One of the hard things for me this time of year is the season causes me to reflect on times past. Both of my parents have been deceased for many years, but that is what happens with the passage of time. It's difficult, however, to sometimes think of broken friendships, broken romances and then tragic events ending a life way too early. That was the case with my friend, Frank.
I first met Frank when my parents moved to another city when I was attending college. Frank was attending a different college, closer to where my parents lived. Frank and my parents attended the same church. So meeting Frank was, I guess, one of those things to be expected.
We discovered we had the same sense of humor, and because Frank was one of the "hippie types" of that era (and all that entails) we shared some common interests. My parents liked Frank, but probably secretly prayed that nothing serious would develop between us. They needn't have worried. Frank was, well, my buddy (but not the kind that some people think of these days.) We talked for hours, and because Frank was an unashamed smoker of the popular substance at that time, we got into some really interesting conversations. My parents, no doubt, thought that I was guilty of similar smoking behaviors because I hung out with Frank, but that wasn't the case. Someone even labeled me a "fake hippie" because I never intentionally used recreational drugs (second hand inhalation at a rock concert was another matter. I couldn't hold my breath forever!!)
One of Frank's favorite songs was "Don't Bogart That Joint" (or as it appeared on the album listing: "Don't Bogart Me") known from the movie Easy Rider, played during a scene which pushed actor Jack Nicholson into stardom.
Frank and I only saw each other during college breaks. Christmas and summers, mainly. He wrote to me (in those pre-email days) and told me he was in love with me, but sadly for him, I didn't love him in quite the same way. He moved on. Our friendship remained, but we saw less of each other.
Several years later, word came that Frank had died while awaiting a transplant. By the time I had learned about it, the funeral was long over, but I still grieved for a while remembering the fun we had. He was there for me during times of heartaches of my own. He also had an off-kilter sense of humor, remarking one time that the day after Christmas, which I have known as "St. Stephen's Day," was a "day to get stoned."So each Christmas, I remember Frank and his love of puns, our interesting conversations that went on for hours and veered from serious to silly. He loved the comic strip Frank & Earnest because of the puns it often contains. One of his favorite lines when we'd meet up was "I'll be Frank, and you'll be earnest." How true. Spoken like a lover of puns.
