Forever Young

I’m not a big Rod Stewart fan, but there is one song I like.

Be courageous and brave, and in my heart you'll always stay, Forever young!
But whatever road you choose, I'm right behind you, win or lose, Forever young!

I was in Sam’s office one day, and he started complaining about back pain and insurance and very forty-year-old problems. I just had to laugh. Sam and Erin were the wonder twins. They could, and did, do anything at a time when it was hard to figure out who we could count on, but now, Erin has two kids (one in college), and Sam and Henry have been together coming up on twenty years. Nothing can ever separate my love from these kids, but in my heart, they’re nineteen, not forty.

At the McMullin Writer’s Workshop, one of the people in my class had been one of my sister’s closest compatriots until she discovered boys. At the workshop, she talked about her children and her spouse and complained about her knees, and all I could think of was how that was an awful lot for a fifteen-year-old to deal with.

Your parents' friends end up becoming a sort of auxiliary family. There are usually your dad’s friends, your mom’s friends, and then couple friends. My parents had several couple friends, but my favorite was Ben and Dero Puckett. Dero is short for Dorothy. I’ve known lots of Dorothys, but only one Dero. Mrs. Puckett was the first grown-up I ever heard say, “fuck off.” She was very much a lady, but she was a lady who said what she meant, and she meant for somebody to fuck off.

I remember once, I went to the Trustmark/Deposit Guarantee Christmas party, which is a source of many stories by itself, and we caught up with Ben and Dero in Brum Day’s office. Brum died too young. Just a few years after Daddy. Most of the world knows him as the Lucky Day Foundation and a victim of ALS, but for me, he’s forever forty-five and indomitable.

“I don’t have to be here because I paid my note off, but I love you, so I came anyway.” Mrs. Puckett said. I had to turn away to keep from laughing. A lot of wives open little businesses that become money pits. Dero opened the Everyday Gourmet, and it was pretty successful, successful enough to pay off her note to the bank early.

After the Civil War, business in Mississippi was pretty horrible for a hundred years; in the sixties, things started to turn around. Companies like Missco and Stribling-Puckett started to do pretty well for themselves.

Being very modern guys, these companies with newfound affluence started buying airplanes. I’ve always suspected that at least part of it was how many WWII and Korean Era pilots were available for hire.

Mississippi School Supply and Stribling-Puckett bought the same model airplane, a Beechcraft King. Theirs was a couple of years younger and had a different tail configuration, but there was very much an element of keeping up with each other.

In my mind, Ben Puckett was immortal. When old lady Camille hit the Gulf Coast, he rode it out in his house in Pass Christian. My dad had one of the Watts lines from work moved to his home phone so he and Ben could talk through the storm. The next day, all that was left standing on the Gulf Coast was Ben Puckett and a concrete dinosaur at Goofy Golf.

One day in the Spring, when I was twelve, my mother pulled me aside. Mr Puckett was in the hospital in another state with a broken back. Mr. Stribling was dead. Their plane crashed.

Roger Stribling was younger than my dad or Mr. Puckett, but I knew him. His daughter was in my class. He was a really friendly guy. Everyone seemed to like him, and he was involved in pretty much everything my parents were involved in, so I saw him often. At twelve, this was the first time I’d been exposed to somebody’s parent dying. It would happen again, much sooner than I expected.

Since the Stribling kids were in my school, my mother said I should watch out for them. Losing your dad was a terrible thing, and I should look out for them.

Sloan, who I think goes by Missy now, was in my class. The other girls in my class formed a sort of protective cocoon around her that lasted well into college. While she was quiet sometimes, I remember her as a very brave little girl.

Her brother, Wilson, was just a little guy. He had this mass of nearly white hair and enormous eyes. I was immediately drawn to him. My own dad was suffering the side effects of having his career explode, and I was very aware of not getting to see him very often, but at least I knew he slept at home most nights, and if I got up very early in the morning, I’d get to see him.

The idea of Daddy never coming home again really bothered me, and here was Wilson, who was just a little guy, and he had to deal with that.

The Stribling kids branched off from St. Andrews to Prep, which was a much larger school. I kept up with Wilson here and there, but I never really saw much of him again until he started taking up journalism.

He landed at WLBT, which is a pretty storied institution of its own, good and bad. He’s one of the senior guys now and, really, a damn fine journalist in a town that absolutely needs that.

I see him on television now. The towhead is long gone. He’s filled out with grown-man muscles, and he commands a lot of respect in his field, but his eyes are the same as when he was a little boy. He’s accomplished a lot in life and will accomplish more, but for me, he’s forever locked in at seven years old, a brave little boy with an unfairly big burden.

There’s a girl I write about sometimes, but I never mention her name. It’s Susan. We were friends before we were anything else. Our paths in life seemed to be constantly woven together.

There’s a particular type of woman I’m drawn to. Most of my friends know about it. They’re dark, serious, artistic, introverted, intellectual. Susan wasn’t any of those things. She was Blonde, always laughing, and very loud. She ate life whole, which was beautiful, but it wasn’t always beautiful to her.

Things happened, and things got complicated. I became much more involved in her life than I ever intended. We fought more than I’ve ever fought with anybody, and we hurt each other quite a bit. Her happiness meant quite a bit to me, so I stayed in it as long as I possibly could, but in the end, I couldn’t anymore.

I lost track of her for twenty years. I met other girls. I got married. She got married. Had a child. We grew up. We got older. One day, she messaged me on Facebook.

“Hey! Remember me? Here’s my number, let’s catch up!”

I didn’t respond for a day. Two days. On the third day, I started scrolling through the feed on her Facebook to see what sort of life she’d been having. On the fourth day, I wrote back.

“Dearest Susan,

I’ve written you so many letters, but there hasn’t been one in quite a while. Did you really wonder if I remembered you?

I see where you’ve had a boy. He looks strong and fine. I’m very proud of you, but then, I always was. I’m sorry that things didn’t work out with the dad. Relationships are hard. Trust me.

In my life, my mother is sick. My brother is dying, and my wife wants a divorce. If she finds out we’ve been talking, she’ll be pretty abusive. I guess neither of us was cut out for this married, happily forever thing.

We’re not good together, you and me. We’ve tried a few times. It always ends with you needing my complete devotion, but when I give it, you can’t respond. I love you, but I don’t think you can ever love me, and that’s not a good combination.

In my mind, you’ll always be the way you were when I met you: loud, full of life, laughing, in love with the world, and filled with an infinite love to give back to it.

I know there was another side to your life. I’m sorry for it. There was a time when I would have done anything to make your life like it was when I met you again, and I honestly tried, but I just couldn’t do it.

I think if we started talking again, it would be bad. I’m not in a very good place right now, and you don’t seem to be either.

I love you, and I’ll always love you. But let me remember you the way you were.

I remain,

Faithfully yours,

ABC”

I didn’t press send. I didn’t the next day either. On the third day, I pressed “save as draft” and never sent it.

Two years later, my sister called to say that Susan had died. I never sent the letter.

Be courageous and brave, and in my heart, you'll always stay Forever young.