Where Friends Are Like Home

Life was pretty good in the spring of my senior year. An early acceptance letter from Bucknell University hanging on my bulletin board meant the remainder of high school was on cruise control. My mom and dad’s pending separation led to a highly permissive parenting style with no curfew and very few consequences. I had a cushy job at WaldenBooks making $3.45/hour and a hand-me-down station wagon that could be filled up with gas for around ten bucks. I had money in my pocket, more freedom than I needed, and a group of friends I still have to this day.  

At the time, I didn’t know I was making friends for life. On Friday nights, when Todd and I both worked at the mall, we’d meet up after our shifts were done. I’d swing by Baskin Robbins as he was cleaning up Pralines ‘n Cream off the counter and we’d go and get into as much trouble as two kids from the suburbs could. While we were out looking for parties  (or more realistically going somewhere to play video games), there was no way I could imagine Todd aka “The Sunroof Captain” would be a travelling companion well beyond the universe of Erie Boulevard. And whether it’s Todd or any of the formal or honorary members of “Team Fun,” these were “ride or die” friends I made before the expression ever existed. 

Back then, we’d meet up for basketball in one of our driveways. Arranging that pickup game took a handful of calls and maybe twenty minutes lead time. Now spread across the country (and beyond), assembling the team takes considerably more advance notice. Patients and clients need to be covered. Schedules coordinated with families. Flights need to be booked. And it doesn’t hurt if one of your friends happens to have a vacation home on Martha’s Vineyard. After a COVID delay, plans were made for gettogether this past summer. 

Every group needs an organizer and we’re lucky to have Ted to play host and start email threads. Ted is the catalyst, the point guard. His Christmas card may arrive in mid January, but he is otherwise masterful at staying in touch and making connections. When his job with TNT Sports dragged him all over the county, he made sure to grab a meal with any acquaintance in any city with a NFL team. Thanks to Ted, I’ve “worked” in the production truck of a Raiders/Jets game and had a beer with 1985 Final Four hero, Ed Pinckney. Ted has middle school projects saved in his attic and an extensive written history of our Thousand Island fishing trips, in which he details drunken donut hole fights outside Tim Hortons. Family and friends are everything to Ted and his sentimentality is on display as soon as we step on the island. 

A couple of us get off the ferry and Ted is there to pick us up in “The Redder,” his 1990 Chevrolet Blazer. The fact that it’s still operational is a testament to his devotion and discipline, and it’s incredibly nostalgic to ride in this car from my youth. After an airport run, we find ourselves at what is considered the premier Mexican restaurant on the island. I make the appropriate SoCal Mexican food snob comments and tell Ted I’m going to order a burger. 

“Would you order a burger at a good Mexican restaurant?”

“I’m not sure we’re at a good Mexican restaurant.”

The  exchange isn’t particularly interesting or insightful, but the words almost don’t matter. The rhythms and patterns of our banter haven’t changed in thirty years and it’s our ability to fall into the same conversational groove that’s remarkable. There’s no awkward silences and very little talking over each other. It’s like jamming with your old band or throwing to a receiver before he’s open; somehow we know where everyone is going to be. Former classmates are brought up. Intramural floor hockey games are relived. Our table is full of laughter and boneless chicken wings (a New England Mexican delicacy) and before you know it, we’ve closed down Sharky’s Cantina.

The next day is a beach day and I wake up as Dan from Cleveland is feeding the cat and folding towels. We’re staying at Ted’s house, yet Dan is the definitely the other “parent” on the trip. Dan has an incredible, military-like work ethic and a personality to lead and take responsibility. Throughout the week, he’ll add his two cents to any logistical conversation on transportation or food preparation and our “parents” will make sure we get to the boat on time and see that we’ve been fed along with the cat. In many other groups, I play a leadership role–it’s nice to take a backseat. I literally have to take a backseat because it’s been pre-determined that Sean’s 6’ 8” frame should ride shotgun in the Redder. I find other roles to play.  I contribute where I can explaining the 80s’ movie references to Dan, who’s forgotten more pop culture than most of us will remember. Every time someone blurts out something from Blues Brothers or Caddyshack, I’m there like Pop-Up Video to provide Dan with the appropriate movie reference.

We get to the beach and find a spot away from the other patrons. Even though it’s a sunny day in July there’s plenty of room on the beach. Ted has a shade canopy that needs to be set up with the precision of a NASA shuttle departure. With each of us on a corner and Ted supporting the middle, he walks through the elaborate steps of securing our shade structure to the beachhead. Ted would later email some critique of my specific performance at T minus 4, but other than that it’s a successful launch. The shade is great and the water temperature is perfect. We break out sandwiches purchased earlier from the general store and talk kids and careers. I thoroughly enjoy my unnecessarily carb-heavy turkey, stuffing, and cranberry sandwich which is prevalent in these parts. 

Much of the next two days are spent out on the water, fishing and sailing. Not a ton of alcohol is consumed, but I am intoxicated by this setting. San Diego is a postcard perfect place to live, but I am in love with this island. I’ve been to plenty of beach communities on both the Atlantic and Pacific, and the pace of life here is just my speed. There’s life and energy in the towns, but it’s not overrun with neon signs or the same pizza place every five shops. The beaches are clean and scenic. The density of trees reminds me of walking through woods as a kid behind my house to pick wild raspberries.

As we fish, I reconnect with  Brett, whom I haven’t seen since we were in our twenties. Brett’s bar mitzvah was the first time I ever went to a temple and we used to cruise the Fayetteville Mall together for hot pretzels and Quiet Riot t-shirts. Brett and I were really good friends in middle school, but our high school social circles didn’t have as much overlap. Just like in sixth grade, we share the same, juvenile sense of humor and I love making him laugh. Brett is  a tremendous audience and he still has the same devilish smile he had in Mrs. Wells’ English class. Later that night, the same smile appears when Brett wins several poker hands. 

Sailing around the island, we all sit on the deck and  talk about our hometown of Syracuse, NY. Some of us are there more than others, checking in on parents with varying degrees of health. I haven’t been to upstate New York in over a decade. Those who are, speak about it with a certain level of melancholy. Maybe it’s like going back to visit your kindergarten teacher when you’re in high school; you can believe how small the chairs are. You’ve grown too big and you don’t fit anymore .The Fayetteville Mall  was knocked down and no one shops for Quiet Riot t-shirts anymore, even ironically. Still, it was the perfect universe for us growing up.

Our sailboat captain anchors off a spit of land and shuttles most of us to shore in his dinghy. Ted and Dan decide to swim into shore. They make it about a third of the way before hailing the captain to taxi them the rest of the way. Their failed attempt to fight the current is met with the appropriate amount of mockery, as is my inability as a Little League coach to strike anybody out in wiffle ball. As always, everything is fair game for ridicule and nothing is sacred.

There is no faking with this group because these are the friends that know everything. Being with your childhood friends forces you to be the essential, acoustic version of your personality; no lights or pyrotechnics are going to distract them because they knew you when. To some degree, anything since high school—jobs, family, accomplishments—are veneers. Life-changing and meaningful, but exteriors that have been built upon who we truly are. You may think you’re pretty self-important, but to them, you’re still the goofy kid who invented All Wall, All Maul Ping Pong and ran the “Hated Car of the Week” poll. And there’s tremendous freedom in that. I love these guys and I love who I am when I’m with them.

Our last dinner together is raw oysters/clams and lobster. Ted eats leftover Mexican food because he’s “already had enough lobster this summer.” We sit around the teak picnic table and continue to reminisce and plan for another gathering down the road. I’ve shared only a couple meals at this picnic table, but I’ve been eating with this cast of characters my whole life. It hasn’t always been seafood in the Vineyard; it’s been subs from Littlejohn’s in Charlottesville, breakfast at a diner in Redondo Beach before my wedding, or fried fish at the Woodman House on Wolfe Island. And even before any of those exotic meals, it was Quik chocolate milk and Little Debbie Honey Buns sitting on the senior ledge in our high school cafeteria. The menu has changed, but the friendships have not. Which is amazing because the friends have changed–each of us has evolved and grown in ways we couldn’t have imagined as teenagers. Our lives may have taken us far away from Fayetteville-Manlius High School, but when we’re together there’s a version of home each of us can always return to.