Old Friends.....but not Bookends.

Please note: this piece contains descriptions of loss that some readers may find upsetting.

The old man, who happened to be myself, sat in the chair by the window, gazing out at the garden, enjoying the birds at the bird table. Almost eight decades since my birth, retired and dejected, I began to reminisce.

My thoughts retraced my life, of my family, friends, and colleagues. As a youngster living deep in the country, in a small village which had a huge, well, it was huge to me then, free-range chicken run. Hundreds of the brown, dumpy birds all clucking and scraping with an aroma unique to chickens. An old bus would take us into the nearest town. Laughing to myself, I remembered the cardboard tickets that the driver would collect. Depending on the day, their colour would change, from orange, purple, blue, white, and pink. Now, at 72 years of age, I couldn’t possibly remember what colour matched what day.

Off in the distance, a fire engine siren wailed, returning my thoughts to the fire station at the entrance to the village. The family cottage was separated from the farm fields by a metal fence, and I loved the smell of the old Davy tractor and freshly cut grass; I still remember. The village had a romantic name, Carsemeadow, it was called, opposite Quarriers' home for orphaned children, where my father had worked as an electrician. No friends from those days are left now.

Our family then moved to Lambhill, close to Possilpark, in north Glasgow. It wasn’t built up as it is now; it was almost countryfied, not unlike Carsemeadow in Renfrewshire. There were fields around the area, where in the summer we would lie in the grass watching skylarks. Possil Marsh was a favourite haunt, a stone's throw from the Forth and Clyde canal, searching for tadpoles in spring and baggie minnows and sticklebacks.

My first close friend flourished then, a pal with the same name as myself, Andy. His family had moved into the newly built flats on Knapdale Street. We would go bird spotting at Possil Loch. Ducks of all kinds, and small finches, at dusk, an owl would hoot, and we once saw a nightjar in the undergrowth. One day, the loch made the newspapers as a flock of spoonbills had settled for a few days. Those carefree days are long gone, and the pair of us drifted apart; new friends were made when I went to high school.

My thoughts faltered at this point as I recalled a special friendship made at thirteen years old, which lasted until we were middle-aged men of fifty-nine years. I had wept when I learned of my oldest friend's passing, my friend had died in Australia. Ross was his name. Ross’s family had moved from Carntyne in the south-east of Glasgow to Parkhouse, about a stone’s throw from where I lived. It is said somewhere that kindred spirits recognise one another's souls and become lifelong friends. That happened with Ross and me, we were as close as brothers. We looked out for one another, he had my back, and I had his. Growing into adults, we remained close friends. Sadly, Ross emigrated to Australia, but that didn’t end our friendship, thank goodness for e-mail and social media. His passing was sore as I felt a big part of my life had died with him. I wrote a poem as a tribute, which his sister read at his funeral in Cairns, Australia. Sadly, I couldn’t be there.

In my life, I have been blessed with many friends; some friendships have lasted more than 60 years, some have not. I cherish them all, even though I lost contact with people, we have been reunited again through social media. Friends may pass on, but friendships remain, maybe as only a memory, but remain they do.

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