There are times in life when serendipity plays itself out like
intelligent design. This is only one of
many reasons why my friend Terry became so important in my life.
I met Terry when I was only 15, having just completed my
sophomore year in high school. He had
just finished his freshman year at Harvard.
We were both students at the Eastern Music Festival in Greensboro, NC
that summer. We hit it off in a strange
sort of way: two sharp witted kids
trying to out-smart and out-talk each other.
I was over-matched by a mile, barely able to keep pace with the range of
topics and hilarious references that he shot at me.
He played ping-pong; I could not return a single one of his serves. And he played the oboe—capable of conjuring a
sound that was not of this world.
As a “Harvard Man” goes, Terry was the
farthest thing from the Ryan O’Neil archetype.
He was, however, something I had
not encountered before: an intellectual
sparring partner. I never tired of
shooting the breeze with him.
As I was considered “underage” at this festival, I was supposed to be sequestered
on an upper floor at the appointed curfew hour.
Nonetheless, I would slip down the back stairs and meet Terry near the
ping-pong tables, being entertained by his humor each night until I was caught
by the counselors and chased back upstairs.
One night Terry talked to me about attending Harvard. College was still an abstract idea to
me. I had yet to imagine myself at any
particular school; nor had I considered any institution beyond those in
Florida. Harvard seemed like a state of being for other people, yet here we were in the same place at the same
time. He made it seem. . . attainable. I was very surprised when he suggested that I
apply. He said he had no doubt that I would
be accepted. He used the term “Harvard
material.” I must have blushed.
When I arrived on the Harvard campus as a freshman, I was
eager to see if Terry remembered me from our meeting years earlier. I had been assigned to a loathsome work study
job in a distant dining hall. When I went to work at Currier House, I was surprised to discover Terry’s name on the list of
students living there. After working my first
Sunday morning breakfast shift, I found Terry’s room and knocked on his door. He took one look at me and burst out, “I knew you would be here!”
It would be a tragedy if a lifetime went by and I did not
take the time to let Terry know how important he is to me—even today. He not only steered me in a direction that I
was not likely to go, he also has been a constant friend and supporter
through the years. Terry was there through some of the most
challenging events in my life, always willing to be a cheerleader or a shoulder
on which to cry—depending upon the circumstances. I know I can use this forum to deliver this
message because, even in this blog adventure, he remains a devoted reader. I feel very much in his debt. I am not sure that he has ever relied on me
the way I have come to rely on him.
It is hard to say what it is that bonds people to each
other. Friendships come and go, but some
relationships are meant for the ages. So
it is with Terry and me. Over the
years, there has been much water under our respective bridges. He
gave his support as I married Tom; I danced at his wedding to Jenny. We have each built families, adding our
spouses and children to the fabric of our long friendship. Because of distance, we see each other rarely
these days. When we do, it does not take
long for the years to melt away. Inevitably,
we return to the banter of our youth.
Today is Terry’s birthday.
I remember during my freshman year how he anticipated his next birthday,
as it was to fall on 7/7/77. That day was
marked shortly after he completed a degree in
economics; thankfully, he chose to pursue a career as a musician. Today, he plays English horn for the Charlotte
Symphony. Anyone who lives in Charlotte
is fortunate to get to hear him play regularly, as there is no one alive today
who can approximate the beauty that he brings to that instrument.
Happy birthday, dear friend.
Tomorrow's blog: Grin and Bear It
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