Friendship

Earlier this week, Susan and I flew to Jersey and spent a night with Chuck and Linda. From there we flew with Chuck to Colorado where we met with Jack, and then traveled to Aspen to attend Jon Seigle’s memorial service. The four of us, Jack, Jon, Chuck and I, all met in the fifth grade, when we were around ten years old, and have been friends ever since. Our time together, and Jon’s passing, have made me reflect on our friendship.

We’ve been separated by geography ever since leaving Syracuse in 1967. For a while, when everyone went to school in the east, it was easy to meet up. But for the longest time now, we’ve lived all over the country. Jon had lived in Colorado for over 35 years. Yet on those occasions when we would get together, it was as if no more than a few days had passed. After catching up on family developments, what the kids were doing, how the work was going, we were soon as close as we’d ever been, swapping memories, sharing our hopes and dreams, openly caring for each other. Last July we all met at Andy’s home in the Berkshires, along with a couple dozen other high school friends. At times over that weekend, it seemed as though we were only a few weeks removed from our old school days.

What is it about childhood friendships that make them so special? All through my life I’ve met new folks, and forged new friendships. But none of these newer friendships has ever displaced the old ones. And no matter how many new friends I’ve met and made, they’ve never diminished the love I felt for any of these childhood buddies.

One explanation is that these friendships were forged when we were young. At that point in life, we were completely uncritical. If someone was our friend, he was our friend. We didn’t care what his interests were; what his job was; who his spouse or girlfriend was. As a matter of fact, when the four of us became friends, there were no girlfriends; there were no jobs; there weren’t even any interests in our lives, other than hanging around, playing sports, and riding our bikes. There was only friendship; and the friendship wasn’t dependent on anything other than our proximity and our age. That bond of friendship was created between us and us alone, almost without outside influence.

A second explanation is that, because we were kids, and because there was nothing in our lives other than our friendship, the impressions we made on each other were deeper and more long lasting. Life had not yet hardened us. We were like soft clay; and when our friends made an impression on us, as we grew older, and perhaps more inflexible, those early impressions remained behind, unchanged. They stayed with us forever, no matter how the rest of our lives might have changed over time.

A third explanation is that our shared memories have allowed us, over the years, to return to our childhood, over and over again. Last summer, sitting around Andy’s kitchen table, we suddenly realized that all four of us from our famous Carvel adventure, Jon included, were together once again. We retold the story, for the hundredth time, of getting drunk, beaten up, and almost arrested, in that order. This chance to relive our youth, to return to our high school years, brought everyone closer. Each time we meet, and remind each other of how much fun we had in years long past, serves to bring us together again, regardless of how much time may have passed, or how much distance might now separate us.

Montaigne says that perfect friendship is indivisible: “[E]ach one gives himself so entirely to his friend that he has nothing left to distribute to others.” I think M is wrong; in fact, I think just the opposite is true. Friendship, like love, is infinite. Giving time, or attention, or love to one friend, does not reduce what you have left for another friend. The more friendship you give, the more you have to give. The more friends you have, the better friend you can be.

Our days pass us by without incident, and we allow life’s distractions to keep us away from old friends. It’s sad that it took Jon’s death to bring some of us together for these several days. How much sweeter it would have been for everyone to be back at Andy’s, sitting on the porch, drinking mojitos, and telling the same stories we’ve retold for close to forty years. We’ll do that again this summer and maybe we’ll figure out how to do it more often than just once every year. But we won’t all be there anymore. We’ll miss you, Jon.

Jon Seigle - A Life Well Spent

Jon originally moved to Aspen so he could ski. It was what we’d call today a lifestyle choice. Some of us were then focused on attending the best possible school; others wanted a head start on their career of choice; but all Jon wanted was to ski. Everyday. In the best possible snow. For as much of the year as he could. Older generations would have been critical of this choice, of its apparent self-indulgence, or perhaps of a life wasted on frivolity. To us though, choosing to live in Aspen and to pursue skiing as often as possible was not grounds for criticism. If anything, we were envious of Jon’s freedom, of his having opted out of the rat race, of his willingness to follow his heart and not the expectations of others.

A few years passed, and we suddenly became struck by the fact that Jon, despite having chosen to devote his life to the pursuit of fresh powder, was becoming far more successful than any of us. Instead of leading the life of an itinerant ski-bum, Jon was fast becoming a real estate mogul. His business interests soon outstripped his law practice. Instead of being the lawyer who put the business deal on paper, he became the business guy who hired the lawyer, who then put Jon’s deal on paper.

The irony was not lost on any of us. Here was the one-time ski bum, now living in Starwood, neighbor to entertainers and celebrities. Before long, he had a second home, this one in Hawaii, backed up to a national park. It was a tiny plot in paradise, a few acres of the Garden of Eden. Not to say there was anything shabby about his home in Aspen, he having moved down from the mountain and back to Cemetery Lane. A view of the valley out his living room windows. A different shot of paradise, but paradise nonetheless.

And then, somewhere along the line, and pretty much unbeknownst to us outside of Aspen, Jon began giving back to his community. He entered into his long tenure with the Aspen school board. I can’t imagine that it was easy serving on the school board. All that time away from his beloved family; all those aggravations and disagreements. Pretty much any decision leaves someone, or some faction, unhappy. And to put up with that for fifteen years requires a level of tolerance and perseverance that’s hard to describe.

A few old friends came to the memorial service and were struck by the outpouring of affection for Jon. We weren’t surprised that people loved Jon, for after all, it was close to forty years since we had separated after high school graduation, yet we still felt moved enough to travel across the country and attend this service. Nor were we that surprised by the depth of love expressed by Jon’s friends and associates. We had known him for a long time, and we all loved him. So it was natural that others loved him too. But what caught us all unawares was the breadth of love for Jon, the number of folks in attendance at the memorial service. When we called for hotel reservations and told the desk clerk we were coming for Jon’s service, she hadn’t heard the news. “Our Jon Seigle?” she asked. It looked to us, to strangers, as though people from all walks of life in Aspen had turned out to pay their respects. Poor Liz had to stand in line for over an hour, accepting condolences, and this after having delivered the bravest eulogy I had ever heard.

This really had been a life well spent. It had not been self-indulgent, but just the opposite. Jon had given of himself, not just to his loved ones, nor even only to his friends; but to the entire community in which he lived. We’ll all miss Jon. I'm confident that there are many who will feel that their lives are somehow better for having known him, even if they didn’t get to enjoy the full measure of his days.