The Richest of Bonds

A Tribute to an 80-Year Friendship

Success can generate wealth and power, but only friendship can fill your soul. One man’s tribute to a friendship that lasted more than 80 years, and the lessons it leaves behind.

Last week Peter Copland, my closest friend, died. It wasn’t a surprise; he had advanced cancer. But the finality of it hit hard. We met as children when our families were neighbors, and somehow, without trying, our friendship deepened over more than 80 years.

We played together as preschoolers, shared teenage antics, and skated on the same hockey team. In our twenties and thirties, we took annual canoe trips in Algonquin Park. We married nurses who were also friends, shared a ski chalet when our kids were young. As entrepreneurs, we both built successful businesses, mine in publishing, Peter founded a chemical company. As the decades rolled on, our lives remained intertwined through holidays, family gatherings, and countless conversations. Even after Peter moved to the West Coast, we kept in touch. We arranged vacations together. On every birthday, we called each other.

Peter was more than a friend. He was a confidant, a steadying voice, and a comforting presence through every season of life. We didn’t always agree, but we always respected each other. When life got tough, we were there for each other, no explanations needed. 

What made our bond so profound wasn’t the things we did together, but the trust, acceptance, and unwavering support we gave each other. Through joy and tragedy, Peter was a constant. We were architects of each other’s lives; co-authors in a long, beautiful story.

The worst period of my life followed a stock market crash that occurred within a year of investing everything I owned in the start up of a mutual fund company. Until the market crash this seemed to be a great business decision. The fund was attracting a higher number of investors than anticipated. But, in the aftermath of the crash, the mutual fund company had to be sold off at a fire sale price, leaving me with massive debts and no income, and my marriage broke up. I was now living in a modest one-bedroom apartment. Lonely, embarrassed that I had let this happen, and unsure of my future. But Peter was there for me. 

A few days after moving alone into my new apartment I received a letter from Peter. It included a check for $30,000 and a note saying. “The sun is still shining on my side of the street. Let me know how I can help.” A week later I received a second letter from Peter, inviting me to visit he and his wife for a ten-day stay in Victoria. He said, “To get your life back on track I think you first need to get away from Toronto and clear your head.” Enclosed with this note was an open ticket to fly to their place from Toronto. I accepted his invitation. Spending time hanging out and in discussions with Peter, was the much-needed medicine for re-starting my life.

His death has left a void that words can’t fill.

The day after he died, I devoted myself to remembering. I walked, sat quietly in our garden, and let the weight of the loss settle in. As I sifted through memories and emotions, one truth rose above all others: deep, enduring human connections are the greatest wealth we can possess. Far more precious than money or power, close relationships give life meaning.

True best friends are rare and life-defining. With them, you are fully known and fully accepted. Vulnerability feels safe. I’ve been fortunate to have three such friends: Peter, Don McGregor and Sol Bienstock. I’m the last one standing, and their loss has only deepened my appreciation for the gifts they have given me.

Friendships, like the one I had with Peter, are sacred. They offer a rare refuge where authenticity is embraced, and love is unconditional. These relationships shape our character, anchor our identity, and make us feel deeply alive.

As I sat with my grief, I realized something profound: true wealth is measured not in dollars, power, or influence, but in the people who walk beside us. The ones who see us clearly, love us anyway, and stay through all of life’s mess and magic.

Wealth can buy many things: comfort, convenience, even admiration. But it can’t buy fulfilling interpersonal connections. It can’t offer the warmth of being truly known, or the healing of being deeply understood.

In thinking about the relationship Peter and I shared; I came to see that the fabric of our lives is woven with the threads of relationship. The joy of time with someone who gets you. The comfort of shared silence. The laughter sparked by a private joke. These are the moments that define us. This is when life is richest.

Peter wasn’t just a friend. He was a witness to my life, a co-conspirator in our shared journey. His absence leaves a painful void, yet it also underscores the transformative power of genuine connection.

Celebrating life’s highs with close friends builds a reservoir of joy we can draw on when times are hard. Our closest friends see us at our best and worst and love us all the same. That support shapes us, helps us grow, and reminds us of who we really are.

Friendship is not a luxury, it’s a necessity. It belongs on the same level of importance as food, water, and shelter.

I once attended a lavish dinner on a business associate’s 300-foot yacht. Everything screamed luxury, but what struck me most was the loneliness. The guests weren’t friends. They were contacts. The host was surrounded but not connected. It was a stark reminder: the trappings of success mean nothing without real relationships.

Science agrees. The Harvard Study of Adult Development, one of the longest-running studies on happiness, found that strong relationships are the best predictor of long-term well-being. Not wealth. Not fame. Not even good genes.

Loneliness, meanwhile, is as dangerous to health as smoking or obesity.

In childhood, friendship forms effortlessly. But in adulthood, our time fractures. Careers, families, and geography pull us apart. Maintaining deep friendships takes effort, especially as we age. But that effort is never wasted.

Losing Peter is devastating. There's no sugarcoating it. Grief is real, and society doesn’t always give us the space to mourn friendships the way we do romantic or familial loss. But grief is also a mirror of love. The deeper the bond, the deeper the ache. I’ve learned not to rush through it. Instead, I try to sit with it, honor it, and let it remind me of how much someone mattered.

The good news is that friendship is a renewable resource. Deep new friendships can form, even later in life. But they don’t just appear. We must reach out. Be vulnerable. Invest the time and heart it takes.

So, reach out. Call an old friend. Make a new one. Show up. Listen. Laugh. Forgive. Celebrate. Mourn. Be present.

Life is short. But deep, enduring friendships make it immeasurably richer.

That is Peter’s final gift to me. And maybe, through these words, it can be a gift to you as well.