Olden Goldies

“Make new friends, but keep the old; one is silver and the other gold.” I remember questioning this song when I was a child, not liking the generalization that old friends would be more valuable than new ones (the whole thing further confused by the fact that I liked silver, as a metal, better than gold, but knew their symbolic place in relation to each other). I’ve been re-exploring this issue lately, though, with a new appreciation of the old song.

Last summer we visited the northwest and had the opportunity to hang out with various old friends. Some we have never been out of touch with, so they are not just old friends but current friends. Others we hadn’t seen in years. We spent a weekend with a couple and their lovely children of 7 and 5 who were not yet born when we’d last seen the parents. It was completely relaxed and comfortable, which really amazed us all. Another friend was one from elementary school, whom I’d seen once or twice in high school but not since. Although I was under the cloud of a head cold at the time, it was remarkable how well we felt we knew each other, despite having lived more than half our lives since we’d last really hung out. Does this mean that who we are is already completely established by our teens? In some ways it seems it is; however, I would hate to think that the intervening years of experience haven’t affected me (and I know they have).

What is it about an old friend that is so exciting and yet comfortable? Less than a week ago I had a lovely visit from a friend from high school and our early twenties. We were joined by my best high school girlfriend, whom I have been seeing more and more of since I’ve been back in California. Hanging out with these old friends left me feeling light-hearted and joyful, almost giddy. And I’m not just talking about the wine or the fact that are both really smart clever funny people who make me laugh. There was something that lingered.

The next day, I sought, as I had done several times unsuccessfully in the past, to find some of the other people who were in our writing group “back in the day” (as kids now refer to anything more than a minute ago). Whether through my superior search skills or just better net saturation, I found two fellow students and our creative writing teacher. What a bonanza! A small flurry of emails ensued and promises of a reunion in the new year.

The pleasure of reconnecting with these old friends is perhaps enhanced by the fact that they are all writers or creators of some type, all with a deep love of reading and appreciation for language. While teaching students all of last year who, in the majority, did not like to read, and then spending my writing energy on the very unsatisfying task of graduate school essays, I have become more distant from fellow language-lovers. With these new-old connections, I feel revitalized and renewed, like I will be able to walk again after a long convalescence.

All of that writery hooey aside, I think there is something generally comforting about old friends. I don’t know who I really was eighteen years ago; I know that I feel in some ways like a completely different person—wiser, more patient, more flexible, less bossy, more certain about some things, less certain about others—but I’m also the same person. I've come to realize since my childhood dislike of gold, that it's not considered more valuable than silver or bronze just because it's shiny but because of its other important qualities. Maybe what we seek in an old friend is the flexibility to accommodate our changes and the strength to maintain the bond: like gold, old friendships are pliable yet strong. [Okay, metaphor, please retire now, I've used you beyond respectability.]