Role Model

Seems in every high school class there is the one guy and girl who rise above the needless parameters idiotic cliques impose. Since I wasn’t yet much on fully interacting with girls back then, I’ll limit my observation to Churchill 78’s baddest dude. His name was Lester and he was something to behold. Blond and Adonis-like, but with a slight scar on his face that only added credibility, he moved with confidence through the halls and meeting areas, fully comfortable in his own genetically blessed skin.

It was impossible to label him. He was way too athletically gifted and involved to be a stoner, even though few appreciated Wishbone Ash, Jethro Tull or not inhaling more. And while he was one of the track team’s fastest runners, and may still hold a record or two at his swim club, nobody bemoaned him as some oafish jock. Although he sometimes joined us chronic truants at the house of somebody’s working mom, more of a rarity back then, I always enviously assumed his academic performance was more than adequate.

What Lester effortlessly demonstrated back when Carter was President is the priceless freedom self-assurance provides, the blessings of the road less traveled. He moved free from inane narratives about who was and wasn’t worth befriending, who could or couldn’t elevate your stature, who had or didn’t have something worth offering.

He liked to run, so he ran, and enjoyed the friendship of other runners. He loved rock and roll and partying, so he counted all of us as amigos. He saw girls as fellow humans rather than startling enigmas or prey grazing on hormonal hunting grounds, so he enjoyed their company. It was all so easy for him because it came so natural; nothing was overthought, no pretense entertained. If it felt right he did it, free of any taint pre-judgement could impose.

For those of us bound by adolescent insecurities and the failure ghosts they conjured, Lester was viewed as, say Ted Williams, on a different playing field we weren’t qualified for. When I was in his company I felt fortunate and paid attention. He had a way of casually admonishing inanity with a sarcastic chuckle as he intoned your last name with a hint of dismissiveness; it was all that was required. He hailed from one of those families everybody knew, each of his siblings both receiving and getting respect for their loyalty to the other. If his older brother was intimidating and a bit aloof, his younger brother was easy to talk to and great to hang around with; each was their own person, but proud to be part of a set.

After graduation I believe he and a good buddy hitchhiked across the country, a saga fully in line with his gigantic persona. While my opportunities to hang with him during my 20s and early 30s were spotty, they were always rewarding. He never became rich and famous, instead settling down and raising a family like most of us. Yet and still, the natural awe and respect for him I always felt never substantially waned, and enjoying his company was always a privilege.

Today is his 60th birthday and I was honored with an invitation. No doubt the party will reflect his life, attended by folks who feel as I do about the good fortune of counting him as a friend. His wife is wonderful, his 20-something kids are as attractive and refreshingly genuine as he was at their age. Years pass, but the song usually remains the same. Who we become generally owes to who we were. In this case that’s an indisputably good thing.

I’m fairly certain most of us have occasional fantasies of what we would do differently if somehow permitted to revisit our formative years. Who doesn’t ponder the senseless counter-productiveness of youth with an eye toward solutions impossible revisionism can provide? Speaking for myself, the answers are never very hard and always take me back to the same proposition…. I would have been more like Lester. BC