Yesterday we attended a family reunion. An opportunity to see old cousins and friends we had not seen in about four years. Family reunions were a big thing during my youth. We looked forward to seeing those cousins that we only saw once a year. Today family reunions don’t seem to be that popular. Perhaps it has to do with families not being the close knit unit they once were. Or, maybe the geographic dispersion of family members. I just don’t know?
The family reunion we attended was for the descendants of my great grandfather, Samuel Oliver Young, born 1833. But the dominant surname there was not Young. Due to the lack of interest no doubt. Nevertheless, we enjoyed visiting with old friends and cousins. I was particularly shocked (I guess that’s the right word.) by the changes Father Time had made to one of my oldest friends.
I don’t remember when I first met Tom. His nickname was “Rooster”, but I don’t know why, and I never called him that. I think maybe I met him when we were both Woodmen of the World. (WOW) Woodmen of the World was a fraternal organization of life insurance policyholders. Younger members were members of Boys of Woodcraft. BOW attended regular monthly meetings with the WOW. That is where, I believe, I first met Tom. His uncle was the head of the local WOW Camp. All WOW camps (local chapters) were named for trees and ours was Cedar Camp 412. This is where I met this slim lad with a ready smile and curly black hair. He became my lifelong friend. Later after each of us had graduated from high school, we were working at the same textile mill. I had a ‘57 Ford and he had a ‘57 Plymouth and we raced over the Carolina dirt roads to work every day. We neither wrecked nor got tickets. We were lucky. Over the next fifty odd years we saw each other sporadically, usually at family reunions. I guess I should give the reason why he was at our family reunion. He married a distant cousin of mine and that made him a legitimate attendee!
And yesterday, I saw him again. He had put on a few pounds like the rest of us and the black curly hair was thin and gray. But his eyes had lost their mischievous look. The biggest difference in his demeanor was when he spoke. He spoke like some one who speaks in a foreign language. Slowly, as though searching for the correct word to use. And sometimes his answer would make no sense at all. I was flabbergasted. I did not know how to react. But lent a sympathetic ear. My first experience talking with someone experiencing the onset of dementia. I wonder if he knows who I am. I am afraid to ask.I would hate to hear that one of my oldest, if not the oldest, friend does not recognize me. It hurts me to listen to his repeated ramblings. I could probably walk away and he would not recognize my rudeness. I could not do that. Is friendship lost because it is not recognized? I think not. We walked through the cemetery housing our ancestors. He related a tale to me of how he and one other had seen two growling monsters emerge from the earth and give chase. When we reached the Civil War veteran’s grave I took a closer look at the stone. I turned to speak to him, but he was not there. He was about fifty feet away, striding toward the building where we had enjoyed a meal. I followed at a distance to ensure that he went directly there where his wife was waiting. I knew my friend was having some problems but never expected this. He was suffering from dementia. Dementia is characterized by the impairment of at least two brain functions,such as memory loss and judgement. There are more than three million cases each year in the country. There is no cure, but treatment can help.
By the time I returned to the building, he was gone. This encounter has stuck with me. Could this be the fate that I may suffer?
