Childhood Friends

When I started thinking about the friends I had as a kid, I realized something.

I don’t remember exactly when most of those friendships started.

There wasn’t some big moment when we shook hands and decided we were going to be friends.

We were kids.

You played together at recess. You raced across the playground. You played baseball. You went to somebody’s house after school. Eventually, you spent the night.

And somewhere along the way, their house became one of the places you knew you were welcome.

I went to school in Capitan, New Mexico, from kindergarten all the way through middle school. When you spend that many years growing up alongside the same kids in a small town, a lot of people become part of your story.

There are far more friends than I could fit into one chapter.

So for now, I’m staying mostly in those elementary school years and with a handful of friends whose homes I remember walking into and whose families welcomed me.

Because looking back now, that’s probably what I remember most.

Not just the friends, but also the families behind them.

The Twins

They were Matthew and Andrew who lived right across from the school, which made getting to their house pretty easy.

You just walked over. And I did. A lot.

I spent plenty of time there and stayed the night too.

They had Galaga. They had Sega Genesis.

Enough said.

For a kid who had spent part of his childhood living in a little cabin in the mountains without electricity, this was a pretty significant technological advancement.

Matthew and Andrew had two other brothers, so there was always somebody around. Their mom and dad were always sweet and welcoming, and their mom was our favorite person in the cafeteria at school.

More than anything, I remember their home being a good place to be.

Matthew and Andrew were also athletic.

And in elementary school, there were few important titles. “Fastest kid on the playground” was one of them.

It seemed to go back and forth between us. I still remember Andrew beating me in a race. And I remember being genuinely upset with myself.

Not exactly one of the great tragedies of my childhood, but apparently significant enough that I’ve carried the loss for more than 30 years.

So Andrew, thank you for getting the best out of me, I’m still willing to discuss a rematch.

We played recess football out there too. At least the adults called it “tag” football.

Eventually two-hand touch became one-hand tag, tag became pushing, and pushing somehow became tackle football.

My friend Cory and I always seemed to have a good connection out there. Walking back into class and naming off our stats was the most rewarding part of the day.

I even remember getting into one of my first real fights after one of those games. Teachers came over and broke us up, and at the time it was a pretty big deal.

That’s what childhood friendships could be like.

We raced. We competed. We tackled each other. We got mad. We fought.

Then everybody showed up at the same playground the next day.

There wasn’t a group chat to leave. Nobody unfollowed anybody.

Eventually somebody just said:

“Race you.” And off we went.

Brandon and the Mountains

Then there was Brandon.

I spent plenty of time at his house and stayed the night there too.

And I can’t talk about his house without talking about his mom.

She was incredibly nice and always treated us like we were her own kids.

She even gave us unrestricted access to the snack cupboard.

Oatmeal Cream Pies.

Star Crunches.

Whatever else we could get our hands on.

Eventually, I think she realized giving a couple of young boys unlimited access to Little Debbie snacks might have been a tactical error.

We definitely took advantage of the situation. But what I’ll always remember about her is, she took care of us.

Brandon also introduced me to paintball. Apparently just playing wasn’t enough for us.

We needed infrastructure.

So we dug a little position into the side of the mountain for our future paintball battles.

I can’t remember whether our paintball careers ever justified the amount of excavation involved.

Either way, we had a mountain. We had shovels. We had an idea. For boys, that’s usually enough.

Brandon and I also played golf.

I remember sitting with him and his dad watching Tiger Woods on television. I couldn’t have known then just how big Tiger would become. It was simply another thing we enjoyed together.

Then there was one adventure with Brandon’s dad that I’ll never forget.

He took us miles into the mountains on snowshoes. To this day, I have absolutely no idea what we were going up there to check.

Whatever it was apparently required trekking through some seriously deep snow.

As a young boy, it felt like one of the biggest physical tests of my life. The snow was deep. The distance felt endless. Every step took work.

I’m sure Brandon’s dad remembers it as a normal trip into the mountains.

I remember it like we were crossing Antarctica.

I don’t remember what we were looking. But I remember the adventure.

Cory’s House

Then there was Cory.

If I think about Little League baseball, I think about Cory.

If I think about playground football, I think about Cory.

And if I think about houses where I probably spent enough nights that my parents could have started paying rent, Cory’s is definitely on the list.

His parents always took care of us.

His grandparents were amazing too. They’d take us on little adventures with sandwiches and plastic water bottles filled with some mysterious red drink that apparently served as our official childhood hydration.

I couldn’t tell you what the red stuff was. But apparently my brain decided to never forget the red juice.

I’m glad it didn’t.

Cory was also the friend I really associate with learning to ride dirt bikes.

I remember one time we were chasing a deer up the mountain and took the bike so steep up a trail that it tipped over on us.

I was on the back. It hurt.

But we both got up, picked up the bike, dusted ourselves off after some laughing, and got right back at it.

And we loved watching Young Guns.

Growing up in New Mexico made the story of Billy the Kid feel connected to the history around us.

Naturally, two young boys couldn’t simply watch the movie. We had to reenact it.

I always went by Steve growing up, so I became Dirty Steve.

And Dirty Steve had a big wad of chew in his mouth. Apparently I took character preparation seriously.

That became my introduction to chewing tobacco.

I tried packing my entire cheek with the stuff. I’m pretty sure I ended up vomiting.

My body delivered that particular childhood lesson considerably faster than any adult could have.

The Trouble We Found

Of course, I don’t want to make our childhood sound more innocent than it actually was.

We got into trouble too. Sometimes pretty serious trouble.

In fifth grade, Cory, another friend, and I made the incredibly intelligent decision to smoke marijuana on the playground.

Yes. Fifth grade. On the playground.

Apparently our criminal-mastermind phase started early and wasn’t particularly well thought out.

And being that young, it didn’t exactly take much. It hit us pretty good.

I remember laughing uncontrollably. Everything seemed funny, and our ability to act normal disappeared almost immediately.

James knew what had happened and told on us. And before long, the teachers started asking questions.

The problem was, we were still trying not to look at each other because every glance resulted in another grin, smirk, or attempt not to laugh.

Here we were being investigated by adults, knowing we were in serious trouble, and somehow we still couldn’t stop giggling at each other.

Eventually, the truth started coming out.

I even had to turn over the little mechanical pencil we had used to sneak the joint into school so it could be tested.

But there was another piece of “evidence” that made the situation look considerably worse.

For reasons only a fifth grader could properly explain, I had a gallon-size Ziploc bag full of hay. Just regular hay.

But I’d been telling my friends it was marijuana. I guess I thought that made me look cool.

So I had to bring that into the principal’s office too.

I still remember the reaction when I showed up with this giant bag stuffed full of what everyone initially thought was marijuana.

For a few moments, I’m pretty sure I looked considerably more successful in the drug business than any elementary school kid had a right to be.

Of course, it was tested. Hay. Just a big bag of hay.

Eventually the laughter disappeared and the seriousness of what we’d done started setting in. I remember those grins turning into tears when we realized how much trouble we were actually in.

At the time, we weren’t exactly happy with James. I’m sure there was plenty of:

“How could you tell on us?”

But I see that differently today.

Sometimes a good friend isn’t the person who helps you hide your mistakes.

Sometimes it’s the person willing to risk you being mad at them because they see you heading somewhere you shouldn’t be going.

James could have kept quiet.

Instead, he made sure some adults knew what was happening before one stupid decision had the chance to become another.

I didn’t appreciate that in fifth grade. As an adult, I do.

Maybe James telling on us wasn’t a betrayal of our friendship at all.

Maybe it was one of the earliest examples of what a good friend sometimes has to do:

Care enough to let you be mad at them.

James and the Swing

James’s grandparents lived right there in town, so their house was another easy place for us to end up.

Like the other families in this chapter, our parents knew each other and got along. That’s part of what growing up in a small town felt like.

Kids knew kids.

Parents knew parents.

Families crossed paths.

One memory with James has survived even though almost nothing happened.

We were sitting on a swing. That’s it.

We kept looking at each other out of the corner of our eyes.

Every time one of us looked over, we’d start laughing. Then we’d stop.

One of us would look again. And we’d lose it.

I couldn’t tell you today what was funny. Maybe nothing was.

But I remember the feeling.

Sometimes you remember someone simply because, for a little while, life was fun when they were around.

The Day Cory Came Back for Me

There is one memory from those years that feels very different today.

One day, Cory and I snuck onto the property of a church camp and went swimming in a pond.

Everything was going fine until we heard people coming.

The church staff had apparently discovered a couple of kids swimming where they weren’t supposed to be and were coming down to catch us.

It was time to get the heck out of there. We started scrambling out of the pond.

That’s when I got into trouble.

I was in deeper water, struggling to stay above the surface.

Cory could have kept going.

We were trying not to get caught.

Instead, he came back for me.

He got underneath me and helped put me onto his shoulders. I was fighting to stay above water, which meant I was probably pushing him underneath it in the process.

He put himself in danger to keep me up. And he got me out.

There isn’t much uncertainty in my mind anymore.

Cory saved my life that day.

Then, because apparently almost drowning wasn’t enough adventure for one afternoon, we still had to escape.

We were barefoot, wearing only our underwear, and carrying a handful of clothes.

We tore through enough poison ivy that we both ended up itching like crazy afterward.

And somehow, after trespassing, getting chased, nearly drowning, and running through poison ivy, my biggest concern became:

Could I stay another night at Cory’s house?

I think I’d already been there four or five nights. My mom was ready for me to come home.

I was not.

Fortunately, Cory’s mom apparently had considerably more negotiating power with my mother than I did.

She convinced her to let me stay a little longer.

And I squeezed another night or two out of the deal.

As a kid, that probably felt like the victory of the entire adventure.

As an adult, I think about something else.

Everything that came afterward.

The Marine Corps.

My wife.

My children.

My grandchildren.

The places I’ve traveled.

The people I’ve met.

This project.

None of it existed yet.

We were just two kids swimming in a pond we had no business being in.

And when it was time to run, one kid realized his friend wasn’t coming out with him. So he went back.

Cory, I don’t know if I ever properly thanked you.

I remember the baseball.

The dirt bikes.

Young Guns.

Your parents.

Your grandparents.

The red juice.

But above all of it, I remember that when you had every reason to keep running, you came back for me.

And because you did, I got to grow up.

The Homes Between Home

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve started looking at these memories differently.

As a kid, I thought I was just going to my friend’s house. Now I’m a father.

And I understand what was happening on the other side of that door.

Another plate at the table.

Another kid eating the snacks.

Another kid making noise.

Another kid somebody had to keep an eye on.

Another kid sleeping somewhere in the house.

Those families didn’t have to do that.

But they did.

And there were many others.

These are only a few of the people who were part of my childhood. Growing up alongside many of the same kids year after year meant there were classmates, teammates, friends, parents, and grandparents who all became pieces of those years.

At the time, I didn’t understand that all of those open doors were becoming part of my childhood.

I just knew I was welcome.

Maybe that’s one of the quietest gifts adults can give a child without realizing how long it will last:

Another safe place to land.

A Letter of Appreciation

To Matthew, Andrew, Brandon, Cory, James, and all the friends and families who helped raise us along the way,

When we were kids, I thought friendship was pretty simple.

It was having somebody to race across the playground.

Somebody to throw a football to.

Somebody to play baseball with, dig into a mountain with, ride dirt bikes with, watch movies with, or sit beside and laugh until neither of you knew what was funny anymore.

I didn’t understand the rest of it yet.

I didn’t understand that friendship could also be someone telling the truth when you wished they wouldn’t.

Or someone coming back for you when they could have kept running.

And I definitely didn’t understand how much of our friendships were made possible by the people waiting for us at home.

So to your parents and grandparents, thank you.

Thank you for the sleepovers.

For the rides.

For the adventures.

For the mysterious red juice.

For the Little Debbie cupboard.

Thank you for allowing one more loud, hungry kid into your homes and treating me like I belonged there.

And to my friends, thank you for sharing a piece of your childhood with me.

We weren’t perfect kids.

We made some pretty questionable decisions.

We got dirty.

We got hurt.

We got caught.

We laughed.

We fought.

We learned.

And somehow, through all of it, we grew up.

Some of us stayed connected.

Others went different directions.

That’s life.

But time and distance don’t erase the part someone played in getting you from one chapter of your life to the next.

Those memories remind me that childhood wasn’t just about the place where I grew up.

It was about the people I got to grow up with.

To all of you who were part of mine:

Thank you for giving me another place to belong, another family to learn from, and a childhood worth remembering.

Your pal,

Steve