I’m a half-century older than my good friend Ian McRae, but I couldn’t feel closer to him, and I very much enjoyed our weekly McRae night at the farm last night.

I only knew how beautifully he played the guitar once he got a shiny new one a few weeks ago. Maria and I were astonished when we heard how well he played.

I love talking with him and busting his chops about our chess games (he is more tender and sensitive than me and is still getting over the shock of knowing me), and Maria loves him and his music and poems.

“This is all about creativity,” she told me last night. He’s creative; that is why you get along so well.”

The danger of a friendship like this is that I think of myself as a father figure and that he thinks of me as one. There is no chance of that. Ian has a loving and kind father he loves dearly, and they spend at least one evening a night together, talking and staying connected.

I had a son once, but he did not live long, and I don’t see Ian or anyone ever replacing Ben or who he might have been.

Ian is just a great pal. He loves my stories as a journalist and author, and I love the stories of his very different life. We both have the same odd sense of humor. I love talking with him.

I also love beating his ass in chess which happened last night, but not the two previous ones. Maria joins in our bullshit sessions, and she is most welcome.

Maria took this photo of us last night. I usually am shy about showing my bald spot in a picture, but it’s time to get over that, and I liked this one. Ian will start performing at some Open Mike nights (he belongs to a poetry workshop), and I’ll be there.

We are playing chess again next week and also sitting outside, hopefully, to hear some outdoor guitar music. He seems good about learning things and doing them well. He’s not a son or my son to me, but I would be proud of him if he were.

We are very different in many ways and much alike at the core. You never know when friendships will pop up. I hope this one lasts. I missed playing chess.