Leopold Wrenwood · On Old Friends, Passing Years, and the Things That Make a Man Rich
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On Old Friends, Passing Years, and the Things That Make a Man Rich
I wrote this song for a very dear old friend of mine.
Not because it was his birthday, nor because there was some grand occasion to celebrate.
I wrote it because, every now and then, life reminds us that some of the greatest treasures we possess are not things we can hold in our hands.
They are people.
And among those people, there are a precious few who have walked beside us for so long that we can scarcely remember the road without them.
This is a story about one of those friendships.
When We Were Young
There was a time when we were young and the world seemed impossibly large.
The days stretched endlessly before us, the summers appeared to last forever, and tomorrow was something we gave very little thought to.
We had dreams, of course.
Some were sensible. Most were not.
We spoke of the places we would visit, the things we would accomplish and the extraordinary lives we were certain we would lead.
We laughed at things that would probably seem rather foolish today.
We made plans we never kept, promises we sometimes forgot, and memories that neither of us knew would become so valuable.
We did not have very much.
A few coins in our pockets, perhaps. A little freedom, a great deal of optimism and the rather wonderful conviction that everything would somehow work out.
And yet, looking back, I wonder whether we were ever richer.
There is a particular kind of happiness that belongs to youth.
Not because life is perfect, but because we have not yet learned to measure everything.
A good afternoon, a long walk, a conversation that carries on well past midnight, or a pint shared with someone who understands your particular brand of nonsense.
Sometimes that was all we needed.
And quite often, it was more than enough.
The Roads We Take
But life, as it tends to do, eventually calls us in different directions.
There are careers to build, families to care for, homes to establish and responsibilities that arrive without asking whether we are ready.
One friend moves to another town.
Another crosses a border.
The telephone calls become less frequent. The letters, once so eagerly written, give way to the occasional message.
Weeks become months.
Months become years.
And sometimes, without ever meaning to, we lose sight of people who once occupied almost every day of our lives.
It is not always because the friendship has faded.
Quite often, it is simply because life has become terribly busy.
We tell ourselves that we shall call next week.
That we shall arrange a visit when things settle down.
That there will be time.
And there is, until suddenly there isn’t quite as much as we imagined.
Yet a true friendship possesses a rather remarkable quality.
It does not necessarily demand constant attention.
It asks instead for something far more important.
That we do not forget one another.
As Though No Time Had Passed
I have always thought that one of the surest signs of an old friendship is what happens when two friends meet again after a long absence.
There may have been months between them.
Perhaps years.
Their lives may have changed almost beyond recognition.
One may have grown a little greyer. The other may have acquired a few more lines around the eyes.
There may be new stories, new worries, new joys and, inevitably, a few old disappointments.
But then they sit down together.
Someone orders a drink.
One of them makes a remark that would mean absolutely nothing to anyone else.
And suddenly they are laughing.
Not politely, as strangers sometimes do.
But with that familiar, wholehearted laughter that belongs to people who have known one another for years.
Within minutes, the distance disappears.
There is no awkwardness to overcome.
No need to explain who they are or pretend to be anything other than themselves.
They simply pick up the conversation where they left it.
As though the years between had been no more than a brief interruption.
I find that rather beautiful.
For the world may change around us, and we may change with it, but certain friendships seem to carry a little piece of our younger selves safely through the years.
An old friend remembers the person you were before life taught you to be quite so serious.
And sometimes, that is exactly the person you need to remember.
The Measure of a Man’s Wealth
We live in a world that has become remarkably fond of measuring success.
We count what we earn, what we own and what we have achieved.
We compare houses, careers, possessions and the impressive things other people appear to be doing.
There is nothing wrong with wanting a comfortable life.
A warm home, a little security and enough money to enjoy a good meal are perfectly reasonable ambitions.
But I have known people who possessed a great deal and seemed to have very little.
And I have known others who had scarcely anything to their names, yet whose lives were rich beyond measure.
The difference was rarely found in their bank accounts.
It was found around their tables.
In the people who came when they were needed.
In the friends who knew when to offer advice and when simply to sit quietly beside them.
In the familiar voice at the other end of the telephone.
In the person who could be trusted with an uncomfortable truth.
For a true friend is not merely someone who shares your good fortune.
He is someone who remains when good fortune has gone elsewhere.
He celebrates your victories without envy.
He listens to your troubles without keeping score.
And when you have made a complete fool of yourself, as every man occasionally does, he will probably tell you so.
Then he will help you put things right.
That, I believe, is worth considerably more than gold.
The Friendship We Must Keep
There is, however, something I have learned as the years have passed.
A good friendship may survive long periods of silence, but that does not mean we should take it for granted.
Friendship is not a possession to be placed upon a shelf and admired whenever it suits us.
It is something we must occasionally choose.
We must choose to make the telephone call.
To write the message.
To travel the distance.
To remember the birthday, ask the difficult question and make time for the conversation we have been postponing.
And just as importantly, we must choose to be the sort of friend we hope to have.
Loyal when it matters.
Honest when it is uncomfortable.
Present when life becomes difficult.
There is little honour in wishing for faithful friends if we are unwilling to offer that same faithfulness in return.
And perhaps the finest friendships are not those in which two people have never disappointed one another.
They are those in which both have learned to forgive, understand and remain.
Not because they must.
But because the friendship is worth keeping.
One Day, When We Are Old
I sometimes imagine what it might be like many years from now.
Two old friends sitting outside a little pub overlooking the sea.
The evening sun falling across the harbour.
Fishing boats returning home.
A couple of glasses on the table, and a dog sleeping somewhere nearby, entirely uninterested in the philosophical importance of the occasion.
The two men have grown old.
Their hair has turned silver, their knees complain about the weather, and neither remembers quite as much as he insists he does.
They talk about the news.
They argue about things that scarcely matter.
They recall adventures from their youth, each telling a slightly different version of events.
And occasionally, they fall silent.
Not because there is nothing left to say.
But because after a lifetime of friendship, silence no longer needs to be filled.
Perhaps they meet there every afternoon.
Perhaps only when the roads of life allow it.
But when they do, the same familiar warmth remains.
And if someone were to ask them what they had achieved in all those years, I suspect they might speak of work, family, journeys and the various fortunes life had brought them.
Yet I rather hope that, somewhere among those stories, they would look at one another and smile.
Because they would know that one of the finest things they had managed to do was simply to remain friends.
The Wealth of a Friend
I wrote this song for an old friend because I wanted to say something that men, particularly men of a certain generation, are not always terribly good at saying.
That his friendship matters.
That the years we have shared are worth remembering.
That even when life carries us in different directions, the bond between us remains something precious.
And that I hope there will be many more conversations, many more reunions and many more occasions to raise a glass together.
We cannot keep our youth.
We cannot stop the years from passing.
And we cannot know how many roads still lie ahead.
But we can remember those who have travelled beside us.
We can make time for them.
We can be loyal to them.
And we can recognise, before it is too late, the extraordinary wealth that an old friendship brings into an ordinary life.
For when the years have taken their share, when the grand ambitions have quietened and the things we once chased have lost their shine, it may not be our possessions that we remember most fondly.
It may be a familiar voice.
An old joke.
A shared journey.
Or the sight of a dear friend walking towards us, smiling as though we had seen each other only yesterday.
And perhaps, after all, that is what it means to be a wealthy man.
Not to have everything.
But to have someone with whom the years are worth sharing.
For the richest man is not the one who owns the most, but the one who has a friend who stays.
— Leopold Wrenwood