Celebrating Your Friends

There was supposed to be a party today.

“I want to make it to 90,” Pierre told me when he was 88. His parents had only lived to their 70s, but others in his family had lived longer.

“We should have a party,” I suggested. He liked that idea. I mean, if you’re going to live that long, you deserve a celebration. “You could have dancing girls.”

His eyes lit up. He liked that idea, too.

We never had a chance to discuss details. Pierre died last January, a short time after his 89^th birthday.

We don’t always remember our friends on their birthdays. Sometimes we remember them on the day they died. November 22 is the day we remember President John F. Kennedy, not May 17, his birthday. September 11 is the day we remember those who were killed in the 2001 terrorist attacks. Those deaths were very public, so that’s understandable.

Sometimes we remember them on holidays because those are times we traditionally gather together and reminisce. My friend, Mary Ellen, was born on Christmas Eve, so that’s when I remember her.

But often we remember on their birthdays. Many of our holidays are someone’s birthday: Martin Luther King, Jr., George Washington, Abraham Lincoln.

And why not? Why shouldn’t we remember our friends on the anniversary of the day they came into this world? That’s the day that made our friendship possible.

It’s sad, though, especially the first year after they died. I’ve been thinking about Pierre all week, wondering if I could write about him today. After all, it took me almost a year to write about him at all.

But then I remembered that day at his house. I’d sent him a sinfully rich chocolate cheesecake for his birthday a few weeks earlier, so the topic came up easily (birthdays, not chocolate). He told me he was prepared for death whenever it came. His body had gone through a lot, and he wasn’t interested in staying alive just because medical science said it was possible.

He still saw beauty in little things: sitting in the warm sunshine on his front porch, watching the traffic speed up and down the Glen; a cozy cashmere sweater (or two); a funny story.

When he said he wanted to make it to 90, I knew it was a long-shot. He wasn’t going to have surgery just to get to that milestone, and that was his right. I also knew if he was told he wouldn’t make it, he’d probably just shrug that typically French, incredibly sexy shrug. I imagine he felt that making it to 89 was close enough. And it was, technically, his 90^th year.

So I choose to remember Pierre today, on what would’ve been his 90^th birthday, rather than later in the month, on the first anniversary of his death.

Maybe one of your friends died last year, too. And of course the first anniversary will be hard. But how about getting out your calendar and marking their birthday on it?

Decide to spend part of that day remembering them: do something you two used to do together, go someplace you both loved, dig out your photo album (remember those?) and wallow in good memories; call a mutual friend and swap stories.

It’s hard. I know it’s hard. But soon you won’t focus on how sad you are that they’re gone. Instead you’ll feel how very grateful you are that they were a part of your life.

Because that friendship – like all our friendships – made us who we are today.

"All My Friends Are Dead"

Pierre on "Combat"

Growing up in the 60s, I was, along with my friends, definitely anti-war. I knew guys who served in Vietnam – two who died – but I didn’t agree with the war. 

It seemed odd to many that one of our favorite TV shows was Combat! It ran from 1962-67, and featured a squad of American soldiers in France after the D-Day invasion. We watched the show because we thought the actors were cute. And my favorite was Pierre Jalbert.

Pierre was my “type”: under six feet tall, dark, lean. The French accent didn’t hurt. It was a great, long-distance fantasy…until we met.

The night we met

It’s a long story that I won’t get into, but one night in 1984, I think, my two best friends and I found ourselves partying with Pierre, his wife, and Jack Hogan, who played Kirby on the show. The next day I had the worst hangover of my life, but it was worth it. I only saw him once more, about a year after that. One of my friends kept in close contact, but I didn’t. I’m not sure why.

Pierre’s life was nothing short of amazing: Canadian ski champion, Olympic captain, friend of movie stars, ski instructor, sound editor, actor, writer. He built his house in Beverly Glen and was a talented wood carver. He was obsessed with the life of the Marquis de Lafayette. “He was 19 when he fought in the Revolutionary War!” he’d tell me again and again.

He told me because I visited him a few times in recent years to record the stories of his life. We’d sit in the dining room of his beautiful home, scanning old photos, taping our conversations.

During one of my visits

He was certainly frail those last years, after suffering a stroke. I drove him to some doctor appointments. Though he was frustrated with minor memory lapses, he never lost his sense of humor. Once, when a medical technician assumed I was his wife, he insisted, “No, she’s my girlfriend, not my wife.” I turned bright red, because even at 88, he was still a handsome flirt.

I wrote last week that I learned a lot from him in his last year. I didn’t just learn about Lafayette, or why he was brought in to help with The Godfather (Pierre’s responsible for the iconic baptism/mob hit sequence at the end of the movie).

I learned that he gave full credit to his friends for everything that happened to him in his life. A new one would appear at a crucial moment, offering him an opportunity that would change his life: the actress who invited him to Paris, the businessman who sponsored his immigration to the US. “I wouldn’t be where I am today without my friends.”

I learned that he missed them terribly. “All my friends are dead,” he insisted, when we first sat down to record his stories. “Not all of us,” I countered. His stories about his friends were told without a trace of envy or disapproval. He loved them for who they were, and though he didn’t always understand or condone their behavior, he loved them nonetheless.

I learned that with every setback – rheumatic fever, the shattered leg that left him in constant pain for over 60 years, deportation when he failed to secure a work visa – he bounced back. He had a resilience that was remarkable. “Weren’t you depressed when you couldn’t ski in the Olympics?” “Sure,” he agreed. “For a week.” Then, Norma Shearer invited him to Paris, and he moved on to the next adventure.

I learned that it’s possible to live your life without regrets. When he insisted he had no regrets about his life, I was skeptical. I tried to bait him, frankly. Maybe it was Buddhism that gave him that peace. But just as he saw his friends impact his life, he saw each twist and turn as something ultimately better. Everything happened for a reason.

I feel like I learned a lot from Pierre. I still have my notes and my tapes. Next year I’ll transcribe them and put them into a coherent tale about one of the most remarkable men I’ve ever known.

I can hear his voice sometimes. If I close my eyes I can feel his hand in mine as we walked through the parking lot to lunch. When my car windshield is dirty, I think of him insisting I pull into the gas station in Santa Monica so he could clean it.

Finally, Pierre, I’m writing about you. Don’t give me that typically French shrug, as if you don’t care. I know better. So wherever you are, pour yourself a scotch on the rocks and settle back.

Allons-y.