A Friend Is the Best Gift

Despite a 20-year age difference, I have a friend who shares similar views on a number of subjects.

Plus, as a self-employed installer of electronic and other devices, Homer understands the strain we freelancers face: no work means no income.

When we enjoyed breakfast recently, he mentioned that he wouldn’t be at church the next day. He and his wife would be at a congregation in southern Ohio to support their daughter as she led worship music.

He mentioned that from there he had to leave for a job in northern Ohio. This project demanded a three-hour Sunday evening shift, with the final steps coming a few days later.

What he didn’t tell me was the job was in my hometown. I didn’t know that until after we had swapped a few Facebook messages about that weekend’s fantasy football games.

Around 9 p.m. he sent me a short note about just checking into his hotel room downtown. I wrote back to say that if he drove by our old address, he could see the house where I grew up, since it was only 10 minutes away.

“My GPS says it’s 2.5 miles,” he replied.

Upgraded Property

He didn’t just drive by the next morning, he Facebooked me a picture. The house looked even fancier than the last time I had seen it in 2021.

My father had departed there in 1991, four years after my mother’s death, for a retirement home in Virginia.

Hearing various reports from my brother about several people who had purchased it and then moved on, I don’t know who made all the upgrades.

After my friend sent the photo, I commented: “By the way, when we lived there, the house had no big porch, hand rails up from the walk, flag pole, or three-car garage in the back.”

What it did have were a ton of memories. As we come to the latest holiday, I’m especially reminded of Christmas of 1958, when my parents gave me my first football uniform.

I had developed a fascination with the sport after an acquaintance in our second-grade class invited me to join a group on the playground. Prior to that, it had been a mess of meaningless lines and markers. Once I understood the game, it all made sense.

Football in the Snow with a Friend

A friend I still email often to exchange cheers about Ohio State and laments over the state of the Cleveland Browns, came over that afternoon.

Then Dave and I headed for the back yard. Despite several inches of snow, we played football.

It was one-on-one, where our game plan consisted of picking up the ball and trying to fake our opponent out, or just plowing straight into him.

I can’t remember how long we played, just that we finally yielded to the cold. And that we laughed a lot.

That house also marked the last time my brother and I were there at the same time as our mother—while she was still alive. Despite it being Christmas Eve, Dad had to work. He called about 6 o’clock to say his car battery had died.

Mom told us he needed a ride home. As my brother headed out, I said, “I’m going too.” That ride felt similar to Dad taking us to a putt-putt course 25 years earlier.

Christmas tends to bring out the nostalgia in many of us. What keeps my memories fresh is knowing I have a friend today who would take the time to snap a picture of the house where—years earlier—another friend played football with me in the snow.