Brendan J. Crosby was the Library Media Specialist at Silver Lake Regional High School in Pembroke. He stood over six feet tall, dressed in a three-piece suit every day, and smoked a pipe, back in the days when you could smoke a pipe in a library in a high school. He was also my friend. Today, he was coming to my house.
He had left SLRHS after my freshman year. We didn’t keep in touch. One day, my phone rang. It was Mr. Crosby, and he was asking to come by and visit. He’d like to see me, and he was bringing a gift.
Mom would not be home that day, but Dad would be. They agreed to my visit. And now Dad and I were seated in the living room, waiting to hear an unfamiliar car on our small street. In the meantime, I thought of my friend.
I don’t remember exactly what sparked our friendship? I probably asked a question and received a very precise answer complete with a lesson of some type. Not long after we met, I referred to Mr. Crosby as a librarian. “No, Andy, I’m a library media specialist,” he said while enunciating every word. I know that the look on my face said, “What’s the difference?” For the next five minutes, I found out. That’s how Mr. Crosby rolled.
I hung out in the library during every study hall, before school, and sometimes afterward. Naturally, Mr. Crosby drafted me to be a library aid. I took to it easily and well. While I sadly do not remember the Dewey Decimal System as well as I should, I enjoyed shelving books, organizing the returns cart, and stamping a book that gave me a glimpse into what my classmates were reading. Between tasks, Mr. Crosby and I would talk. He’d ask me what I was reading, how my artwork was coming along, and what I wanted to do in college. We talked about history, books, you name it. He knew a little bit about a lot, and he knew a lot about a few things. He encouraged my questions and creativity. I had both in abundance.
One day I drew a cartoon of him–three-piece suit, pipe, and huge forehead. It made him laugh. So, for his birthday, I did one of him as a leprechaun (in full color). He was appreciably moved, and so was I at his response.
The day he left school, I hung out in the library, and we talked in-between well-wishes from some members of the faculty and a few students. He drew me a simple landscape and wrote (if my memory serves):
Andy–with a pen you are great; you are good.
Do what you know you should.
Don’t be a goon, get a job
with a cartoon.
He left the library, and I never expected to see him again. Now he was at my front door.
Mr. Crosby was dressed as he always was, in an impeccably pressed three-piece dark green suit, spit-shined, cognac brown designer shoes, and stood tall in our small house. I introduced him to Dad, who was dressed in a short-sleeve button-down shirt, dull brown pants, and drab shoes. I looked at these two men and was embarrassed for my Dad, who looked so small and ordinary next to him.
Dad worked in a factory. He gave up his possible life as a history teacher because P&G paid more. He talked about history but not much. He went to the plant, ran machines, came home with off-color jokes, and never asked me what I was thinking about or wanted with my life. I’m embarrassed by it now (and not long afterward) but at that moment I thought my father was a very small man in the shadow of my friend.
Mr. Crosby stayed for an hour or so. He and Dad chatted amiably. They discussed their time in the military. Mr. Crosby was still in the army or guard in some capacity and was teaching somewhere–my memory fails me here. Still, he was respectful of my Dad and listened to the Old Man talk about his job and bits about his time in the service. Then, Mr. Crosby did what he always did–he asked me what I was reading, how my drawing was coming along, and what my plans were. We talked for a long while.
At one point Mr. Crosby turned to Dad and said, “You’ve got a bright, talented young man here, Mr. Peterson. You should be proud of him. I am.”
Dad tripped over his words, finally getting out, “I am. Thank you.”
Before he left, he handed me a gift. It was a small brown plaque, with gold leaf and lettering. In the center was a color reproduction of the cartoon I drew of him as a leprechaun. The words around it said, simply, “Andy Peterson – Friend”
Mr. Crosby got into his car–a new model, not one of the used cars we had in our driveway–waved, and drove away. Our promises to stay in touch were derailed after Mom died and we moved out of Pembroke. I lost his number, and he had no way to find me. I like to think that he tried to do so. I wish I had.
I never hung the plaque in my childhood home. I’m not exactly sure why not but I have my suspicions now. Still, once in a while I rummage through a box in the basement, looking at my Lakers pennant, various pictures, and a plaque that declared me someone’s friend.
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