Over the weekend, I returned to the town where I attended college the first time. A friend's brother and his celtic band were playing and if I can arrange it, I will always try to go. I imbibe way too much Guinness and slam my hand on the table rather than clap to the beat. Usually, in my drunken state at the end of the evening, I will find it impossible to remove the claddah ring from my right hand. I've accepted that it's the price I must pay for properly celebrating my heritage.

Last Saturday, they were playing at a venue I'd never been to before. It's about half an hour out of town, in a quaint village that's culled a reputation for tourists based on it's rich history. I must admit, the roadhouse doesn't completely fit in, but it's comfortable and has great fries and a kick ass back deck. It's also owned by an old friend and his wife.

But, you're probably wondering, if your friend owns it and you've never been there in the four years since he bought it, could that mean there's some sort of rift between you two? Indeed, gentle reader, you would be correct. R and I were enrolled in the Print Journalism program at the same time back in 1986, and we developed our friendship as we developed black and white photos in the class darkroom. By the time we finished our third year, we were thick as theives. So, when he secured a reporting position at a weekly paper way the hell up north that was to begin two days later, I was happy to step up and help him prepare for the journey.

This included doing a brief inventory of his camera equipment. He was fairly mortified when he found out that his flash was broken, then moved directly into panic mode when he realized that he couldn't afford a new one until he started getting paid. I think you can already guess what happened next. I opened my camera bag, retrieved my $300 flash and handed it over. Just like that.

Most people out there live by the adage that if you lend something out, you'd better do it with the understanding that you may well never see it again. Yup, right again. Klutz that he was (is), he broke it. The worst thing about it was that he never acknowledged the act and didn't have any plans for reparation. He simply disappeared into the mist, never to be seen again. Until now.

The friend I stay with when I'm in town wondered aloud Saturday afternoon if some advance warning were called for, so R wouldn't have a heart attack when he realized who was sitting on his deck. I assured S that wouldn't be necessary, since I was a grownup who didn't have the energy to hold a grudge for 14 years. Plus, it had always been R's nature to treat situations that way, and I was certain his continued silence had no malicious intent.

We showed up and were led to our reserved table with an excellent view of the band. I waved to Mark, the lead singer and S's brother and ordered the first of the many Guinness I would enjoy that evening. Next thing I know, S is looking over my head and saying, "Look who I found!" I stretched my head up and, in an upside-down fashion, saw the surprised look on R's face. Then and there, I was happy I had gone. He was immediately called away to tend to a draught beer emergency, and I breathed a sigh of relief. The worst was over. I had seen him and the hackles on my neck hadn't risen up; I guess I needed my nervous system to back up my forgiving brain.

On the way from the washroom an hour later, I encountered R heading straight for me. Right there in the middle of the fiddle playing and the clattering china and the noise of one hundred patrons, he admitted that he'd avoided me for all this time because he understood exactly the size of his faux pas. He then pulled $150 out of his pocket and told me he hoped this would make up for it, at least in part, and asked if we could possibly be friends again.

Well folks, I was floored. Money is so tight these days, I'm sure I appreciated his gesture a thousand times more than I would have if he had done that when it first happened. Of course, I forgave him his sins and we had a good old hug right there in front of his smiling wife. It would seem this guilt had followed him around, and the look of relief on his face made her so happy she came over and offered me two little flashing gizmos you can attach to your clothing with magnets, usually meant for the waitresses. In the most adult manner I could manage, I proceeded to stick one over each nipple and bring down the house. Sheesh, Guinness is the devil's work...

So, my weekend gets two thumbs way up. It had a beat, I could dance to it and I got my friend back. Oh, and no hangover. Score.

Is there anyone in your past who needs this sort of attention? I highly recommend taking action. Time heals most wounds, and the rewards you will reap are virtually boundless.

Posted at 2:28 p.m.