Here’s to the Ogre

One of my college compatriots passed away this week. During the three years that we overlapped at the University of South Carolina John Eargle, affectionally known as Ogre, became one of my closest friends. He was a fellow sousaphone player, introduced me to the Clariosophic Literary and Debating Society, a collection of hippies and misfits who took over an institution more than 170 years old, was a founder of The Motley Corner, our underground tuba newspaper, and shared an apartment with me for a semester.

More than all the intersections, John was someone I could sit down and talk to for hours on end. We didn’t have cell phones and the internet to distract us, so instead time was spent listening to album after album (who’s turn was it to flip the record?) and endlessly pontificating with absolute certainty on any topic that came to mind, as only college students can do. (Illicit substances might have helped the process. My mind is fuzzy on that).

John was an iconoclast, in the true sense of the word. He brought a sideways view to almost everything he did. His unwillingness to simply accept norms helped open the world to a sheltered punk from Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, far from home. More importantly, he always approached everything with a heart as big as the state of South Carolina.          

I met up with John last October for the first time in probably 30 years. After a few moments of an awkward feeling out (are you still the same person?), we settled into a comfort zone that can only be reached between people who know each other well. Whenever that happens it is incredibly rewarding. It’s a reminder that even with all the curves life throws at you there is a continuing thread, and that is reassuring.

The course of the conversation was not surprising. What have you been doing with yourself? Tell me about your family. Where has life taken you? Those are not topics I delve into with just anyone, at least not deeply. But with John it was not only easy – it was natural to lay out the twists and turns life had dealt, both good and bad. Like a continuation of a conversation that we began years ago. I hope that John felt the same way.

There was also the requisite reminiscing. The trips to the trestle, a railroad bridge over the Congaree River, to watch Amtrak trains whiz by at 70 miles an hour, one of those incredibly stupid things you do when you’re 19 and think yourself invincible. The band trips to place like Atlanta and New Orleans, where John ended up settling after college. Hanging out at the Golden Spur, or Don’s Music and Marching Society.

And John told me about his cancer. While I didn’t fully understand the ins and outs of his illness, it was clear that it was serious. Yet, he seemed so optimistic and upbeat that I couldn’t help but walk away feeling that he would beat it, and that I would have the chance to see him again. Of course, that was the easy and convenient way to feel. You would think that by now I would know that life is just not that simple.

I do not want this to be an outlet for my inner Sammy Maudlin. John would hate that. After all, most of what we did was filled with unrestrained and continuous laughter. (Maybe illicit substances helped there as well. Again, I cannot recall). I don’t know for sure what John thought about his impending death, but from what I saw last October, my guess is that he faced it with all the equanimity and positivity he could muster.

The loss of old friends is one of the most painful inevitabilities of life. It is always filled with a sense of regret. Could I really say that someone was a close friend if I hadn’t seen them in forever? Why wasn’t I better about staying in touch? How many opportunities did I miss to reconnect and expand on the bonds that held over so many years?

While all those questions are haunting, we must face another inevitability of life. We are going to drift away from many who mean so much to us. Just living on a day-to-day basis is so consuming that few of us have the energy to continually reach out, as much as we would like to. While I hate it, I have had to accept that as a given. I wish it were different. I take baby steps now and then to ameliorate that reality, but it will never be enough.

The trick is to savor the connections you can maintain, even if they are not everything you would want. While Facebook can be maddening, and rife with the potential for abuse, at least it is a thin line to people who might otherwise be forgotten. Zoom calls, like the one begun with my law school friends during the pandemic, are a pale reflection of sitting down face to face but are also a solid bridge to people I would be lucky to see once in a blue moon. Text messages during a Carolina game may be a poor way to communicate, but they can also be a way to recreate the inane non-stop banter that can be so much fun.

So, here’s to you Ogre. It should have been more, but it’s just not that easy. You are gone, but by no means forgotten.