The story of Friend, Nebraska

  In 1965, June, I went off to Marine Corps' boot camp in San Diego.  There was a guy in my platoon (Platoon 240 as you surely recall) named Gary Girmus.  We became friends.  Gary was from Friend, Nebraska, and just the name of the place made it sound like an All-American City.  Aftere all, how could a city named "Friend" be anything but gloriously friendly?

  After boot camp, Gary and I (and the rest of the plaoon) went off to Camp Pendleton, and were selected to first serve our Nation on KP duty for two weeks -- specifically, cleaning garbage cans.  We both became proficient enough at cleaning garbage cans that we had a few idle minutes every day, and I asked Gary over and over about Friend, and what it was like growing up there.  He described a place that was magical, with tree lined streets, football in the Fall, corn growing up to the edge of town, pretty girls, fast cars, and hot summer nights.  In my mind, Friend became, in fact, the All-American City, the metaphor for what we were all willing to die for in Viet Nam.

  So I promised Gary Girmus in the Fall of 1965 I would come see him someday in Friend, Nebraska.  I had been close before, but this is the year I can go anywhere and see anyone.  So I rode to Friend.

  The main business streets are of brick, the main buildings are brick and stone, but business has clearly fallen off.  The clerks in the grocery store where I bought  water and a plum were very friendly, and curious about a guy dressed in dirty riding gear, but too polite to ask.  I was struck by how clean and neat all the public infrastructure looked, including the new cars driven by the police.  The public park was very neat and clean, and the baseball field and football field were manicured.  Every city should aspire to have such parks and sports fields.  The streets were indeed tree-lined, and corn grew right up to the edge of town.  While I didn't stick around for the night, it seemed like it was going to be hot.

  So I called the only listing I have ever found for a guy named Gary Girmus near Friend, Nebraska.  I had been trying the number for several days, but there was never an answer, and there was no answering machine.  This time a man answered, and I asked if he was Gary Girmus.  He replied he was, and I told him my name and that I thought we had gone to boot camp together in 1965.

  He hung up.  I suppose he values his privacy, and I respect that.  So I climbed back on my bike, and rode East and South.  However, I kept the promise I made almost 48 years ago.  The debt is paid.