving in two vehicles.  The one that I was in took the longer way back. Rather than cutting a direct path through the flats, it took a higher loop along a more established pathway, overlooking the flats. I remember watching through the window as the other truck headed along, only to realize that the tide was coming in. As a rush of water headed towards that truck, it stopped, backed up, and turned around. I am certain now that there was no issue. But in the eyes of a five-year old child, I was scared. Would the water suddenly rush along and sweep the other truck out to sea?!!!! Who would rescue them?! What were we to DOOOO???!!!! WHY WASN’T ANYBODY DOING ANYTHING???!!!!!! I shut my eyes tightly, not wanting to see anymore, just as the rain began to patter down on the roof of the truck overhead. 

 

Would we be next? 

Would the tide come after us? 

What were we to DOOOOO?!!!! The STORM was coming for us!!!! 

 

All the while, the radio blared out, “Angie. Aaaaaaaynnnnnn-gie. When will those dark clouds disappear?”

ARGH!!!!

ARGH!!!!

 

This SUCKS!!!

 

Yes, there is a reason I’m going out of my way to completely CUT some things from my diet. The battle of the bulge is a cruel battle. Check out this horrible food reality check and its exercise equivalent…

 

 

BROWNIE
Au Bon Pain Chocolate Chip Brownie (380 calories).
129 minutes of yoga (Hatha style).

 

Over TWO HOURS of Hatha yoga to work off a single freaken’ brownie?!!!! Sorry, but… no brownie is so good as to be worth that!