Category: Friendship

Coming Aboard

The Rhine, the boat, the embankment, the buoy, and the author—seated in the middle © 1965 Craig Dahlberg

The swift and turbulent grey-green waters of Germany’s lower Rhine River were hungry for anything that floated. Its rough riverbed of granite boulders stirred threatening waves, sculpted into whitecaps by brooding winds.

Every day, barges steamed past our living-room picture window, perched high above the riverbank. Some ships rode low in the water, hulls pressed deep into the current by their cargo of coal, ores, chemicals, or grain. Others—empty and ready for the next load—sat high, their draft marks well above the surface. Traveling upriver toward Switzerland against the powerful current was a crawl, a maritime traffic jam. But for those swept downstream toward Holland, the river became a fairground ride.

Our tiny, sixteen-foot, fifty-horsepower runabout was anchored just below our home. To reach it, my brother and I scrambled down a steep embankment through nettles, foolishly believing that holding our breath would spare us their sting. Once we loosened the boat from its red buoy, we would fight our way upstream against the current, then reward ourselves with a safer, faster ride home.

When my brother departed for boarding school in Switzerland, I was left to my own adventures. For a young teenager, navigating the Rhine alone in a fragile, underpowered boat was daring, even dangerous. Yet I had become emboldened— surviving great river swells without capsizing, bouncing across barge wakes, and coaxing the undersized, sometimes-unwilling outboard motor.

The river barges carried not only cargo; each also carried a clutch of travelers, the crew, and often their families, housed in small quarters at the stern.

I was determined to know more about the crews inhabiting these barges. So, one afternoon, I fired up the intrepid Mercury motor and set out alone.

I soon found myself near a fully loaded barge straining upstream, its flat black hull as long as a soccer field. The engine groaned against the current, grey smoke puffing from its short stack. The crew’s cabin sat at the stern, a little retreat for the people who cared for the ship’s cargo.

On the deck, a lone figure waved to me. Curious, but mostly surprised, I waved back, edging closer.

“Hey!” he shouted in German, “Do you want to come aboard? Throw me a line!”

I don’t know who was more surprised—me, at his audacious invitation, or him, seeing a boy daring the Rhine’s treacherous current in a toy-sized boat.

Once aboard, he welcomed me into the family’s cabin: pine paneling, white lace curtains, pictures of German landscapes on the walls. He introduced me to his wife and two young children, smiling shyly. Soon there were five place settings on the small table. Sausage and sauerkraut simmered on the stove. Would I stay for dinner?

Yes, of course.

I was an interloper, a stranger invited into their world. Their welcome gave me the courage to step across the swift water and into their family, melting any unfamiliarity. Together, we were fellow travelers sharing an upstream resolve.

Decades later, I still think about that river, those people, that barge, and that dinner. How much I would have missed had I focused on what separated us—the dark waters, the swift current—instead of the wave of a generous and trusting man.

What I saw that day has served me well for decades: No matter the speed of our journey, the burden we each may carry, or the course our lives have followed, we are all better served when we dare to lean across the currents of life as we call out to others:

Do you want to come aboard? Throw me a line.

Audacious

Rötha, East Germany © 1990 Craig Dahlberg

I stood before a small door, hinged within a massive one—both built from gnarled timber. For centuries, the large door had opened to horse-drawn wagons, heavy with farm tools, fresh vegetables, and weary laborers.

The smaller door groaned as I leaned into it, inching it open.

Inside the cavernous, windowless entry to the farmhouse, I blinked against the darkness. A single, bare bulb hung overhead, its dim light barely breaking the gloom.

I’d spent the night in my one-man tent, pitched just outside the East German border.

As dawn broke the horizon, I packed my tent into my rented Volkswagen. My Bible, wrapped in my underwear, was hidden from view—concealed from the East German guards whose concrete watchtowers loomed ahead.

A truly incoherent situation: A country in collapse, being invaded by the theater of the absurd. Like East Germany, my life’s main road had just washed out; I was searching for a new road, a new career, a new horizon.

Two guards—machine guns slung casually within reach—demanded my documentation. They studied my American passport as if I had just floated down from space. One peered at me and murmured in awe,

“Ein echter Amerikaner!”

A real American!

Then the steel gate clanked open, and they waved me through. I was in East Germany—my bag unchecked for either drugs or Bibles.

East Germany swallowed me whole—its colors drained. I had walked out of Kodachrome into black-and-white. Weeds pushed through cracked concrete on the crumbling Autobahn. East German Trabant cars coughed and sputtered; mopeds with bronchitis.

I was here on a covert operation, my own “Your-mission-Craig, should-you-decide-to-accept-it …” assignment. A map on my lap, I searched for a town called Rötha. There, I hoped to find Manfred, a man I’d never met. I was not sure he even existed.

Blacklisted by the regime for being a pastor, his mail was cut off and all contact with the West was forbidden. His friends didn’t know if he was dead or alive.

Having grown up in West Germany, I spoke fluent German. So, as an American searching for Manfred, I drew less suspicion. But alone on those pitted roads, my confidence wavered.

Rötha seemed frozen in time. Bombed-out buildings leaned wearily against one another, survivors of World War II. Bullet holes still marred their bricks, untouched since the war.

Without a person or single street sign to help me, the town felt abandoned. I saw no one.

I pulled my Volkswagen into a small cobblestone square surrounded by centuries-old, thatched farmhouses.

Leaning my forehead against the steering wheel, I groaned a desperate plea: “Have I come all this way for nothing? You’ve got to help me here.” My plea sounded like the only voice in a dark and cold universe.

I stepped out of the car.

Then I saw her—a woman opening a third-floor window in one of the ancient farmhouses.

She was the first person I had seen in Rötha.

Simultaneously panicked and seizing the opportunity, I called up to her, grasping for any thread of hope.

“Kennen Sie Manfred Hoffmann?”

Do you know Manfred Hoffmann?

It was a long shot.

She froze, silent, unmoving, staring down at me, trying to make sense of what I had just asked.

Then, her face lit with shock.

“Das ist mein Mann!”

That’s my husband!

“I’ll send him right down!”

I had arrived in a ghost town, without signage or directions, searching for a man I had never met—a nearly impossible task. And the first person I encountered—was his wife.

As my eyes adjusted to the darkness behind the weathered farmhouse door, a man’s face slowly emerged—wet with tears.

Then he stood still; Manfred was rooted to the stone floor, unable to move. He spoke halting German, barely able to speak through his sobs.

“I’m Manfred Hoffmann,” he said, voice catching. “I’ve prayed for someone to find me for a very long time… but I never imagined they’d come all the way from America.”

I stayed with Manfred’s family for many days. Eventually, the crumbling Autobahn led me away from Rötha. But I would never be the same.

Soon, the East German regime collapsed. After the wall fell, many letters passed between Manfred and me.

But the most enduring connection was forged that evening under the glow of a single bare bulb in a shadowed entryway.

“You’ve got to help me here,” I prayed. Or was that too visceral to be prayer? Perhaps God answers raw and audacious prayers ahead of polite and saintly ones.

Friendship Afloat

The author (left) and his brother aboard the SS United States, 1958. © 2025 Craig Dahlberg

The fight was on. Rick’s fists grazed my head as a giant, feather-engorged pillow collided with my face. Feathers exploded into the air, drifting throughout the cabin. When our pillows finally ran out of feathers, we called a time-out. It was 1958; we had just met aboard the SS United States.

Steam billowed from the four turbine engines as we cruised east across the Atlantic. Ford Motor Company was transferring our fathers and moving our families to Germany. We had five days of open seas before docking in Southampton, England.

Smoke trailed behind the massive twin red, white, and blue stacks as we prowled every deck and explored the ship’s innards like giant viruses. We strained to peer into the bridge, mesmerized by its massive brass gauges and outsized levered controls.

That day in 1958, I found a new friend in a pillow fight—a friendship that, 67 years later, remains my longest-enduring bond.

The distinguished service of the SS United States expired long ago. Now a 72-year-old relic, the ship that convened my school of friendship, is being scuttled to serve as an artificial reef. Schools of fish will soon inhabit our old pillow fight venues. Stingrays might glide through the luxury ballroom, where we once stole glimpses of Steve Allen, Rita Hayworth, and the Aga Khan. Sea slugs may ooze across our dining tables. Aquatic life might gather, to be protected by the submerged swimming pool.

Friendships were simple then. Proximity was the great unifier, and shared experience outweighed any cultural or political differences. Living down the block or down a passenger ship’s shared corridor meant you were “in.” Even today, the memory of those shared moments brings the joy of genuine friendship.

But what becomes of older friendships? Do they have a shelf life, expiring like an aged maritime vessel scuttled to the ocean floor? Geographic distance, circumstance, or life-altering challenges can erode bonds. Or we may simply drift apart like melting icebergs.

New friendships are even harder to predict. They may bloom unexpectedly—sometimes forged through crisis or compressed by circumstance. Even among people with opposing perspectives, bonds can form in surprising ways.

Yet can we intentionally recreate that magic? After the uncomplicated friendships of youth, is it still possible to build deep, lasting connections?

In their duet, Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers remind us, “You can’t make old friends.” Old friends accompany us on long, challenging roads. We finish each other’s thoughts, anticipate a punchline before it’s delivered, and share comfortable silences. In winter’s chill, old friends bring warm bisque to our souls.

The central question remains: What qualities are essential for lasting friendships?

In his book, How to Know a Person: The Art of Seeing Others Deeply and Being Deeply Seen, David Brooks offers essential insights:

“The real act of, say, building a friendship or creating a community involves performing a series of small, concrete social actions well: disagreeing without poisoning the relationship; revealing vulnerability at the appropriate pace; being a good listener; knowing how to end a conversation gracefully; knowing how to ask for and offer forgiveness; knowing how to let someone down without breaking their heart; knowing how to sit with someone who is suffering; knowing how to host a gathering where everyone feels embraced; knowing how to see things from another’s point of view.”

Brooks suggests friendships are not born randomly. Instead, creating high-quality relationships requires intentionality. Friendships are crafted when we model selflessness and genuine care for others. We shift our focus from “me” to “you,” providing the nutrients for new and enduring connections to flourish.

Ultimately, we become the kind of friend that others—and we ourselves—value. Just the kind of friend who is always up for a friendly pillow fight.

Toilet Training

Our Tiny Mobile Home/Bathroom on Wheels, Idyllwild, California © 2023 Craig Dahlberg

The 17-foot long camping trailer we tow behind us should hardly be called a “mobile home.” It’s more of a miniature “mobile room,” with part of it sectioned off, creating the world’s smallest bathroom on wheels. Ironically, there is no “bath” in the bathroom. There is a shower, a hand-held portable wand connected to a length of plastic hose. This miniature room is a toilet hovel, a place to do your business, then pray you can quickly unlock the door to escape.

Heaven help the unsuspecting first-time shower victim, unfamiliar with the concept of sitting, backside exposed of course, atop a toilet seat that is still in the down position, reminding you that you’re there to shower—and nothing else at the moment. First, without a modicum of propriety, you remove every stitch of clothing because, well, you’re going to shower, of course. Now, where do you put the dirty clothing, and where do you put the newly unpacked and clean clothing? One choice is to strip naked just outside the teeny bathroom, a good choice for maneuverability, but not so great if curious visitors drop by, peeking inside just after you drop your skivvies. (“Oh, I just love how cute this little trailer is!” they will coo.) Another option is to cram yourself into the microscopic toilet/shower with your contortionist handbook outlining the moves required to disrobe, toss your clothes out the door, and then pretzel yourself into painful showering positions. Reverse this time-consuming and torturous process to dress in your clean, humidity-soaked clothes. Oh, wait! Just where are my clean clothes!?

Our trailer is so small that it disappears behind any motor home parked near it. “Weren’t we on this row?” I’ll ask my wife after our evening walk. “Was it Honeydew Lane, or was it Gumball Alley?” We always eventually find our fiberglass aquarium-sized rolling cabin. “Oh, that’s right! We must be next to that bus christened Goliath.” It drips gaudy Christmas lights, declaring, “We’re roughing it cooler than you are!” And there is the dog, displayed like window dressing—those omnipresent chihuahua mixes eternally guarding the dashboard of a Class A motor home, a rabid omnivore ready to tear the arm off any unsuspecting camper wandering inadvisedly across the white chalk line demarkation between hallowed camping turf, those microscopic chihuahua teeth engineered to bisect a slice of limp salami.

Our previous tiny 16-foot camper had two dining tables, one at each end. They could each be converted into beds. One side was a slightly tight fit for two, but sleeping head to toe in sleeping bags was a doable adaptation. With these arrangements, we could take another couple camping with us. Another couple, that is, whom we might know quite well and was not shy about propriety. The true test of friendship was a fold-up porta-potty, shared among the four. At night, especially considering an extended nighttime jaunt to the camp bathroom, and given sufficient space between campsites, I would place the porta-potty just outside the camper door, semi-concealed.

One night, nature called. I crawled silently out of my sleeping bag, a ghost fashionably attired in plaid sleeping pants. I carefully pulled the camper door shut behind me, gently turning the handle to prevent it from clicking like a midnight gunshot. I tiptoed to the porta-pottie, lifted the lid and paused. What next? Delivering while standing would amplify the ensuing splash of a mountain waterfall, loud enough to wake my companions. Instead, I knelt down before the toilet as if doing homage from a church pew. Halfway through, I froze. Behind me, the unexpected popping of twigs and of swishing leaves announced a visitor. Were it a deer or even a coyote, I could have struck out with my free fist. It was something far worse. Unknown to me, our female camping companion had preceeded me out of the camper and was returning from the campground restroom. Now we both encountered one another, each earnestly attending to our own mission, one of us having graciously completed her bathroom duties while the other, ill-timed, still knelt, mid-stream.

It took her a moment to figure out what was going on, seeing me kneeling before a toilet with the lid up, plaid sleeping pants reflecting the moonlight. She gave out a sudden weird sound, a strange horrified half-giggle, half-choke, the kind of sound Minnie Mouse might make, trying to cough up throat phlegm. My back was to her, so over my shoulder, I cheerfully blurted, “Beautiful night, isn’t it?” I looked like a giant, half-full teapot emptying its contents, my free hand fashionably placed upon my hip, elbow splayed outward, my arm forming a large teapot handle.

We both froze. The only sound was a stream, then a rivulet, then a slow trickle from within the plastic porta-pottie. Panicked, I dissected the entire Websters Dictionary in my head, searching for the right words to say, but came up empty.

Have you ever, at the end of the day, discovered your zipper down? And then you realize it has been that way since before lunchtime, the last time you used the bathroom? How many hours, and people, have passed by since then? And then you re-create various sitting postures and walking positions you’ve performed throughout the day to see just how awful it might have been? It was worse than that.

I crawled into bed, burying my head into my sleeping bag. The next morning, at breakfast, my wife inquired, “How did you sleep last night?” She and the female traveling companion who stumbled across me during the night were already suffering sore ribs inflicted by mirth and hilarity. After they recovered, my wife disclosed, “I was awake, and I knew that both of you were out of the camper at the same time for the same purpose. I could hear you using the porta-potty, so I was just waiting for the meetup!”

Virus Diaries: Sherlock

Each evening at precisely 9 PM, there begins a whirring of mechanized wheels finding their footing, brushes and rollers spinning, mechanical bumpers activating, and invisible light sources awakening. I can hear it from the lounge chair in our bedroom. The general ruckus provides comfort because I know that Sherlock is once again happy and doing his job.

Sherlock is now 1½ years old. I’m not sure how many robot vacuum years old that would be. Ten, like dog years? These days, I suppose Sherlock is, in fact, our dog, or at least a substitute. I leave others to frantically adopt Covid-era pets from dog pounds with depleted inventory. We already have our dear Sherlock.

Sherlock seeks out and thrives on errant societal grime. Hence, the moniker “Sherlock.” Sherlock’s diet consists of life’s refuse—dust and dirt—the discards of our housebound lives. Like his more famous namesake, he is entirely mission-driven. And he’s a bit quirky. Like a mischievous child, he squeals for help when pinned beneath a chair or couch, or is detained by an electric cord splayed carelessly in his path. That’s when my cellphone app alerts me to come to his aid, and I wrest him free once again.

I love Sherlock. If all is well, he doesn’t complain or fuss. When his job is completed, he returns home to his base, dust bin happily supplied and satisfied, awaiting his next repeat adventure, 23 hours hence.

Routine is comforting. Like Sherlock, we employ predictable schedules to survive life’s demands. And, like Sherlock, we have learned to master That One Thing or even Those Many Things with great skill. We can believe that robot vacuum cleaners, we are. Indeed, we become masters of the familiar—very good masters of the very familiar. And this obsession, to the exclusion of the Great Beyond the dust and dirt, can worsen with age. I should know; I’m older than I once was. But I also know, deep inside, that I am better than that.

Altogether now, repeat after me: “We are better than that.”

Virus Diaries: Social Distancing—It’s Simple Math

Once it was all the rage: “Six Degrees of Separation.” We discovered that we’re each just six relationships away from everyone else. I know you; that’s one relationship away. And you know other people. You know Sylvester, and he knows people. Bingo, two relationships away. He knows Edna, and she knows people. That’s number three. Our relationships multiply exponentially. So if you do that at six levels, or “degrees,” you could know everyone on the planet. Friends of friends, and so on. So there! All people are six, or fewer, social connections away from each other. Six degrees of separation.

It’s simple math.

But wait a minute. Nowadays, on my daily walk, I count to six not by relationships, but by distance. I don’t want to “reach out and touch somebody.” No way! I want people six feet—or more—away from me. Today, give me “Six Feet of Separation.” The coronavirus has me jumping, keeping a street-width away from other walkers. My glasses fog as I re-breathe my mask-recirculated air. Because who knows? That less-than-six-feet-away stroller may have been around another less-than-six-feet-away walker, who may have been around another long-distance violator! Hang the formerly vaunted “six degrees of separation” theory! Spare us from those relationships six deep. And wide. And far. Keep me away! I’m all about “six feet of separation.”

It’s simple math.

One day, Mr. Coronavirus will turn us loose, and we might recognize life as we once knew it. When our gloves come off—literally—we’ll likely return to forging new “six degree of separation” relationships, which are just out of reach at the moment. And, yes, perhaps we’ll talk without needing to shout across the street.

Until then, we can be grateful, summing up both what we now have, and what we will then have.

It’s simple math.

The Bus

When my young grandsons could no longer tolerate waiting for the grownups in the wine tasting room, we all stretched our legs and exited through the side door to the Texas Hill County acreage surrounding us. The rest of the family tumbled across the tree-shaded field to the goats and miniature horses gathered along the wire fence, awaiting each visitor’s customary food handout and head scratch.

Holland and I stayed behind to investigate the aged double-decker English city bus standing at the edge of the field, an ancient other-worldly sentinel, guarding a place to which it did not belong.

Visiting neighborhoods where we once lived is to return to the remnants of an earlier time, re-living cherished memories. It’s the same for this bus, shuttling strangers who forged deep friendships. We wonder at the passengers and the stories they once shared.

I recalled my own bus-riding chum, Joe. Why did every traveler on that bus know, like, and repect Joe? Self-deprecating, he wore a grin that possessed his entire face. Chicken-foot wrinkly skin embraced his blue-hued eyes, eyes that laughed and invited others to enjoy the silent joke. Joe was a toucher, not the kind of toucher that the news reports about. His was a hand on the shoulder or a gentle finger upon the humerus to let you know he was listening. Joe carried lunch in a backpack, a ritual since he began riding the bus after suffering a seizure, ending his freeway automobile commute. Will Rogers is famously quoted for never meeting a man he didn’t like. I believe in Joe’s case, it was true. Though he never finished high school, his bus ride transported him to his job as the COO of one of the state’s largest ice cream producers.

Humble man makes good.

Not a bad legacy for any of us.

The passengers from this misplaced English bus in a Texas Hill Country winery are long gone, taking with them their friendships and memories.

All who now remain are grandson Holland and myself. As I glimpse his tiny face in the abandoned bus mirror, I sense we are creating our own private history together.

I think it will be a good one.

Not a bad legacy for any of us.

Three in a Row

If you look up “Tic Tac” on the Internet, you are directed either to sites about the breath mint candy, or to an investigation into a mysterious UFO dubbed Tic Tac by the Navy pilot who spotted it.

Won’t go there.

By adding the third word, “Toe” we refer to the game we know as “Tic Tac Toe”. Three words in a row spell the name of the game. Completing three in a row also happens to makes you the winner in this game.

In this huge plastic variant, son-in-law, Randy, and grandson, Linus, seem to be working it out. Tic-tac-toe.

As it turns out, Aristotle believed that friendship is also a three-across proposition, another sort of tic-tac-toe.

Aristotle names the first friendship “accidental” friendship, and it’s easy to fall into. It’s the person you happen to sit next to in an assigned classroom seat, or a person you wind up with on the same train car together, day after day. When the class ends, the travel ends, or the job ends, the friendship fades.

The second friendship is pleasure-based upon mutual interests, and it’s also not hard to discover – I like a certain sports team, and so do you. Or maybe we both rave about the latest movie, or automobile, or restaurant. But then we move on. The friendship based upon mutual interests was good while it lasted.

The third kind of friendship is harder to build. It involves mutual effort and endurance. This third-in-a-row friendship is the tic tac toe winner. It’s called The Friendship of the Good. It values the virtues and qualities within the other person. While these friendships take time to build, they grow more valuable over time, and are long-lasting. They rest on a foundation of mutual esteem and faith. Their value deepens after both persons have been seen both at their best and at their worst. They are some of life’s finest rewards.

Two out of three – “Tic Tac,” brings candy or a UFO story. Or transitory friendships.

But finding The Friendship of the Good completes the “Tic Tac Toe.” And that’s what makes a winning combination.

Friend for Life

During my recent trip to Morro Bay on the Central California coast, I fulfilled a quest many years in the making. I was pulling on a thread that had been with me since 1969, my freshman year of college.

Soon, Rob showed up in our two-man dorm room in Fischer Hall, teeth blazing behind a mischievous grin, which he never could seem to tame. We were each eager to size each other up. We would be roomies. And we would hit it off.

Somehow, Rob talked me into joining the college men’s glee club that year. Otherwise, my then-introverted nature would not have veered onto such a track. Rob was a second tenor; I was a baritone, and we had a ball.

Rob had several other untamed passions, including a love for acting and the theater. He toyed with the idea of an acting major. The challenge to try out something else new stuck with me. A rivalry began, which I won; I actually picked up more college stage roles than he did.

For our sophomore year, we decided to do the roomie thing all over again. We moved together to an off-campus house. Month after month tumbled along, and Christmas 1970 was around the corner. Rob decided he needed an adventure. He decided to hitchhike the 2,100 miles home to San Luis Obispo.

He nearly made it. In the California desert, the convertible left the road, headed into the sand, and flipped. The owner died instantly. Rob suffered head trauma, arriving at the hospital unconscious. He remained unconscious right through to the men’s glee club spring California concert tour. The entire glee club packed into his tiny hospital room, but Rob never woke up.

For the next thirteen years, Rob did not wake up. I visited Rob one more time during those years. Blind, permanently hunched over in the wheelchair, Rob’s body was pushed out into the grass and sunshine, but he wasn’t there. There was no crazy smile, no tenor voice, no stage presence.

I cannot think of a single day since Rob’s long-delayed death in 1983 that I have not thought of him. This sunny day, in the center of a cemetery, five graves down from his father, I finally visited Rob again.

How fleeting life can be, but how permanent the sway upon each other’s lives.

So, we must live well.