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.
