Mine is a green WW2 era American machine gun. His is a Mauser ‘machine pistol’. I remember its box magazine and the ‘broom handle’ pistol grip. We are pointing the barrels into the camera lens. Above them, our ten year old grins.
The photo’s colours are a mix of faded oranges and black green shadows. It’s the closest link I have to any childhood friendships. A relic from my Summit Flat days. When afternoons of ‘war games’ with hordes of boys from our block were the norm. The other kid is my ‘best’ childhood friend. My constant comrade in arms in the shifting armies of our block.
When my parents moved out, I kept in touch. Then Black July happened. My parents made food deliveries to my friend’s place. We didn’t play outside during those visits. His family were their usual quiet selves. A few months later, they left the country. It was the era of aerogrammes – useless to the friendship of ten year old boys.
I developed new friendships. They lacked the intensity of the excitable hordes I knew in the “the flats”. As an adult my own period of exile led to friendships in multiple cities and continents. The technology of ‘keeping in touch’ never substituted for the chance meet ups, the casual conversations. Nomadism has no time for friendships to gel, for understandings to bond.
As adult I ‘reconnected’ with my childhood friend, now in Australia. In classic early twenty-first century fashion, it was through Facebook. We did the usual – liked photos of our kids. Skyped a few times. When we went silent, it was in the mutual unspoken realisation that we have little in common in our adult lives beyond polite conversation.
It’s a contrast to Mrs C and her friends. Some she knows from grade six. Their husbands have friendships from school sports teams. They shared road trips, big matches, dinner dances, and the key stages of their lives. They were bridesmaids and groomsmen at each other’s weddings. A network of common relatives, friends of relatives and relatives of friends bind them. Bonds defying the distance of exile. They had time for the foundations of their friendships to dry. On these they build the shared experiences of their lives. They even accepted me into their circle.
In the last decade I realised the value of such connections. I’m grateful the realisation came at this stage of my life. When I understand what a waste of time regrets and resentments are.
Which side of the childhood friendship wall are you on? My side or Mrs C’s?
Cerno 