June 22nd

 Today is Kris’ birthday.  He would have been 31.  On the morning he was born, I was staying with my grandparents.  My grandma had to wake Jake and me up to tell us we had a phone call.  I held the phone up to my ear as the sun shined through the kitchen window.  It was good news.  I remember the moment as if it had happened this morning. 

We get together every year on his birthday for dinner.  When we were all kids, pizza was how we celebrated every birthday.  For several years after Kris died, we kept this pizza tradition going.  This year we are changing things some and going to a centrally located park for a picnic and games for the kids.  The weather should be perfect with partially cloudy skies and temperatures in the 70’s.  Everyone is planning on being there. 

This year we almost had a major scheduling conflict with Nancy’s family.  Fortunately everything worked out when the other event was moved.  Actually, I didn’t even know about the conflict until it had already been resolved.  Even so, I was pretty frustrated about it and glad I wasn’t forced to make a choice.  This was a bit of a jolt that gave me some time to think about this yearly tradition with my family and what it means to me. 

Over the years, and for several reasons, the gathering has evolved to represent more than just Kris’ birthday.  The biggest reason is that most of the people coming tonight never met Kris.  When he died, almost 10 years ago, our family consisted of 10 people, including six adults, one teenager and three grandchildren under the age of three.  Now there are 11 grandchildren, none of whom have memories of their uncle Kris.  Additionally, the teenager, now 25, will bring along his girlfriend and her young daughter, bringing this year’s total up to 20 people. 

Since most of the people attending know or remember Kris only from stories and photos, change is inevitable.  Additionally, this is often the only family event everyone makes an effort to attend, and because most of my mom’s sons have birthdays in the summer, this celebration is almost as much for all of us who are there, as it is for the one who is not. 

That is not to say that Kris’ birthday will be pushed aside or forgotten in any way.  Oh no, my mother will never allow that.  She will have a big sheet cake with candles for the grandchildren to blow out.  She will have balloons for each child to release into the heavens at the end of the day.  She may even make everyone sing the happy birthday song, though this is less likely as the years roll on. 

In reality there was no scheduling conflict at all.  Tonight, like last year, and the years before, like next year and every year following, I’ve already chosen what I’m doing on the evening of the 22nd of June.  Regardless of what the weather is like, or what else is going on, or who else is there, I will be at dinner with my mother and brothers, celebrating the birth and life of my brother Kris. 

This isn’t an obligation for me, nor will it ever be an event I will just make an appearance at before quickly heading off to something else.  I go because I want to go and because it is important to me.  I go because I want to remember my brother’s birthday and because my other brothers will be there too.  I go because, well, even if there is no pizza, I like birthday parties.

Rock Rock Chair

Sleep-eating a carrot in the rock rock chair

This was first posted May 30, 2009 on my other, now dearly departed blog.

I slept most of the night in the baby's room, sitting awkwardly in the big rocking chair.  The baby wasn’t feeling well, though we never did find out what was going on.  He would cry every time we set him down in bed so it was just easier to hold him.  We did try letting him cry for a little while to see if he was just messing with us, but it was hard to listen to his crying.  Because he’s such a good baby, and normally so great about just plopping down in bed and going to sleep, we figured it must the real deal.

Normally the chair rips my back or neck apart and after one night of sitting there, I pay for about four days.  But this morning I actually don’t feel too bad.  As I sat there, I thought about when we first bought that chair, just over nine years ago.  Our oldest was a bad sleeper and needed to be rocked to sleep every night.  This is a luxury reserved only for the oldest child.  I’m not sure if that’s because you don’t have as much time with the second child, or if you just learn your lesson and get better at saying, no.  Probably a bit of both.

Every night I would settle into the chair and she would lie across my lap.  She would use one armrest as a pillow and the other for her feet.  Most nights I would get up within 30 minutes or an hour and drop her in her bed.  But some nights I would fall so deeply to sleep that I would end up spending the entire night there, sitting in the chair.

We bought this chair a few months after Kris died.  My mom got some money in an insurance settlement and gave some to each of her boys to buy something to remind us of Kris.  With part of the money, I bought a nice watch at a pawn shop.  Kris spent a lot of time in pawn shops, so I thought it would be a good way to connect with him.  I found a store near his home, one I assumed he had been in from time to time, and there found just the right watch for me.

With most of the rest of the money, we bought a big, blue, rocking recliner chair.  I remember standing years ago at his grave, crying and telling him how we would rock our children to sleep in the chair and tell them stories about the uncle they never met.  If not perfectly, this is a promise I have tried hard to keep.

In many ways, this chair has come to represent, or even take the place of my brother.  It has become literally, his contribution toward raising some of his nieces and nephews.  Bought with the most precious money I have ever held, this chair has served our family well.  And all these years later, it’s still fairly nice, though a little dated, and showing signs of those many, long hours service to our family.

It won’t be long until our baby doesn’t need to be rocked each day for a few minutes at bedtime.  And eventually the long nights of rocking a sick child in the chair will only be a memory.  But, even when the old chair’s productive years of service have passed, we will still keep it around for a long, long time.

Clark

Jump Up

The eighteen months between high school and the real world were not productive ones for me. I lived with my mother for about six months, with my father for about six, and then back to Mom's house for six more. I thought at the time that my parents were the ones that were hard to live with. In reality, it was me and my attitude that made it difficult for me to stay in one place for any significant length of time. So, just before one parent kicked me out, I left again for the other parent's house and followed my nomadic urges from one end of the state to the other and back.

A bit of a hermit as well, I didn’t really go out in public much. That is, except in the evening, when I headed through the darkened city to my job on the night crew at a grocery store. After work, I would usually head straight home, arriving just as the sun was peeking up over the mountains. I would then go, like a vampire, into my darkened room and sleep the day away.

During the months I lived with Mom, my three younger brothers and I we were inseparable. They understood, or dealt with the attitude, and despite a 13 year gap from oldest to youngest, we all got along great. Ranging in age from 5 to 18, we must have seemed like an odd combination. But we didn’t think about age much and had a great time together.

Almost every day at about 3:30 they would come home from school and we would hang out until they went to bed or I left for work. Sometimes we did things a first grader wanted to do. Sometimes we did things a sixth grader liked, and so on. We played ball together, watched television, went camping, played video games, went sledding, fixed cars, launched model rockets, jumped on the trampoline, and went to the lake - together. So, if not productive, those months with my brothers were very enjoyable and filled with many great memories.

Above all other activities, the thing we did together most was listen to music. While driving in the car, hanging out in the house, or while playing in the yard, music was our constant companion. Always there was some music. Usually it was just in the background, but often listening to music or watching music videos was an activity in itself.

One of the most memorable songs of my last six months, living at Mom's house, was a tune we called, "Jump Around." Actually, I don’t even know if that's the real name. And really, I don’t know for sure why this particular song was a favorite. Kris was the only one that liked that style of music. But we each got a turn being in charge of the remote control, and everyone else listened.

This was a catchy tune, it was different, it was new, and it was true to its name. This song made you want to move. Not only that, it came with its own dance. Now the dance and the song didn’t match at all, but both were interesting, and together they made a memorable combination.


The dance was simply a quick slouch on the beat, while raising one knee. While your body was moving downward, your hands sometimes also came up, out to the sides a little. Before the next beat, you quickly came back up to a standing position, switched legs, and then slouched again on the next beat, raising the other leg, and so on. Now this dance was only done during the chorus, which went something like, “We came to get down, we came to get down, jump around. (Jump, Jump, Jump) Jump around. (Jump, Jump, Jump) Jump up, jump up, and get down. (Jump, Jump, Jump) Jump around . . ." Every time the lead singer said “Jump around," the background singers would chant," Jump, jump, jump, . . ." Maybe the discrepancy between a song where they sing, “Jump around," and a video where the lead singer does this little slouchy marching dance, is part of what was so synergistic and appealing about the whole thing.

As odd as the whole song and dance thing sounds to me now, it all made sense back then. And even if it didn’t make sense, it was fun. We would sing this song, chant the jump chant, and do this dance together on a regular basis. It was to us, almost a brotherly bonding ritual of sorts. The song came on, we did the dance. If we were on the street and someone said, "I came to get down," someone else would take it up from there and we would all dance. If we were in the mall and one of us started the jump chant . . . well you get the idea.

Eventually those six months ended and I moved away from home. In time, we each left Mom's house and headed out on our own, down different paths all leading in different directions. Sometimes our relationships are strained by our different views on life. But we still get together occasionally for a meal, or an activity, or the celebration of a holiday or birthday. When we get together we remember times long past, we tease each other, and we laugh a lot.

One of these days together was at the freestyle aerials competition during the 2002 Winter Olympics. There were just three of us now. Kris's path had been cut short about two years earlier. His death really changed some of the dynamics of our family. In some ways we are closer, and in some ways our relationships are stretched like never before. In light of - or maybe in spite of - our differences, we still try to spend time together when we can. So when the once in a lifetime opportunity of experiencing the Olympics in our home town came, we decided to go together.

That morning we were among the very first on the hill. By calculating a series of factors, including: distance from the event, expected security checkpoint delays and other expected and unexpected delays, the official booklet said to plan four hours between leaving my house and the start time of the event, less than 35 miles away.

In the days leading up to the event, I had heard some of the morning traffic delays discussed on the radio were a little exaggerated. In fact, a couple of my friends were convinced the traffic jams pictured on the news every night were old video files of some unrelated traffic event, shown only in an attempt to get people to stay away or ride the bus to each venue. We decided to push it a little and left only 3 2 hours before the event started. 30 minutes later, we were at the huge temporary parking lot, built specifically for the Olympics. In another 30 minutes, we were stepping off a shuttle at the base of the hill.

Here we met with our first of only two real delays. A wall of ticket scalpers were at the shuttle stop, blocking the way as we exited the shuttle, trying to buy any ticket they could get their hands on. I marched past them, offering only a, "good morning," and a smile.

I was about 50 yards up the path to the lodge when Jake told me to hang on. He pointed down the hill to the group of scalpers; one of them was toe to toe with our youngest brother, Cody. They appeared to be negotiating a big deal. I walked back toward him and watched the action. After a few seconds the scalper walked away and Cody turned and started up the path. Just before he reached us, the scalper ran up to him again and asked him to stop. They squared off a second time, only a few inches from each other. The scalper looked intently up into my brother’s face. They were only a few feet away from us, but all I could hear of the hushed conversation was the scalper’s thick English accent. Finally they separated and we started again up the hill.

"What'd you get him up to?" Jake asked.

"He started at $100. I went to $150 and he turned and walked away. Then he ran back and said, 'Okay, $150.' I just wanted to see how high he would go."

“That’s almost four times what we paid,” I said.

No sooner were the words out of my mouth when Jake jokingly turned and took a few steps down the hill. He was our ride home, so fortunately we convinced him to stay.

Further up the hill, the next and last delay in getting up to the ski jump was at the security check, which hadn’t even opened yet. We stood at the beginning of an ever-growing line, telling jokes and jogging in place to stay warm. The sun wouldn’t even come up over the hill for another hour. On the side of this cold mountain, my brothers and I were glad for good company and many warm layers of clothing.

After a few minutes, the check point opened and we shuffled through, finally on our way up the last snow-covered slope, toward the massive 6 or 8 story tall, grandstand. This huge structure, large enough to hold thousands of spectators, had been erected for the viewing of the Olympic Slalom, Moguls and Freestyle Aerials competitions. It would be dismantled as soon as the Olympic flame had been snuffed out a week later. Even more impressive than the massive temporary structure, was the gigantic banner, picturing an upside down skier in mid jump, which draped over and covered the entire back of the grandstand.

Our tickets though, weren’t for the bleachers; we were assigned to the standing-only areas in front. We arrived to our section so early that we ended up in the front row. Here we had an unmatched view of the landing area, only a few feet in front of us. Almost straight up and to our left, were the six, huge launching ramps that would catapult the aerialists into the air above us.

After a while the section started filling up. Eventually the standing crowd was so packed together that there was scarcely a space between each of us. The shortest of my Mom's boys is over six feet tall. Standing shoulder to shoulder, we must have looked like some great three-headed wall of warm clothing. I kind of felt bad for the people standing behind us. That is, until I realized the action we came to see was almost all straight up, well above our heads.

Freestyle Aerials, aside from being an insane activity, is an unusual and interesting sport. Prior to each run, the athlete stands on the hill, high above the launch point. A huge built-up, curving ramp of hard-packed snow, waits below to toss him or her high into the air over the crowds. The athletes name and the jump they will be attempting are announced. In anticipation of the jump, loud music starts to play over the speakers. When ready, the jumper skis down the hill toward the huge ramp at full speed. The aerialist launches off the end of the ramp and flies through the air, doing any number of twists, back flips and somersaults. Then, most of the time anyway, the skier straightens out and lands, feet first onto a steep, snow-covered, slope. Quickly he or she regains control and stops before taking out a section of spectators in front of the bleachers. The entire jump lasts only a few, intense and exciting seconds.

As you might expect from such a unique sport, freestyle aerials also has a lingo of its own. Terms like single, double, lay, flip and tuck are all added together to create fantastic and amazing aerial maneuvers. With no training beforehand in the vocabulary of an aerialist, we were completely lost when the first few jumps were announced over the loudspeaker. "Full Double Full," or, "Rudy Half Full," meant nothing to us at first, and we had to concentrate to figure out what was being said.


Jake was the first of us to figure out what all this freestyle mumbo jumble meant and was now teaching Cody and me. After defining the phrases, he quizzed me by asking if I would translate the next jump. The announcer called out the next Olympiad and said she was attempting a Full, Full, Full. I translated this into plain English; "He said she would do three flips and three twists. That was an easy one." As we intently focused our gaze on the ramp above our heads, I began to say something else. But, at that very moment, the music for this jumper filled the air, and I stopped talking right in the middle of a word.

I turned and looked at my brothers. Cody was looking back at me. He knew I was thinking about Kris.

After an almost successful landing, Jake turned and asked what I had said. “This song reminds me of Kris," I answered. Cody nodded.

"It does?" Jake asked.

"Yeah, remember in Reno?"

"Oh, yeah," he said.

I started to sing along and Cody joined in. We sang and listened for a couple of seconds and then I started doing the dance. Slouch, with one knee up, and a quick straighten up for the next beat, slouch, and so on. This was a bit much for my brothers, so I stopped after a few slouches. We all stood and just listened - and remembered.

A few days later, when I told my mom about this part of the day, she got a little choked up and asked me if I thought Kris was up there with us. I thought for a second before I answered, "No." I paused a second or two and then added, "but we sure thought about him a lot."


On the front row that day, my brothers and I, along with about 15,000 other spectators, stood and watched a piece of history unfold. All of us, faces pointed up into the sky, waiting for a whoosh of snow, and a skier, hurtling from off the top of a giant ramp. After flying, twisting, flipping though the air, the jumper would land, their skis slapping down on the packed snow. More often than not, they would pull off this landing and slide smoothly down the hill toward the grandstand. At the bottom of the hill, they would make a wide, sweeping turn, a wall of snow flying up from under their skis, their arms held high, triumphantly in the air. Then, after a perfectly timed stop in front of the television cameras, the ten second run would end with cheers and applause from the crowd and big smile on the face of the athlete.


I heard an old saying recently that says no one is ever really dead as long as someone is thinking about them. I don’t hear that old jump-around song very often these days, maybe once a year or so. But, before that day had ended, this song was played two additional times over the loud speaker, more than any other song blasted into the air above us. In fact, I don’t remember another song that was even played twice, let alone three times.

More than any other song, this one reminds me of good times with my brothers. More than any other song, this one reminds me of Kris, who introduced us to it and taught us the dance.

Who knows, maybe Kris was up there that day, with us on the mountain. But, even if he wasn’t there in person, he was definitely there in our collected remembrance of him. For a few short hours, that cold, February morning, Kris was alive and well, even if only in the thoughts and memories of his brothers.

Photo of the Day - Our New Computer Desk

This desk is what I did all day today.  Actually it's what I've done three of the last four Saturdays.  It's done now though, and I'm sitting at it this minute, typing away.  Painting will have to wait for warmer weather.

I just realized I should have put the doors back on for this photo.  It turned out pretty good for being built entirely of scrap materials.  Except for two sets of drawer guides and a drill bit, I didn't spend any money on materials. 

Almost all of the lumber has a history.  I used to build quite a bit of furniture for family, friends and clients, but haven't built anything worth noting for about two years.  But we needed a new desk to keep us better organized so I cleaned out the shop and went to work. 

Because all the lumber was left over from other projects, some of it has a history worth noting:
 - The frame is old reclaimed pine I got from my neighbor, Jim, across the street.  He salvaged it years ago from an old Boy Scout office and gave it a few years ago to me. 
- The white parts are left over melamine from two winters ago when I built bookcases downstairs.
- The base trim is left over from when I changed all the base in the house about five years ago.
- Beadboard on the sides and in the doors was left over from a wainscot in my daughter's room, which was finished with the rest of the basement about 18 months ago in anticipation of a new baby.  
- The front edge of the keyboard drawer was salvaged maple from a shop where a friend works.
- Parts of the cabinet and door frames are alder, left over from the trim I made for my uncle and aunt when they remodeled their house several years ago. 
- Last, but most meaningful, is part of a large, thick, glued up spruce panel.  I glued the boards together about 12 years ago, intending to use them in a headboard for my brother Kris. 

I never built the headboard.  Later, he needed a table for his kitchen.  But, this too, I never got around to making for him.  When he died, I hung onto the piece of wood, and always considered it his.  I never could, until now, bring myself to use it in a project.  Even included as part of a desk for my family, it took me a long time to finally break down and use it. 

While I stood and tried to decide if I was going to finally use this particular board or not, I brushed off years of accumulated sawdust, and thought about my little brother.  I stared a long time at the old board, and talked out loud, in reverent tones to it, as if it were actually Kris with me, and not just a piece of wood.  

Clearly for the First Time

Tonight I was moon walking in the kitchen. Jake and I taught ourselves how to do it on the slippery vinyl floor in the bedroom he and Kris shared. We lived in a modern log cabin, about three miles outside of a tiny little rural community in South Central Idaho. I don’t know why his room had vinyl flooring. It also had a whole wall of shelves, or pigeon holes, as we called them. I hadn’t ever considered it before, but I guess it was originally intended as a storage room.

It’s been over 25 years since we moved from there. In all that time, I have only been back twice. Both times were within a year or two of leaving there and both times I was just driving through on my way to somewhere else.

Actually, one of those times we did stop for a little while. It was about a year after we had moved away. My dad had picked Jake and me up for the summer. We wanted to see the old house. While we were there we dug up the box of hidden treasures we left for the next family to find.

Before we had moved away, we carefully hid this box in the rocky area on the sloping hill below the house. This had been our favorite play area in both summer and winter. Here we had spent many hours playing together.

To help the new residents find the box, I drew a treasure map of sorts and crammed it between two logs in the outside wall of my bedroom. I guess no one ever found the map.

After taking a look at the stuff: a few small toys and an old tennis ball, we buried the box back where we found it. I haven’t been back since.

After we moved away, I quickly lost track of anyone from there that meant anything to me. I’ve meant to go back many times, but just never did. I guess I never had a good enough reason.

I’ve thought a lot about our time there. Cody was born there. Kris was just a little kid. I think he was in Kindergarten and first grade. Lately I’ve thought seriously about going back for a visit. I don’t think I would look anybody up. I was just a kid myself, and it was a long time ago. I don’t suspect many people would even remember me. Mostly I would want to see a few of the old haunts from those years: the store where my mom’s second husband worked, the Chinese restaurant where my friend, Herman, and his family worked and also lived in a small apartment in the back, and the church where we would go every Sunday for meetings and every Tuesday evening for youth activities.

The old Junior High School, where I spent so much of my time as a young teenager, is gone now. I only know that because of the street level pictures on Google Maps. As you look right and click the cursor to the northwest along Locust Street, all you see is a barren spot of ground where the old building once was. This is where learned I loved making art, where I learned about writing, where I took photos as the yearbook photographer, and where I first got the nerve to ask someone to be my girlfriend.

I would also like to drive down the main drag, Broadway Avenue, as it makes it’s long, angled run from one corner of town to the other. The first time I rode in a car down this stretch of road, boasting the one and only stop light in the entire town, I dropped something on the floor just as we passed the downtown area. I found it and looked up just as my mother asked what we thought of downtown. In those few seconds of rummaging on the floor of our car, I had completely missed all of it.

The next time I drive that road, I will pay more attention through the middle of town. I will look especially hard for the small optometrist’s office where, for the first time in my life, I saw clearly. I vividly remember putting on my glasses for the very first time and looking out into the street through the large glass windows on the front of the doctor’s office. There, on the far side of the street, I could clearly make out the details of the Ropers clothing store. Later that night, I stood outside my house in the dark and marveled at the billions of stars in the sky above. Before that day, I didn’t know I couldn’t see.

But even with my new glasses I couldn’t see what damage I was causing to my second brother, Kris. Something changed between him and me in this little town. At first things were fine. He was a great little kid and we all got along great. In no time at all that was all gone.

Maybe part of it was that he was still a little kid and I was suddenly in my early teens. Maybe part of it was that I was jealous of him and the relationship he had with his dad.

I was the hard-to-understand-step-child, while Kris was his dad’s “Little Buddy.” He was “Little Skiing Buddy, Little Boating Buddy, Little Work Buddy,” and more. I admit I resented it. And, sadly, Kris, who deserved it least, was the one that felt the brunt of my resentment and frustration. Not that I ever took it out on him physically; that would have been too dangerous for me. No, I took it out on him in far worse, far more damaging ways; Kris was my target for alienation, for taunting, and at times, even for ridicule. For many reasons, real and imagined, I hated his dad, and Kris paid the price for that hatred.

Though we eventually overcame our differences, Kris and I never really became the friends I wish we could have been. We never had enough time to grow up and get to know each other as adults. I never got the chance to apologize to him for all the hurt I had caused him.

It was ten years ago today that he took his last breath. In the days after Kris died, I spent many hours on my knees, begging to be forgiven for the damage I caused to my brother, damage that changed the very course of his life, damage that indirectly lead to his untimely death.

There are so many analogies in this little, loaded essay that might be applied to my relationship with this brother. In fact, each analogy could probably also be applied, respectively, to the relationships I have with each of my brothers, and perhaps even my sons. But on this anniversary, ten long years since he left us, each analogy seems to me only a trite cliché that reaches for something that can never be had between Kris and I, and, perhaps something that does not need to be had.

I believe Kris has forgiven me. I believe too, that God has forgiven me as well. But, I also know that if was to alienate another person in the way I did Kris, I would never be able to forgive myself again. Now is the time to forever close the circle of anger, frustration and hatred that started in this small town in Idaho. Now is the time to begin a new tradition, based on love, caring, and selfless acceptance of the ideas, actions and individualities of the persons in my life today.

Someday I will go back to the small town where I first lost my brother Kris. I would like to again explore the rocky hills and open fields where we played together as children. But, in reality, I know already what I’ll find there, buried in the soil of my memories; little tidbits to guide me through my life. And from those treasured remembrances, I will draw lessons, which I hope always will help me understand my life more clearly.