Over the last year I spent time with a therapist. I think I have to count that time among the best things I’ve done for myself—and I hope by extension for others—in a long time. It wasn’t my first attempt to heal some emotional wounds by offering myself to the hands of a professional. Of course, what I perceive to be honest has been part of the professional relationship I’ve had with three different therapists over a 30-year period. This time was a gift of sorts. It came through one of those miraculous connections that more than once in my adult years have led me to think there is more meaning in a meeting than life intends. “Do you believe in fate,” a new friend asked a few years back. I asked for clarification, but then I replied, “Yes, I do”. Had the universe led us to a friendship? As it turns out, I think so. However, not all chance meetings that seem filled with possibility, especially ones adorned with romance, turn out that way. Such a chance meeting ultimately led to Dr. W. at a nearby university. Thanks to Dr. W.’s persistent message, I think I finally see some light in the tunnel. Old permissions have been dusted off and put on for new. The road is no less bumpy. I’m just more aware of the potholes, and I realize they have a purpose. You’d think that a sextagenarian would already have such understanding under his belt. Well, we’re not all perfect.
It has been over 20 years since my last sustained partnership—one that began as neighbors, became complicated for reasons we both understood a long time ago, and blessedly led to friendship, thanks to his persistence. We rarely see each other, talk just about annually, but we are connected forever, as far as I am concerned. In the sessions with Dr. W. I talked about the quality of past relationships, as I puzzled once again to understand why I’ve been through such a long, long dry spell. A look at the textbook on relationships will quickly reveal factors like age, time and place in life, motivation, need, willingness to compromise, persistence—not a parallel list of considerations, but valid ones for sure.
My three guys are John, John, and David. All of them were embraced by my family. For me, that was a requirement, and while it ultimately might have led to complications in my personal relationships, it is what it is. A classic, wonderful story involving David deserves telling. He and I had been to visit Aunt Mary, my daddy’s youngest sister, and her husband Frog (William Woodrow). As we sat around the breakfast room table that evening, my aunt and uncle both vying for the floor—she gracious, he insistent bordering on rude—they both persisted in calling David “John”. After all, they had known the two Johns as well. Finally, Uncle Frog, clever man that he was in his insistence, looked at David and asked, “John, do you mind if I call you David?”
When Daddy died on the first day of Spring, 1981, David and I were neighbors in Houston. John 1 lived in Austin and John 2 in New York. As our family mourned the passing of a husband and father, John came from Austin to serve as pallbearer, and John came from New York to be with our family. David is credited by my only niece as befriending her during a difficult time for our family. Fast forward many years to the days leading up to February 1, 2007. Even though Mother would have been 90 on her next birthday, we were sad and exhausted as we faced saying good-bye to her in this life. Our friend John 2 had died in 1986, living many miles away from us in Germany. On the Saturday before Mother died, I made a point to connect with John 1, who still lives in Austin. I think John felt closer to my mother and daddy than to his own parents. That Saturday I discovered that John is battling his own serious health problems these days. One of the manifestations of his illness is the affect it has had on his speech. On that Saturday I talked to John and his care giver. I was already sad about Mother, but I was further saddened to learn of John’s struggles. A few days later, John called in the evening. I had trouble understanding him, and I kept saying, “John, I’m sorry, but I can’t understand what you’re saying.” There was silence on the other end, but I could hear talking in the background. John got back on the phone and asked, “Harold, has Tena died?” “No, John, but it is near.” “Tell Tena that I love her,” John said, “and Harold, I love you too.” In the crush of Mother’s death two days later, I didn’t call John. I haven’t acted on my plans to visit him in Austin.
A voicemail to David, who lives in New York, brought him to our family’s side on the Sunday we held visitation at the mortuary last February. He had been vacationing with his partner on a cruise ship. David flew to Houston and rented a car to make the 45-mile drive west. He had made one other trip to visit Mother in the spring of 2002, or was it 2003, soon after her health had turned downward with almost lightening speed. On that visit, we ate chicken fried steak and cocoanut pie.
Many years and all sorts of miles have put distance between me, our family, and the three men who have played a palpably important role in our lives. Recently I remembered that I hadn’t heard from David for several months, even though I stay in touch with him through this blog, as third person as that might be. I sent him an email a few days ago. He called yesterday. We all know how it goes when we make contact with people who have become part of our fabric. Striking the ground running, we caught up with our lives. David is a man of many talents, bright, funny, and compassionate. Even though it was just yesterday, I don’t remember who brought it up. Neither of us could remember the variety of David’s artwork I have had stored for 25 years. I remembered only one piece, he another. We ended our call with loosely-defined plans for me to visit New York. “David, you know I haven’t flown since 9/11.” “Maybe you can take the train,” he suggested, advising me also that someday I might need to fly. “I’ll know when it’s time,” I said.
Amazingly for me, I knew just where to look for David’s art. To my surprise, there were three pieces—the one I remembered, the one David remembered, and one that he couldn’t imagine that he had painted. “Did I sign it?” he asked, when we reconnected later in the day. With promises to have his three pieces scanned and digitized, we ended a second call, as casually as if we see each other later this week.
There are many ways to measure friendship. For me, one of the defining truths of my life has been the presence of the significant men in my life at the passing of my parents. “That is a tribute to the quality of men I have loved and to their relationship with my family,” I told Dr. W. last spring. “Harold, that also says something important about you,” replied. “Give yourself some credit.”
Friendship in the Flesh—Normangee, Texas (February 21, 2008)
R. Harold Hollis
It has been over 20 years since my last sustained partnership—one that began as neighbors, became complicated for reasons we both understood a long time ago, and blessedly led to friendship, thanks to his persistence. We rarely see each other, talk just about annually, but we are connected forever, as far as I am concerned. In the sessions with Dr. W. I talked about the quality of past relationships, as I puzzled once again to understand why I’ve been through such a long, long dry spell. A look at the textbook on relationships will quickly reveal factors like age, time and place in life, motivation, need, willingness to compromise, persistence—not a parallel list of considerations, but valid ones for sure.
My three guys are John, John, and David. All of them were embraced by my family. For me, that was a requirement, and while it ultimately might have led to complications in my personal relationships, it is what it is. A classic, wonderful story involving David deserves telling. He and I had been to visit Aunt Mary, my daddy’s youngest sister, and her husband Frog (William Woodrow). As we sat around the breakfast room table that evening, my aunt and uncle both vying for the floor—she gracious, he insistent bordering on rude—they both persisted in calling David “John”. After all, they had known the two Johns as well. Finally, Uncle Frog, clever man that he was in his insistence, looked at David and asked, “John, do you mind if I call you David?”
When Daddy died on the first day of Spring, 1981, David and I were neighbors in Houston. John 1 lived in Austin and John 2 in New York. As our family mourned the passing of a husband and father, John came from Austin to serve as pallbearer, and John came from New York to be with our family. David is credited by my only niece as befriending her during a difficult time for our family. Fast forward many years to the days leading up to February 1, 2007. Even though Mother would have been 90 on her next birthday, we were sad and exhausted as we faced saying good-bye to her in this life. Our friend John 2 had died in 1986, living many miles away from us in Germany. On the Saturday before Mother died, I made a point to connect with John 1, who still lives in Austin. I think John felt closer to my mother and daddy than to his own parents. That Saturday I discovered that John is battling his own serious health problems these days. One of the manifestations of his illness is the affect it has had on his speech. On that Saturday I talked to John and his care giver. I was already sad about Mother, but I was further saddened to learn of John’s struggles. A few days later, John called in the evening. I had trouble understanding him, and I kept saying, “John, I’m sorry, but I can’t understand what you’re saying.” There was silence on the other end, but I could hear talking in the background. John got back on the phone and asked, “Harold, has Tena died?” “No, John, but it is near.” “Tell Tena that I love her,” John said, “and Harold, I love you too.” In the crush of Mother’s death two days later, I didn’t call John. I haven’t acted on my plans to visit him in Austin.
A voicemail to David, who lives in New York, brought him to our family’s side on the Sunday we held visitation at the mortuary last February. He had been vacationing with his partner on a cruise ship. David flew to Houston and rented a car to make the 45-mile drive west. He had made one other trip to visit Mother in the spring of 2002, or was it 2003, soon after her health had turned downward with almost lightening speed. On that visit, we ate chicken fried steak and cocoanut pie.
Many years and all sorts of miles have put distance between me, our family, and the three men who have played a palpably important role in our lives. Recently I remembered that I hadn’t heard from David for several months, even though I stay in touch with him through this blog, as third person as that might be. I sent him an email a few days ago. He called yesterday. We all know how it goes when we make contact with people who have become part of our fabric. Striking the ground running, we caught up with our lives. David is a man of many talents, bright, funny, and compassionate. Even though it was just yesterday, I don’t remember who brought it up. Neither of us could remember the variety of David’s artwork I have had stored for 25 years. I remembered only one piece, he another. We ended our call with loosely-defined plans for me to visit New York. “David, you know I haven’t flown since 9/11.” “Maybe you can take the train,” he suggested, advising me also that someday I might need to fly. “I’ll know when it’s time,” I said.
Amazingly for me, I knew just where to look for David’s art. To my surprise, there were three pieces—the one I remembered, the one David remembered, and one that he couldn’t imagine that he had painted. “Did I sign it?” he asked, when we reconnected later in the day. With promises to have his three pieces scanned and digitized, we ended a second call, as casually as if we see each other later this week.
There are many ways to measure friendship. For me, one of the defining truths of my life has been the presence of the significant men in my life at the passing of my parents. “That is a tribute to the quality of men I have loved and to their relationship with my family,” I told Dr. W. last spring. “Harold, that also says something important about you,” replied. “Give yourself some credit.”
Friendship in the Flesh—Normangee, Texas (February 21, 2008)
R. Harold Hollis
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