Snapshots

I sat at the long Mahogany table before the lobsters were served, and I reflected for a moment. Earlier in the day we had lunched at the Essex Country Club, a traditional North Shore club with a distinguished golf course and nine grass tennis courts. The meal had been excellent, the service competent, and my host, a prep school classmate, couldn’t have been more gracious. Later in the day we had motored over to Marblehead harbor from Manchester to refuel and check Sam’s lobster pots. The weather had been magnificent, and with some humor Sam had pointed out the change in the name of his boat from Rosa C. to Bluefish in lieu of his impending divorce.




There were eight of us sitting around the long table. My wife Vicki was with me, and my sophomore roommate, Neal and his wife were there, as were another St. Mark’s friend, Tony Jones from Scituate, Massachusetts. Sam’s current partner Deamie with her pleasant, conversational manner was the other host. Initially I felt somewhat overwhelmed. Sam had recently sold his company at a handsome profit. He moved around the world like I might go from community to community in San Diego! He hunted, fished, skied, and played tennis. He was non pretentious and seemed to have friends everywhere from the dock hands at the boatyard to the diners at the country club. A kind, generous person, Sam was a success in every sense of the word. Neal was a venture capitalist who sold companies. Tony was retired from the insurance industry and lived comfortably on the South Shore.

As the evening unfolded and the cold white wine did its work, the context of my experience expanded. Four people had had difficult marriages that ended in separation or divorce. One person had disabling Multiple Sclerosis, and some of the adult children of my friends weren’t doing as well as they might. Everyone had struggled in their careers and businesses and succeeded through hard work, risk taking, and creativity. Deamie had been a successful realtor while raising her children as a single mother.  Her life had been extremely difficult for many years. Everyone had “paid dues” in one way or another.

Partway through the meal I thought back to my prep school years in Southbough, Massachusetts. Beneath a folksy Southern accent Neal had been intelligent, shrewd, and focused. Tony was friendly, cooperative, and fun. Sam had always cracked me up. He never seemed to be swallowed up by overcast moods the way I was during the gloomy, cold days of New England winter. Funny, irreverent, and unique, Sam was one of my favorite people in school and memories of him warmed me. Back then Sam and I had been in the same Spanish class. I won the Spanish prize my senior year, and I thought about the irony of it all, as Sam spoke fluent Spanish now, and I spoke none.




Later I thought about destiny, a concept that had increasing meaning to me, as I aged. Initially I thought with a few different turns in the road maybe I would be selling the company or playing on grass! But then I thought, no, I was slated one way or another to be doing what I was doing. My life was the culmination of multiple threads whose tapestry was designed long ago. It was a script that to some degree was writing itself. It wasn’t better or worse than Sam or Tony’s or Neal’s, just different. It had its own pluses and minuses, and I felt thankful that I had missed some of the hazards that had created temporary difficulties for my comrades.

The next evening Vicki and I met two ski friends in an Italian restaurant in the North End of Boston. I had known Steve and Dennis fewer years than my prep school colleagues, but we had done many things together, and they had become important threads in the tapestry. The contrast of the North End, where I ate with my father as a young boy, with Beverly Farms, the home of my hosts, made the tapestry brighter and the wine sweeter.  Like my family the friends of my past were etched in my mind forever. My new friends were important and more present in my life than prep school classmates, whom I didn’t see often. Both groups were important.


Days later as we flew out of Logan International Airport in Boston, many images came to me. I saw the deep blue sky above Manchester Harbor, the rich greenery of Beverly Farms, and the aged brick of the North End. I heard the infectious laughter of my wonderful friend Sam, the melodious cadence of his gracious partner, Deamie, and I felt the warmth and kindness of my friend Tony Jones. I revisited the courage of my old roommate Neal and his wife, Deedee. I wondered if I could be so brave and graceful in the face of a debilitating illness. I doubted it.


As we flew away from the setting sun, I thought of my yesterdays and the tomorrows of my hope. I thought of destiny and the tapestry of my life. I heard the music of my past and looked forward to what I hoped would be the sweet wine of my tomorrows.

David DiCicco
baltoro@san.rr.com