Playing in the Garden of Eden, Making Friends with Strangers – Community is What It’s All About

The voice on the line was an older man’s, its edges roughened by the sandpaper of age. He insisted that he knew me. “Hi, this is Mr. Carlson,” he said. I’m Noah Carlson’s dad. We spoke a few years ago.”

In fact, I had no clue who was on the other end of the line and after several unsuccessful attempts at convincing the stranger of his mistake, I grew annoyed. I prepared to hang up but a blurry memory tickling my subconscious kept me listening.

A moment later it hit me. “Ahh, Nola. Yes, yes, Mr. Carlson,” I said. “Sure, I remember Nola, of course. Sorry, I thought you were saying Noah. I just couldn’t make out what you were saying.”

Mr. Carlson explained matter-of-factly that a recent stroke affected his speech. He reminded me that Nola and I’d been good friends years ago but had lost touch, and that I’d contacted him several years previously hoping to get her current phone number so we could reconnect.

That brief conversation seven years ago is the only time Mr. Carlson and I had spoken before this.

I did call Nola that day in 1998 and we kept in touch briefly, but distance and time had its muscular way with us, and ultimately divided us again.

Mr. Carlson updated me on his life and his daughter’s, then he offered that he’d been going through his address book calling everyone recorded in it. His tone and manner revealed that he considered this common. I thought of my own address book – the crossed out entries and all the people I’ve lost touch with over the years.

I could have assumed that the stroke or dementia had blunted Mr. Carlson’s faculties, but instead I imagined pressing mortality had sharpened them.

With the speeding-up of his life clock, it made sense that Mr. Carlson wanted to connect with everyone he could.

I recalled a woman speaking of watching her child’s last sick days. She noted that when the child died it was as if she had returned to the place from where she came before she was born. I believe Mr. Carlson is making that same journey home and is now playing in the Eden of his childhood.

He knew, as children do, that the world is filled with unlimited potential for friendship and like an unselfconscious child he’s no longer aware of how others may perceive him.

I apologized to Mr. Carlson for having to run out to a meeting and needing to cut the call short. I asked for his number and Nola’s. I promised I would call him and my friend very soon.

Like Mr. Carlson, I believe my wealth can be measured in the connections I make – to friends, family and the ever-expanding and overlapping circles of community I participate in.