When Friends Leave

There were always five or six of us in the car as we drove through Michigan's frigid upper peninsula in the depths of winter, astounded by the banks of snow piled high on the side of the road, far taller than our car. We were crammed onto the bench seats of the vehicle, often singing, always laughing, as we passed through tiny villages en route to public schools in towns only slightly larger than the ones we had passed through. (For the younger readers of this blog, there was a time not all that long ago when three adults fit comfortably in the front seat!)

Patty, Andy and Jerry loading the cars on our theatre tour.

We were one car in a group of several, a band of happy actors studying theatre at Michigan State, and on the road, taking two shows to towns in the north starved for live theatre. One was a musical, "Carnival," the other, "The Pied Piper," a delightful musical for children.

Mayor Andy and Pied Piper Jerry

Of the people in our car, four of us would remain friends for many years after graduation, years after our lives and careers took us to new cities, even new countries. There was Patty, the dancer, who would later go on to teach theatre at a Maryland college; Jerry, playing the lead in one of the touring shows, who would later be part of the American Dance Machine company and perform for the Carters at the White House before ending up in Paris; and Andrew, delightfully tone deaf and hysterically funny, who would later go on to design hair and wigs on Broadway and for national tours. (I, on the other hand, stayed close to home and later went into public relations and broadcasting.) We called ourselves the Dupa family, loosely translated in English as "ass." But ass in a good way.

Jerry, Me, Andy, Patty and Patty's husband Joel.

I still count several people from that tour as dear friends, including my theatre pal Jim (favorite director of all time!) and my college roommate, Carol, but the four of us ended up being in town at the same time longer than others -- and we spent many wonderful times together. Despite distances in later years and lives that rarely intersected personally, I think we were all aware that those friendships were significant. They were born as we were becoming more fully formed people, no longer teens living at home with our parents but young adults with choices to make regarding our futures. We talked for hours, as friends often do, and laughed constantly. 

 

We would do another tour a year later, along with community theatre. We'd go to the same weddings, help each other with class projects, head to the lake for R&R. My closest circle of friends in those years were my roommates, some other theatre pals, and my theatre family -- the Dupa family, 

Our gang at the lake with my cousins, c. 1973

Patty, Andy and Jerry were part of my life and my parents' lives, too, visiting the lake, crashing in our family room to watch the Oscars and Tony Awards, coming to dinner and celebrating the holidays. When I directed "The Fantasticks" as my directing project for my degree and needed someone to play "Mortimer - the Man Who Dies" (at great length!) it was Andy in the role -- and he milked every single second to great applause.

Christmas with the Dupa Family

Andy was always my wedding back-up date and I think we both loved it. He was a great dancer, cleaned up well and could talk to anyone. And the food was always good. Dishing about the people we met on the way home was just as fun. The turkey puppet that tops my Christmas tree each year was made by Andy when he helped me with puppets for my "Henny Penny" show. And for several years, each Christmas Patty, Andy and I would send a small gargoyle back and forth to each other -- the Dupa. We bought it together when meeting at a mall over the holidays and it became a tradition.

The day we bought the traveling Dupa

I've had other friends die, including some who were very close. Once you hit a certain age, you begin to walk a bit closer to the grief cavern, knowing that one day, you too, will slip down over the edge and someone will be mourning you. 

Halloween with Marilyn, Don, Ross and Andy

A few days ago, my dear friend, the potter Jim Fineman, who had also been on that tour, told me he had learned that Andy (now Andrew) had died the night before. Jim had texted a birthday message and got the sad news in return. I felt total shock. When I had heard nothing at Christmas last year, I wasn't surprised. This was the first year I noticed many people did not send cards who usually did. Expense? Maybe. Maybe it was the political depression that flattened many of us and does to this day. In any event, I thought nothing of it. I wish I'd followed up.

I've done a lot of thinking about those times in these intervening days. They are good memories, all memories of a time that helped me develop into the person I am today, even though so much has changed in my life. 

Carnival: Carol, Andy, Patty, Paul, Jeanie, Jim

When friends leave, all we are left with are the memories, maybe a trinket or two, a Dupa, a turkey puppet, lots of photos. So, we hold on. We share the stories. We cry. We grieve.

At the lake: Andy, Jerry, Patty, Joel

But we do not, we cannot, we must not, ever forget.