September 14, 2012
Spencer.
Derwin.
Stevens.
Like so many of your friends, spread around the world, I’ve
known you now for more than half of my life. And that’s a lot of years, considering what old farts we’re
turning into. Here’s a few
highlights, although I can NOT vouch for the accuracy of the timing (these
things get fuzzy with age...trying to keep up with our bodies, I guess).
At 17, I met you on a fall day in Hanover. You would rather have been at the Naval
Academy, preparing to become a pilot.
Thank the Lord that your vision closed that door and opened the window
to Dartmouth. (although it’s a
little funny that you ended up rowing and rooting for the “Big Grey”).
At 18, I learned how to row, following your blade. I had to whip my hair out of my face to
see it, up until spring season…but follow it I did.
At 19, I rowed behind you in a fairly slow (but very fun)
boat. That was when I first
started calling you “Wingman”.
(Slider – you stink).
At 20, I shook the limb of an evergreen instead of something
else, while you serenaded me in solidarity, as a responsible friend would do.
(ooo, so yo-ho, oo-moo so yo – we are shakin the tree)
At 21 – when we first started to experiment with alcohol – I
watched you run around in nothing but an orange apron with “Kiss the Clown” on
it. I’m ashamed to admit that I
both condoned that behavior, and was a little turned on by it. I think that was also the year you were
nicknamed “Penis Man” – I’ll let you explain that one.
At 22, we moved in together into a huge house (which didn’t
belong to us or either of our parents), taking care of a dog (who wasn’t there
at the time), and spending a lot of time at a country club (which we weren’t
members of). (Starry, starry night…).
We had a lot of good times at that house, especially when your brother
visited (FUH-duh-duh-duh-duh….).
We were also carrying lots and lots of very heavy stuff up and down
stairs, earning enough money to move into an even MORE cushy house in
Slummer-ville (“pizza pizza”; “very dangerous and very mean”; “that guy’s talking through his hat”; “Hey boys, I got a fourt’ floor walk-up
fer ya over ta Beacon Hill”).
At 23, we moved to Brookline and got VERY bad haircuts (she
climbed up on my shoulders and “ANGH-ANGH-ANGH-ANGH!!!”). I took you on my company’s summer party
on a chartered Boston Harbor cruise – and they liked you more than me. (the bar was set very low)
At 24, you left Beantown. You moved to Mexico (before the
internet). Then (Ay carumba!) you moved to Jackson Hole. Those places were both far away. I was
sad (Ruh-roh).
At 26, I came to see you and the “Grand Tetons” (honk
honk!). You guided me down the Snake River, fed me Huevos Rancheros, and introduced
me to your new friends (“mind if I snack?”). Then you waved me on to Los Angeles, as I drove away in my
ugly mint-green Chevy. I think you were still driving the Red Rocket. (I know
Tuck still was.)
At 29, I moved to “Doytch-Land”. You moved to southern Cal. What can I say…the timing sucked.
Between 30 and 40, I think I can count the times I saw you
on both hands. That’s not a lot.
Not nearly enough. The distance is not small. And life goes on, things change,
sometimes for better and sometimes for worse - time passes. The water keeps flowing.
Whether you’re paddling up or downstream only changes how fast you think it’s moving.
But just as I experienced again in Spain this year – the
best friends are the ones for whom it seems no time has passed, no matter how
many months or years are between meetings. I hope hearing a few of these
memories has made you smile as much as I have while writing them down. And I feel all warm and fuzzy (on the
inside) knowing that we’ll make more of them in the years ahead. Because just
as you were at 18, you remain to this day, my Wingman. And no matter how many
miles are between us, my Wingman you will stay.
This is me, re-enlisting for the next 40 years.
Happy birthday, Wing-air.
In your honor, Petey -- From Daniel and Mariajosé: (We loved having you with us in Santiago de Compostela!)
