Making friends is the only worth while thing to do

First published on April 12, 2012, here is the article again since I spoke with Mr. Olsen on June 14, 2019.  This is one of my popular posts!!

We spoke like old friends for nearly an hour talking about politics and culture and children and education. He has two children and four (I think grand children) and all of them have done so very well.  Its a friendship of over 25 years.  Its always so nice to speak with him and get a look into a different life. He says that he lives in the country now, and people there have lived for generations. Which is so rare these days.

But also that their children do not want to stay in the same place. I wonder if people realize that once movement starts it disintegrates not the place but also the people who move around so much.

Despite all new technologies, we still live in one body. Our bodies, they are connected to the land.  And it is important for our psychologies that we create communities, and that is possible only when we stay in one place for generation after generation.

I am no one to talk.

But as I always say, I have had little say in the direction of my life. 

Grateful for friends, and those who have supported me. 

Thankyou Mr. Olsen. It was wonderful speaking toy ou. 

_______________

The following article was my first step towards acknowledging that I enjoyed finding poetry in daily-lived experiences, and writing about them.  But more importantly, it brought me to this realization that there might be a market for it.  That one can make a living from writing.  

Unfortunately, I never explored that.  I got into academic writing, which is much more contrived and has little soul.  In my Advanced Media Writing class, we were asked to describe a place or a person we had met that summer. We were to write in free hand, and use merely our notebooks.  I wrote without stopping, for twenty minutes and produced nearly a four-page hand written document that got me an A.  The professor, as he was handing out the paper back, asked directly, ‘You wrote that in one class? Wanna get this in for the Clarion Call?, making a reference to our University student paper published once a week.  I smiled.  

'What?’ I thought, 'Really someone would publish that?  The paper was published without a single edit.  That was the first piece that gave me an audience.  I did have a short story published once in an Indian magazine, which did not last very long, and so I have nothing but a letter of acceptance from them.  

After this article was published people told me that they enjoyed reading it.  I continued to write, although I did not publish much. At the time I was co-editing the international-student newsletter.  I would write the editorial and an occasional piece about international student activities.  To hear kind words from my Prof...’You are a good writer’ blew my mind. I was not considered good at anything.  I realized then--I had always been in love with words.

People drink to get high, I needed words.  

Bars and pubs were never an interest.  Words were.

I started a journal when I was 12. Since 16, I have kept a regular journal.  Now, I keep a few, including this blog.  I have an online journal that is just for me.  A hand written one, and a few others for creative writing. And my favorite, a gratitude journal.  A very Oprah-sque idea, but very enjoyable.  I hardly get published though.  Now, I am beginning to ask myself some serious questions about what I truly enjoy doing. 

However, the publication of this article coincided with a few other transitions in my life, that would have an irreversible effect.  First, I started to work increasingly with computers, and second, that computers killed that way of 'natural writing' where the final product required no editing. Words came from the heart and I could write for hours.  At first, typing was freeing, because I could type much faster than write.  Then, as life-clutter increased in my brain-- it simply stopped the flow of words, that use to add music to every event of my life.  

Sadly, as I moved towards PhD, which has much academic writing, that needs to be validated so much that it tramples all over the idea of 'expression'.  In academic writing, while most of qualitative analysis is speculation and opinion, we are to refrain from writing an opinion, unless it is validated by citations. 

Coming back to the following article, I asked Mr. Olsen's for his address on my way back.  And asked him if I could write to him.  He quietly put his address on a piece of paper and slipped into my hand. I wrote to him and to my delight received a response.  That correspondence was continue for all the time I stayed in the US, and beyond.  I called  him only before I left the US, and he came to visit for a very brief time.  I told him that my biggest regret was that I never met his mother who lived in State College in a senior citizen home. I was too caught up in survival most of my years in the US.  I regret not having done so many things, because I was trying to finish a degree that I was not sure I enjoyed much.  Three of my biggest regrets are that I never adopted a grandparent, never got a host family in State College, and never volunteered for big brother big sister.  I would have made a great big sister.  I did have an excellent heart warming host family in Clarion, so that was a plus from years in the US.

Mr. Olsen and I  talked for less than an hour, but it was good to know that I had left some people behind who would remember me.  And even though we hardly write to each other, we somehow manage to keep in touch. I did write to him from Fiji and then shortly after I moved to Sweden.  The last letter had also mentioned his name, which I said, was very 'Swedish'.  

I have always had issues with the western idea of 'friendship', especially in the US.  It took me years to realize that friendship in the US was the most casual thing.  And friends were just temporary time-fillers before people found life partners.  In addition, the word 'friend' was quite broad and encompassed a wide range of relationships. A person who we opened our hearts to was a friend, so is the one we send two emails a year to, as is a colleague, as is someone we sat in a class with.  There is no understanding of intensity and intimacy in a friendship. Those two words, especially in  most of the developed world, are saved for 'romantic relationships.'  While intimacy in friendship, for  many, was an uncomfortable concept, causal 'hooking up' was not.  In addition, there were very few across-the-age friendships. I have had an unusual life and therefore, despite its drawbacks, have had a very rich life.  My friends have never been always 'from my age group'.  Being single allows you time to invest into relationships that go beyond mere 'opportunistic friendships.'  Friendships are not only about spending time, but committing a lifetime of interest in another being.  That is rare in the developed world, but rarer in the US.  It is evident in the kinds of movies that are made.  So much invested in romance--and movies on friendship end up being 'Lethan Weapon' or 'Die Hard'.  

Mr. Olsen is about my dad's age.  I have about three friends his age.  Mr. M, who I know from Barnes and Nobles, and P, who I know from Fiji.  They are more than friends.  From my side at least there is a reverence for all of them.  From them I get an affection and the joy of feeling young around them, and the freedom to behave silly and child-like.  In the absence of what people consider a family, I have created a web of deep meaningful friendships and relationships.  Whenever I am despondent about the unusual life that I have lived, without the 'regulars' that can easily fit into a sit-com situation, I have to sit myself down and remind myself that my life is really not regular but very 'profound'--If I can use that word in this context.

So, last October, when I was in the US, I looked him up, and left him a message.  I received an email from him. 

Hi ,

                          Your call made this old guy very happy. You have a beautiful heart.

                     So sorry I missed your call but I didn't get home from  work untill 8:15.

                      My cell is - I can be reached at that number untill about

                       8:00 pm, then I'm in a no service area. My e-mail is -

                        I do not have a pc or lap top,so I use the library. Am in Harrisburg and

                       will not be back in State College untill about 7: 00 this evening. Also, I

                       am on the road after 2:30 this afternoon. If I haven't heard from you

                       by then, I'll swing by my daughters home & check use their pc. I

                       would love to see you if only for a minute. Maybe I could wave goodby

                       as you leave on Sat. In any event keep me up to date on your adventures.

                                                                                            K.

I called him up to set up a time to meet, on my last day in town.  His voice was calm, and he told me a bit about his life.  I was choking on the other end, as he said 'I turned 71 this year'.  I had known him a while.  I know that now people work until they are way past six-decades old, but that is the price we pay for a fragmented society.  There are no bonds. No links. Grandchildren do not run from across the street to visit you, they usually live five states, if not a continent away.  That lack of interaction with family or at least those we have known for decades is filled with work.  Who benefits?  The State....while our hearts remain empty and we constantly question, as we say in hindi, 'Mein kya kamaya?" "What did I earn? "  It is that sense of 'wealth' that I have always sought to provide to people I have met on my path.  It is that sense of continuity that I have provided to those who I have kept in touch with for the last two decades or more.  While, I have worked hard on maintaining these friendships, I have been rewarded with a wealth that is beyond measure.  

We met for barely 30 minutes at the Starbucks in town.  I took him to visit my close friend who runs the Indian grocery shop in town.  She is another one I have kept in touch with since my Penn State years.  All my family has met her too.  

When I saw Mr. Olsen, I took a quiet breath.  My heart was filled with affection and throat was heavy with unshed tears --that happen from merely acknowledging a human bond. 

'You look the same, as always, how old were when I met you first? 19?"

I laughed and hugged him like I would my Dad.  We got ourselves something to drink and sat by the wall.  I had such little time that I had to put timer on my ipod for ten minute reminder.  That rang three times before we parted. 

"So, Olsen is Swedish you know, only they write it Olsson" I said 'And pronounce it Olshen'

"It is Norwegian, I think.' he said.

'Well, detsamma (the same), they used to be one country.'

We talked about so many things.  Life, changing careers mid life, and life just never going the straight road.  

Partings are never easy but more difficult when it seems that we have not had enough time to even catch up.  But with my fast life style, I have learnt to bow to the winds, for I am too frail and no 'railing', no 'branch' has been strong enough to let me 'hold'.  These people I have met have added so much to my journey. Each enriching it with their own hue, making the rainbow of my experience many shades of 'gold'.  In vain some days I ask myself, 'So much effort into all this and what about your own home, your own family.'

Well, most people settle for a home.  For some, they have to be 'found' by a home.  Mine has been eluding me.  But I have, all this time, been engaged in the only thing that is worthwhile----making friends....

Mr. Olsen, the Indian grocery shop in Happy Valley, October 2011.  An emotional meeting after six years. A friendship of nearly two decades.  Krishna Grocery Store, October 2011. 

THE FOLLOWING ARTICLE, IF WELL WRITTEN SHOULD TAKE YOU BACK INTO MY MIND AND LIFE....A LONG TIME AGO...

"So you ar going to Quaker town" 

"Ah Yes!!" I answered hesitantly.

  

“Coming from a big city, I was not used to trusting strangers, least of all drivers. He smiled at me. I tried to return his smile.

He lifted my bags and shoved them in luggage compartment. My friends hugged me good bye. Christine whispered to me "Don't talk to strangers."

 I had heard that before. I was familiar with that. I nodded and let her go. "

You don't look like you belong to Quaker town"¡      

"Er, no" nervously I shook my head. It was my first trip by Grey Hound, I was more than a little

apprehensive. To top it all, I was the only passenger. Every time, Mr. Driver talked, he turned his head towards me. I noticed his bushy moustache went up and down with his lips. He asked quite a few questions in the first five minutes. To avoid his noticing my clattering teeth, I answered all his queries by shaking or nodding my head.  Then he smiled. The bags around his eyes tightened a bit and his eyes lit up like a child. He looked, harmless now, but I was still suspicious.

"Where is Quaker town?" he asked me 

"Near Philly" He raised his brows, rolled his eyes in mock fear and said, "Got your hand gun ready?" 

I laughed. 

I was beginning to relax. 

He told me, he was going to‘‘ drop me at Dubois, where I would have to change the bus. He asked me,

if I was originally from Pennsylvania.  

"No, I am an Indian, from India" I specified.  

"Oh!" he was quiet for a few seconds. I enjoy noticing people,(when I am not afraid of them) and try to read their thoughts, as they show on their faces. I sat on the first seat, of the right of driver. I could see his face clearly in the mirror opposite him. He seemed like he was talking to himself. He turned again.  "Did you say India? They have arranged marriages there don't they?"

"Yes"       

"So your parents have a man picked up for you?"  

"Probably" He gave a smile that gentled his face. He looked straight ahead and said "A sensible way to do things"  

I did not know what to say. From then on it was I who was questioning him. He told me he was originally from Pennsylvania, went to Penn State, lived in Chicago for many years and was now back in PA.

"Why did you take up driving? like travelling?" 

"It is not so much of travelling, as it is the need to earn bread" his honest tone said it all.  

“Every now and then I reminded myself of the caution my friends had given me. But by the time we reached Dubois, I had forgotten all about the caution, I wanted to talk more to him. I doubted, if I would ever see him again. 

During next half hour that I spent waiting for the next bus, I wrote about him in my journal and noted down the names of books he had mentioned. After two months of good time with the girls scouts at Quaker town, I took the same route to get back to Clarion. I was tired after fourteen hours of bus travel from Philly to Dubois, I lay exhausted on a bench in the waiting room, when I heard a voice over me. 

"We were looking for you."  

I looked up to see Mr. Driver smiling at me. 

His bushy moustache quivering. This time I noticed all the colors in his hair. Boy what a combination of reds, grays, and blondes. He helped me with my luggage and waited till I got myself coffee.  “So I knew it would be another hour of question and answer session. He told me he was from wood stock generation. I had heard about it but he explained the term for me. Sketching if out colorfully  for me. His low voice, went up when he talked about his youth. His mouth pouted a little when he talked of his present profession. He brightened when he talked of his time in Chicago. His expressive face, made it easy to read his feelings. “We got on talking about 'life in general".  

"The only thing worth doing in this life is making friends."  He said at some point in the conversation.

I could not say it, but I felt, he had already made one. I would never forget him. The prim uniform, the low but true laughter, his subtle way of teasing just like all parents do...it had an impact on me.  

He asked me how old I was "oh now in mid twenties..and I feel old"‘  

"I'm 52 let's trade" 

I jumped off my seat.  "I think I'll take the twenties"  

During our conversation, he told me he had spent some time in Ethiopia. He had loved it. He felt sorry for what the country is going through now. Living in Africa got him interested into various kinds of food.  

Do you like our food here? he asked me, at point. 

So during that one hour, we went from one topic to another. He seemed to know more about India than I do. I got down the names of few more authors and books to read..  When we reached Clarion, he helped me again with my luggage. I wanted to hold his hand, and thank him for sharing his life and thoughts. In my culture, saying that to strangers is not alright. But I did not care. Yet I did not say it, for the fear of embarrassing him.  

Two weeks later, I was walking down Main Street (Seriously US is very uncreative with naming its towns.  So much so that there is a town called Mars in Pennsylvania.  Seroiously! and others that may not be mentioned here without labeling the site R-rated)

I saw the bus packed outside Booksmith. I saw him behind the wheel. But I thought he meets so many people everyday he must not remember me. As I passed by the bus. He waved at me. In all my excitement I waved back both my arms at him.     I never asked his name, would probably never know, but I will always remember him.  “And yes I will never be afraid of strangers. To take risks, is what life is about. We make friends that way for that is the only worth while thing to do...