It began in Illinois decades ago, four young men having no idea they were forming a lifelong friendship. They were just having fun. “Friendship does not arise out of necessity, but out of pleasure,” wrote one of my favorite contemporary writers, Joseph Epstein, in Friendship: An Exposé (Link), a delightful discourse on the subject.

The four fellows lived in the same barracks while attending weather observer school at the now-closed Chanute Air Force base. When not expending their youthful vigor on identifying multiple forms of cumulus and stratus clouds, or analyzing the adiabatic lapse rate, they found time to banter with each other, to sketch in their varied backgrounds.

John grew up in Toledo, Ohio, and had studied at the University of Texas. Vic came from Washington, a graduate of the University of Puget Sound. Chuck, from Cicero, Illinois, enlisted after high school, and I, the fourth guy of the group, had completed an aimless year of college in South Dakota and had never ventured beyond Dakota borders until my enlistment (Link).

I can’t define what pulled us together, I doubt any of us really knew. Probably it was simply because we liked each other, and our liking led to common adventures. One unforgettable evening we chug-a-lugged uncounted steins of frothy beer at the airmen’s club and then decided to play a rousing game of football in the snow, rushing and tackling until exhausted, our fatigues soaked and splotched with white.

Fine Transportation

John owned a Studebaker and soon traded it in for a late-model Cadillac, a nifty trophy that shuttled us through the region in style. We zoomed up to Chicago a few times, once to visit Vic’s relatives. Two families of his uncles, or maybe cousins, I don’t remember which, lived in the Windy City, one set friendly to Vic’s family, the other not, so his target was clear. As we approached Chuck’s home town, he passed along neighborhood tidbits about Cicero’s own Al Capone.

Vic’s kin greeted us warmly and immediately led us to the basement where a table stretched almost wall to wall, its top heavy with gigantic platters of food. A tub of spaghetti and huge bottles of red wine covered a smaller table along the left wall, a family gathering being in full swing. As we were introduced, one specific comment changed Vic’s smile to an embarrassed pucker. “Wrong family,” he whispered to me. Despite this blunder, no grudges flared. We four stuffed ourselves with course after course, and hours later left amid a burst of happy farewells, the family rift repaired, at least temporarily.

Back in the barracks we formed our own special club, driving to the nearby town of Rantoul to gather whiskey, cheeses, crackers, and other snacks and storing them in our lockers. I, the least worldly of our quartet, volunteered during our first shopping to “find the Velveeta” and was suitably ribbed for my naiveté. Evenings we hunkered down in our small private circle to relish our simple provisions, to express opinions, to share confidences, to appreciate each other, to ease our way into friendship.

Exploring

With our passes permitting us to leave the airbase during our generous free time, we hit the road often, usually aiming southward to destinations such as Springfield, or Urbana‑Champaign, where we once watched the Fighting Illini battle a forgotten Big 10 opponent during a heavy snow storm, the opposite side of the stadium, and the far goal post blotted from our view by the curtain of wet flakes.

Earlier, as we sped to that game, John ran onto a stretch of iced highway and quickly discovered his Cadillac had become uncooperative. He twisted his steering wheel with no effect, and jammed the brake pedal without slowing his proud possession, but rather sending it into a smooth and languid 360 degree spin as we glided toward a huge post lurking ahead on the right shoulder of the highway. With the post only yards away, the Cadillac fortunately competed its full rotation and veered a foot or two to the right of that bulky obstruction before skidding harmlessly into the ditch and easing to a stop.

“Wow,” I said, shaken in the back seat, “sure lucky we missed that post.” “What do you mean lucky?” John said, his features flushed as he turned back to face me. “I wasn’t fixin’ to hit that post!”

Such moments sealed our friendship. We all sensed, I think, our strengthening bond, so much so that by the end of our a couple of months together, as graduation from weather observer approached, we documented our ties by visiting a professional photographer. Soon afterward, destined for separate assignments in Germany and Alaska, we shook hands and parted, each with a precious photograph in duffel, and vowed to keep in touch with each other.

Vic, top; John, bottom; Chuck, left; Ken, right

After our parting, communication between us, and one-on-one meetings, were sadly rare. Chuck and John did meet in San Francisco months after our goodbyes and sailed together to Alaska where they parted when assigned to separate bases. Vic and Ken, while stationed in different bases in Germany, met and traveled to Holland on brief furlough. Some years later Ken and John met in Houston. There were scattered others, but for the most part our separation was complete. Still the pilot light of friendship remained brightly lit. Decades later, through threads of complicated magic, we four learned of an Air Weather Association (Link) reunion in Cocoa Beach, Florida. Thus communication was reestablished. Plans were made. We would meet in Cocoa Beach!

Reunion

As the day approached, I wondered how it would go. I should have known the answer. There were no hesitations, no distances, just an instantaneous familiarity, a comfortable closeness so genuine that it felt as though we never had been separated at all. In that short week we brought our lives up to date, filled in gaps, once again linked together as tightly as we ever had been. And of course we made another keepsake by finding a Sears photographer open on a Sunday afternoon, knowing the finished product  soon would be paired with our earlier version and framed on our walls.

                  Commemorating 52 years of friendship

Friendships are undone by various means, death being the grimmest, and ours recently has been fragmented. Two have slipped off to eternal rest, Vic being the first to go in May of 2019, and John following in May of 2020. Within days Chuck and I will meet in Kingsland, Texas to pay our respects to John at his Covid19-delayed memorial service. Friends to the end, our number now cut by half.