Yesterday four of Billy’s boyhood friends came to visit.
From the left, Clarence, Billy, Jackson, and Buzzy. All of them are in their mid to late seventies, except Billy at eighty. They were kids riding at the stables in the fifties, when it belonged to Billy’s mother Irma. Billy, a couple of years older, was the “man” in charge — except when Irma was around.
One thing that I noticed; when they walked in, all of them were old men. Their voices were a bit rusty (except for Billy’s; he retains his rumble), and they were moving slowly. As they talked and reminisced, though, I could almost see them growing younger. By the time they left, they were much more like the brash young men they had been. The visit did them all good.
There’s nothing quite like old friends.