FINDING THE BALANCE

Today I read friend Harry's blog "The Old Thinker" (www:hepie2335blogger.com) and he spoke of the many benefits of friendship with pals who have passed on.

It caused me to reflect on my own life. Unfortunately, I have also lost a few friends who were near and dear to me. Thoughts of their death always make me sad.

Now, the last is something I could focus on as I write this blog; but I won't. I prefer Harry's style where he concentrated on the good memories.

Occasionally I have been called upon to deliver an eulogy, or perhaps just a brief contribution to the service upon the occasion of a friends death.

Perhaps it's my strange Irish humor, but, I tend to reflect on the lighter contributions made by that person rather than just the serious moments. Maybe that's why the Irish love their wakes.

When Tom Armstrong my dearest friend, and seemingly older brother of mine passed away, I included in my reflections the many trips to his east 78th New York City apartment both alone and with various family members.

One of them, my youngest brother, Tom, still speaks affectionately about joining Tom and me to hear Buddy Greco at the old Basin Street East jazz club.

I spoke much that day of the humorous things Tom did.

Being extremely naive and without many funds in the 60's, on one early visit to NYC , as we prepared to go downtown, I carefully hid a $20 bill in my shoe - presumably out of sight of my good friend.

It was a time for a lot of parties in a fairly upper class yuppie type setting in the east 70's - although I'm not sure the term was in vogue yet. Tom hosted some and dragged me along to others.

At one of those gatherings involving mostly young folks like us, the guests included artists, musicians, an assistant food editor at McCalls, the male model for Interwoven socks, and an assistant district attorney.

Like other such functions back then, the drinking was heavy, the smoking even more pervasive, and the conversations bordered on the intellectual. Few people spoke about cars, sports scores, nor their success or lack of same in the whole category of scoring.

What so often was discussed were subjects that were explored in depth the following week by magazines as prestigious as Time, Newsweek, and U.S. News and World Report. They were topics that had this Pittsburgh kid's head spinning as he sucked up the knowledge.

At one party I introduced myself to an attractive young woman as "Tom's friend from Pennsylvania". She looked at me, burst out laughing, and said, "Oh, you're the one from Pittsburgh who put the money in your shoe."

Friend Tom was my bud - but still enjoyed a good laugh - sometimes at my expense.

Shortly before he moved to New York from Pittsburgh he came over to our 1/2 double in the young married couples rental driven, culdesac protected and heavily wooded neighborhood. He looked serious and obviously was distraught at having to move with his company away from his roots and his friends.

We shared a lot of interests; one of them being our love for Jazz, and singers by the name of Sinatra, Torme, Streisand, Fitzgerald, Christy, Cole, and Vaughn. We also frequented the local Pittsburgh piano bars and jazz clubs sucking on Cutty Sark or J & B scotch.

Tom reached inside his rain soaked London Fog trenchcoat that day and presented me with an autographed Duke Ellington 33 1/3 LP record; something he explained he had acquired years before when he visited New York with his Dad, another jazz fan.

He explained that it was his second favorite possession. We both knew his favorite was the 8 by 10 picture of him as a kid wearing a Pittsburgh Pirate uniform, holding a bat, with Ted Williams's right arm wrapped around his shoulder.

Tom wanted me to take the one that came in second - and I gratefully accepted as a special memory of our time together.

It was probably ten years before I discovered it was Tom who had signed the Ellington record.

One of the more poignant stories I chose at Tom's memorial service was of the time during the Vietnam War when he and his new wife had moved from N.Y.C to Lancaster where he was working as an executive for a company that made excellent timepieces.

They also had a contract with our government to make timing mechanisms for bombs. This fact, once discovered, had aroused the attention of the local anti-war protesters who were now picketing the company's property on the street below.

Tom's boss, in acknowledgment of Tom's excellent negotiating skills, asked him to go down to talk to the protesters and see if he could convince them to leave the premises peacefully.

As with any good negotiator, Tom patiently listened to their pleas and arguments before taking action. He had listened for a long time.

He then went over to one of the loudest of the picket sign holders - took the sign from him - and joined the circular march with the others.

He next returned to his office, typed a letter of resignation, cleaned out his desk - and went home.

There were many stories - mostly funny - a few not so much - some that popped up in previous blogs - and more than a few that will probably never be retold. I miss the man dearly.

During his final week we joked a little. Then I asked him if he had any reflections or observations to offer. He looked up from under the oversized ball cap covering his now bald skinny head, smiled, and said, "Yeah, why the hell didn't you make me give up those damn cigarettes ten or twenty years ago?" (Would that I could, pal.)

Yep, there was sadness, but I'm so grateful for being able to find that needed balance.