Facebook

About two weeks ago I broke down and joined Facebook to make friends and advance my literary career.

I had resisted, as I do with anything that looks to be a passing fad. But, when my cousin, Sheri, who is an editor and writer suggested it, I decided to give in and give it a try. Sheri was also the one who convinced me to start a blog so the seven or eight people who like my writing can go back for a second look.

Soon after joining this cyber community I started getting “requests,” from people to be their “friend.” This should not be interpreted as an indication that I am friend material; my seven or eight acquaintances would argue otherwise. Rather, it’s just the way this social network stuff works. Some people will seek a connection only with people they know; others ask anyone with a name. No money changes hands, there is no handshake, no physical contact, and unless photos are available you may not even know what the other person looks like.

Most of the people who asked me to be their Facebook friend I knew; for some I had to consult my copy of “Who’s Who” to see who’s that.

Facebook friends interact with one other through the Internet. Thoughts and feelings are shared on-line such as “I scored 16,726 points playing “clock-buster,” or “My husband just got sick and threw up in the pan of sauerkraut.” Nice. Thanks for sharing.

This making-friends business is much easier now that it used to be. Today friends can be made with a couple keystrokes. However, pointing and clicking doesn’t guarantee that people will click and connect; it takes more than just logging-on to be friends. But perhaps I am getting too caught up in the meaning of words. Maybe it is that easy.

I could have saved myself a lot of trouble through the years if I had only waited. One summer day in 1971 when I was dragging around the house with nothing to do, my older brother, Dan, made a suggestion.

“John has a younger brother, why don’t you go see what he’s doing?”

John was one of Dan’s good friends. He, along with his brother Jim and the rest of their family, lived on the other side of town – almost two miles away. I didn’t phone him to see if my request would be accepted. I hopped on my bike and made a social call.

Strangely, I remember nothing of the bike ride; I had no feeling of dread or reluctance. But I do remember knocking on Jim’s door.

“Hi, I’m Jerry Kucera. Do you want to be my friend?” I asked.

With only the slightest hesitation – hopefully out of surprise and not of pity – Jim answered, “Sure, you want to come in?”

We did become friends; still are. I would make that same trip across town about a million times until we both left for college. We would play Risk and Stratego (of which I lost every game). The neighbors had an outdoor basketball court they let us use. The vacant lot next to his house became our football field. Jim even made up a game where a Wiffle football was thrown on the roof of his house; we called it “The Game.” One summer night we even harbored a fugitive from the law in a tent in his backyard.

Today, Jim lives about 30 miles away. I don’t think he’s on Facebook, but rather than check I think I‘ll call and ask him. I would bike over there, but it’s just too far.