I was backing Scarlet out of the garage when my cell phone went off. It was my old friend Cam. He’s 68. We’ve known each other for 52 years. Cam has always been a jokester. Actually, so have I. “Hi Bruce. I’m at the Belmont Library.” (BS) “I passed by the Diner just now.” (BS) “I drove around Robin Ridge Drive but I didn’t know how to find you.” (Supreme BS)
“Cam, you’re in Richmond Hill [near Toronto, 200 kilometres away].” “No, Bruce. I’d never lie to you.” (More of the same) Back and forth we went, me almost believing he was here in my new village. “Okay, I’m driving to the library. I’ll see you in three minutes.” (He won’t be there. Sucked in again, Bruce)
Three minutes later, I turned left off Main Street into the library parking lot. The only car was a souped up jobbie … definitely not Cam. Darn, he got me one more time. I whipped out my cell phone and started dialing his number, brow all furrowed. When through the windshield, what to my wondering eyes should appear but the figure of said Cam Clark. With a frizzled brain residing in my head, I leapt out of Scarlet and gave my friend a hug. Gosh, I’m supposed to be the kidder, not the kiddee.
We had a great talk back at my red, blue, yellow, green, teal, purple, reddish brown and cream home. Just like many, many old times. I showed him around, including the developed basement. I was first upstairs again and turned to notice Cam apparently struggling up the steps. I felt sad. His life has included tennis prowess, a love for skating and a golf swing almost as erratic as mine. “Back problems. No golf. Still good for cycling, however.”
I’m heading to Toronto on Thursday and hopefully Cam and I will get together on Friday. I’d love to go for a walk around a tree-shaded lake near his home. We’ll meander and reminisce and make plans for future adventures. Fifty-two years is a delightfully long time.