Don't Believe the Truth, Part 2

A day late and a dollar short. Actually, many, many dollars short. I’ve been traveling and couldn’t quite squeeze the post in on time. The youngest and I took a long weekend and flew down to Orlando. As a testament to my relative health and well-being, we hit four different theme parks in three days (five if you count the two sides of Universal as separate parks), and also hit Disney Downtown for dinner and a movie (Angry Birds: don’t bother). A brief assessment:

Legoland: An awful, horrid place where customer service went to die. I managed to shield the boy from most of it, but it sparked me to boycott: I will buy Lego products no more, forever.
 
Wizarding World of Harry Potter: Hogsmeade & Daigon Alley are outstanding in every way.
 
SeaWorld: Was the least anticipated stop on the trip, but an unexpected treat. The boy and I both loved it- even after getting soaked in cold salt water by killer whales.
 
The Magic Kingdom: We made a last second decision to head over for the late afternoon/night after SeaWorld. It was a rather bland time as we were both knackered. The light parade and fireworks, however, were a nice exclamation point to a remarkable three days.
 

 Despite the grueling itinerary, eating (relatively) poor food, and driving (a smidge) too fast in our shiny convertible rental, we managed to make it through unscathed. Not too shabby for a man with stage-four cancer and a second grader. 

When we left off last week (or was it the week before?), Stroud had just been removed from the Design Studio, I had just resigned in protest, our first child had just been born, and I was enjoying what proved to be some of the happiest days of my life.

Things were indeed great- it was just D, the little guy, and I. We played, we took naps, we ate, we rocked in the rocking chair, we walked around the city, and we slept through the nights (for the most part). That blissful period lasted for a few months. We both love what we do, so it’s tough to say that we enjoyed being away from our work, but it was nice to take an extended break. Neither of us come from money, however, and we eventually had to return to work- both for love of what we do, and to keep food on the table.

D slipped back into her job and picked up where she left off. Of course, it probably wasn’t easy to do after giving birth and having the new baby in day care, but she handled everything with grace and made it look easy. I, however, didn’t have a job to return to. I work in a niche field: not exactly architecture, not really planning, and not quite landscape architecture. The urban designer has to find a way to squeeze in. I had no job and no prospect for finding a job with a traditional employer. The Design Studio was really the only place in Chattanooga for urban designers to find work- and I had just quit them.

One of the last projects I worked on at the old Design Studio was the Downtown Plan- a massive and tortuous effort that resulted in a very good product. In addition to being one of the formative projects in my career, this was also how I met Jim Kennedy*. We hired Jim as a consultant to help us through the process. He was great- consummate professional, masterful communicator, and renaissance thinker. Jim and I hit it off and worked well together. During the process, he and I flirted a bit over me jumping ship and joining him in the consulting world, but it wasn’t very serious, and nothing came of it at the time. Shortly afterwards came the firings, resignations, and births I’ve already outlined.

So there we were in the summer of 2005, Stroud and I unemployed, and our friend Kennedy the lone principal in his firm (but with the formidable assistance of Ms. Puckett). The three of us had a couple of chats about joining forces, and things seemed to be headed in that general direction. When Jim mentioned that Ann Coulter might join us, however, things took off. Shortly thereafter, the four of us made it official and joined forces to create Kennedy, Coulter, Rushing & Watson (link). I was clearly out of my depth in comparison to the others. Beyond being green, I was also quite naïve as it relates to a great many things (which actually continues to be the case today). They managed to deal with that and look past my flaws as we put the firm together.

Nice haircut, sheesh.

Our angle was that through our broad and diverse skill set we would be able to provide clients with a full range of services from the initial visioning exercises through to actual project implementation. Some potential clients bought in to the concept- others choose to go with specialists. For the clients that we won, we did some  really  good  work. For several years we managed to keep the lights on and our families fed. Another Watson (no relation), joined us along the way and added that many more arrows to our quiver. In practice, however, our diverse skill sets meant that we often ended up working off in our separate areas of expertise. After a half dozen years, Stroud was eyeing Maine more frequently, I was off in my design / development phase, Ann was rocking the strategic planning scene, and Mr. K got an offer to return to academia. We decided to call it a day, had a big group hug, and finished that chapter of our professional lives. It was a good run, but it was also a good time for each of us to move on. It’s impossible to overstate the impact those three people had on me in those years.

While our skills sets were the least alike, I probably learned the most from Kennedy during the KCRW days. Observing him in his daily dealings with clients, while facilitating discussions, or just talking on the phone, provided invaluable lessons on how to be a professional. My ability to go on and make a living as a consultant and provide for my family is a direct result of watching Jim operate. I am forever grateful.

Ann was running RPA when I started there fresh out of graduate school and we’ve worked together in various capacities ever since. In fact, we’ve worked together more since we left KCRW than we did while we were officially partners. Our collaborations always produce outstanding work (if I may say so) and are always great fun (witness the Urban Design Challenge). Everything I know about integrating design processes of city building into the humane framework of how it impacts people, and why it matters came from Ann.

I’ve worked with Stroud my entire career- his philosophy and influence are essentially embedded in my DNA. I’m not a clone and we don’t always see things alike, but his influence is evident, undeniable, and runs deep. It doesn’t appear that I’ll get my chance to follow in his footsteps, but in a sense I’m relieved. There will ever only be one Stroud.

From a personal standpoint, it’s beyond impossible to adequately express what those three mean to me. I love each of them with everything in me. These are three very unique and special relationships that I’m fortunate to be a part of. They’re very different people, and they each connect with a different part of my personality. Before my diagnosis, they were the best friends a man could ask for- caring, considerate, and supportive. After the diagnosis, each of them has been an exceptional example of grace and love. (Of course, this will come as no surprise to any of you that know them.) This also provides an insight into why “work” has never been work for me.

I’ve spent my career doing fulfilling projects with people I love and who love me back. Who else is that lucky? I’m asked on an almost daily basis why I continue to work during my limited time left on the planet. It’s because I can’t imagine doing anything else. My work over the last year has been focused on respecting, protecting, and building upon the body of work of a friend and mentor. This is not work at all- it’s a privilege and a pleasure.

Unfortunately, I’ve kind of fumbled my way through 1,500 words trying to express my emotions for my friends. I wish I was capable of doing so in a more clear and concise way. (Perhaps they should have taught me writing instead of all those other life lessons). In any event, if you happen to see any of those three, please be sure to give them a big hug and tell them Christian loves them.

*Mr. K is also responsible for my wife and I meeting. When we arrived in Chattanooga, Jim was the head of the Chamber, which ran a program called Chattanooga Insight, and that friends is where the magic happened.

Intermission

Ok, I was supposed to finish the story I started last week. Unfortunately, and despite a valiant last second effort, I couldn't do it justice. Therefore, the conclusion will come next week...assuming I can find the time that I couldn't find this week. In the meantime, how about a very short story from the Rushing house.

Last weekend our boys went to a birthday party at a skating rink (just like Looney’s of the 80’s for my Montgomery readers). After skating for a while, the kids moved on to the arcade. My youngest went on a heater and won 537 tickets playing various games. He then redeemed 500 of those tickets on a “diamond" ring from the prize wall. When he got home, he stopped, dropped to one knee and proceeded to propose to my wife (right in front of me!) We later found that this simply an elaborate scheme to earn extra screen time, but it was sweet and entertaining anyway (if not a direct challenge to my status as Head of Household). I've got to keep an eye on that one.

I sensed something was afoot and had camera phone at the ready.

Health Update: I have a rare, painful, and aggressive cancer- aside from that I'm good. Feeling good, looking good, working hard. My next scan is sometime next month. Aside from that, there's not much to update.

This week Stone Roses released their first new single in a million years- it's pretty good. While they may have patched things up, I don't believe they'll ever reach this level  or this level again (but admittedly, that's a terribly high standard).

Don't Believe the Truth

Hey ya'll, long time, no see! It's nice to be back after some time off. Since that last post, life has been...interesting. For the past six weeks or so, I've felt as good as I have since this whole thing began. Obviously, things are different- I have medicine to take, a chemo appointment every couple of weeks, and I get tired from time to time. I've somehow arrived at a point, however, where life's other issues are a bigger deal for me than the tumor. Just a couple of months ago, the tumor and my mortality were such big issues that every other problem in life was a laughable, trivial detail. Of late, cancer and death aren't the only things on my mind.

I’m in a weird place. In many ways, life was easier when we thought the end was imminent. I was mentally prepared for what was to come and felt comfortable with it all. Now that we seem to have gained some time, I’ve slipped back into a “normal” mindset. I feel so good in fact, that life's petty little things are setting me off again. (I swear I must be wearing a sign that reads “Please freakin’ argue with me”) I was above it all for a while, I let all of the trivial B.S. slide- I'm back in the trenches now though. This is good and bad. At some point in the future- this year, next year, five years from now, I’m going to have to go through that preparation process again. It was easy enough the first time, hopefully the second time ‘round will be as well. In the mean time, I’m going to try to stop sweating the small stuff.

On another note, I try not to brag, and I am surely tempting fate and running the risk of jinxing myself, but I feel compelled to point out that I’m owning chemo. My first treatment was fifty-five (55) weeks ago, and over the course of the year the doctors have pumped me full of nasty business: gemcitabine, cisplatin, leucovorin, fluorouracil, and irinotecan that I can remember off the top of my head. I’ve also taken on a week of radiation, and the start of an immunotherapy drug trial. I’ve made my way through all of that like a champ- didn’t lose any hair that wasn’t leaving anyway, conquered the nausea, fought through the fatigue, and for the most part have not let it affect the way I want to live life. No point here, just a bit of hubris and braggadocio on a Monday morning whilst in the chair for another dose. Enough of that though, on to another story…

55 weeks and counting...

Eleven years ago to the month, Spring of 2005, D and I had been married for a couple of years and were living in our little bungalow in North Chattanooga. She was eight months pregnant with our first child, and was on maternity leave. I was working for my mentor, friend, and foil Stroud Watson at the Design Studio. The Studio was collectively taking a deep breath after having just finished two massive efforts: I had just put the wraps on the Downtown Plan, and our role in the 21st Century Waterfront project had just ended. In local politics, Ron Littlefield had just survived a run-off election with my mentor and friend Ann Coulter and was starting his controversial spell as mayor of our fair city. It should not have come as a shock that the day after he was elected, he made good on his campaign rhetoric and canned Stroud. When Stroud got the sack, I resigned. On my way out the door of the DRC, I pulled a McArthur and vowed that I shall return. (Well, maybe it wasn't that dramatic, but I was enough of an acolyte of Stroud and fanboy of the Studio that I took it hard, and committed myself to working toward bringing the Studio back to prominence in whatever way I could.)

I was a thirty-two year old man married to a woman who was thirty-two weeks pregnant- resigning should have been a tough decision, but wasn’t. Quitting my job at the expense of 33% of the family income at a time when our expenses were about to skyrocket wasn't very wise from a financial standpoint. The decision was easy, however, as it was simply the right thing to do. As a matter of principle I could not go back to work for those folks. Additionally, without Stroud’s leadership and with a clear indication that downtown was not going to be a City priority, the work itself didn’t seem very appealing. On top of all of that, I’m a sucker for dramatic, potentially self-destructive, grandstanding, principle-grounded gestures. (I wonder if I’ll ever get another shot at one of those.)

As April turned to May, I got to be by D’s side every minute of every hour of every day of the last month of her pregnancy. We painted rooms, I built a crib, we ate sweet and salty food, and we picked out hip clothes and mod accessories for our little guy. We didn’t have a care in the world (save for the persistent and terrifying question of whether or not we were capable of raising a new human being). Those were some of the happiest days of my life.

One Sunday afternoon a couple of weeks before our due date, D (understandably) needed some space, so I went off to meet some friends for a cigar and a drink at Big River. I returned home in the early evening, kissed her goodnight and hit the sack. In middle of the night I woke to find D sitting up, wide awake and in a bit of a panic: “My water broke!” Whoa, go time! I grabbed the pre-packed overnight bag, ushered her to the car, and hauled ass to Women’s East. Bloc Party's Banquet provided the soundtrack for our cross-city, midnight flight.

On that day in late May I welcomed my firstborn into the world. D labored twenty hours or so before we had to go the caesarean route. I was in the delivery room for the duration, and cried for most of it.  Our little guy was long and skinny like his dad, and a stunning beauty like his mom. He was (and is) nothing short of perfect.

When things died down the next day, I went to the liquor store and picked up a bottle of Dom and a nice port. The plan was/is to cellar them and give them to him as a gift on a special date in the future. I’m not quite sure when that will be: When he turns twenty-one? When he gets engaged? When he gets married? I don’t really know, but I suspect those bottles will take on an added significance now. I hope they bring him a fraction of happiness that he brought us on that day, and every day since.

In many ways, that marked the beginning of me. I can’t conceive of myself outside of my identity as father. What I am is due to him and his brother- that's a story for another time.

My self-image is also largely tied to my professional passions, and this period also marks a beginning of that part of me- that's a story to be continued next week...

What a coincidence that my favorite band, Oasis (and leader Noel Gallagher), released Don't Believe the Truth, on the day my first son was born. These are a couple of my favorite songs off that one: Turn Up the Sun, The Meaning of Soul, Eyeball Tickler, and the one that reminds me the most of that special time with my little guy is Let There Be Love:

Come on baby blue
Shake up your tired eyes
The world is waiting for you
May all your dreaming fill the empty sky

But if it makes you happy
Keep on clapping
Just remember I'll be by your side
And if you don't let go, it's gonna pass you by

A Weekend in Trinidad, Part 3

This week, our tale (mercifully) comes to an end. As you've probably suspected, you're not the target audience for my trip down memory lane. This is another of the numerous little breadcrumb trails I'm leaving for the boys. I do hope, however, that you've found it to be entertaining in some small way.

For whatever reason, I've been struggling through pretty much every aspect of life over the past week or so (boo hoo- I suspect it's the chemo). In any event, I may use that as an excuse to take some time off from the ol' blog. If I miss next week, it doesn't necessarily mean I'm dead- don't worry.  In the meantime, the conclusion of the Trinidad story: 

As I woke on Sunday morning, the recognition that I was likely in a great deal of trouble emerged through my dreamy remembrance of what was otherwise a great Saturday. During our breakfast and team meeting, however, everything seemed normal. I didn’t get called out, pulled aside or otherwise singled out for my transgression. I was hopeful that this might just blow over. We headed back to the gym for our next game. If we won, we would advance through the losers bracket, but another loss meant we were going home. In the locker room before the game, coach reiterated his points and set the starting lineup…with the noticeable absence of one C.Rushing.

My family, who had stayed at home for my brothers’ games the previous day, had made the several hour trek early that morning see this last day of the tournament. From my perch on the bench, I saw them sitting in the stands. They gave me a curious look when they saw I wasn’t starting, and I returned it with the universal teenage “I dunno” shrug and pretended to focus on the game.

It sucked to not start, but I understood that this was the price I had to pay. The team played hard, and the game was close. As the minutes ticked by, I itched to get into the game and make my mark, but before I knew it, the first quarter ended. During the break I started stretching in anticipation of unleashing myself, but was not included in the five he sent out to start the second quarter. The game continued nip and tuck, and the itch to play became a burn. My teammates were staring me down, wondering why I wasn’t in the mix. The game flew by until halftime arrived.

We retreated to the locker room, Coach gave his halftime talk, and made no mention of me. As we walked back onto the floor, Brillhart brushed by and said “We really could have used you today.” The implication of what he said immediately sank in, and my knee-jerk reply of “No shit you could use me, I’m the best player you’ve got”, sealed the deal. I got to ride the pine for the rest of the game. I did my best to avoid looking at my family, who put in the time, effort and expense to come see me play- only to not see me play. I spent the game, a petulant child sat on the end of the bench “ignoring” everything. The game that had been close throughout finished with us losing by a single point. It was a bad scene afterwards- everyone was pissed off. Coach was mad that we lost, and mad at me for making him have to bench me. My teammates were mad that we lost, mad at me for getting benched and mad at coach for benching me. My folks were mad at me for breaking the rules, and creating a situation where they invested time and resources in me and didn’t get to see me play. I was mad that we lost, mad at coach for benching me, mad at my teammates for being mad at me, mad at myself for getting caught and mad at my folks just because.

The bus ride back to Moffat was the longest ride ever. When we arrived, and as we were waiting for our parents to pick us up, I told coach what I thought of his decision and quit the team. That quit didn’t last very long, maybe a couple of days- coach needed me and I needed basketball, so we each swallowed our pride and put things back together. The rest of the season was unremarkable. I was very inconsistent- games of brilliance followed by supremely lackluster efforts. Our young team didn’t accomplish much either, we finished the season a game below .500, and lost a heart-breaker in the first round of the playoffs to La Veta.

The story, however, doesn’t end in the Moffat Consolidated School parking lot. Mah-rya and I had exchanged home phone numbers before we departed. Yes, rather cut my losses and politely go my own way, I decided to double down on my mistake and keep the doomed relationship alive. In my mind, I was being unjustly persecuted by authority figures and of course this girl I barely knew was the only one who could truly understand me. I called her. And we talked. And I called her again. And we talked some more. And all was well with the world. Until the phone bill came.

Livid is as good a word as any, but it doesn’t truly capture the anger of my folks when that particular phone bill arrived. A full month of hours-long, peak-hour, long-distance phone calls. I was immediately put on double-secret probation, or whatever grounding mechanism they used at the time. I was stripped of all telephone privileges, and they forbid me from having any further contact whatsoever with Mah-rya.

Again, rather than cut my losses and politely go my own way, I doubled down on my double down. Being the clever young man that I am, decided that Mah-rya and I would continue our illicit long-distance relationship via U.S. mail. One of my friends at school let me use his post office box in Moffat to receive letters. Every day at lunch, I would walk the couple hundred yards from school to the tiny post office to check for mail. We wrote each other for months in what was a slow-motion relationship played out on perfume and cologne soaked loose-leaf notebook paper. It’s tough to have an actual argument via snail mail- but we managed. I remember one particular letter that arrived replete with mascara-stained teardrops strategically placed on the page. The nice letters out-numbered the bad, but they weren’t nearly as interesting.

In the end, our relationship came to an abrupt conclusion that summer. I moved back to Montgomery, lost access to the free post office box, and started another chapter in my life. I kept those letters for years, but they were eventually lost- probably when my folks moved. (Although my inner fifteen-year-old suspects that my mom found them and threw them away out of spite.)

Oh, the life lessons I should have learned that weekend. Among them: 1) Sometimes the bad decisions we make don’t just hurt us- they effect others as well, 2) don’t let the pursuit of young ladies get you in trouble*, 3) bad things happen when you put yourself before the team, 4) disobeying authority figures (even when they are wrong) brings consequences, 5) it never hurts to consult a map, and 6) if you break the rules, don’t get caught…oops, I’ve said too much. I’m sure I’m missing a few, and the fact that the ones I remember didn’t sink in too deeply speaks to my level of maturity at fifteen.

Fortunately, that was as bad as I ever got while still living at home. I rebounded to become a pleasant and well-behaved teenager. My college years, however, were something else. But that’s another story for another time.

*Unfortunately, I ended up learning this lesson the hard way...several times.

A Weekend in Trinidad, Part 2

Before we dive back into our story, I offer a health update. I had a scan this week and met with the Doctor to discuss it. I've had some bouts with pain lately, so I was nervous about what the scan might reveal. The good news is that the tumor has shrunk a bit. The bad news is that the pain may be caused by my duodenal stent. If this is the case, things become complicated. From a big picture standpoint, the Doctor said in January that he was hoping to get me through Spring. After this latest scan, we think we've bought a few more months. As I've mentioned before, however, I don't spend a ton of time thinking in those terms- I'm just doing what I can while I can.

While that bastard tumor will probably get me in the end, it appears that I've bought myself some time and I fully intended to take advantage it. I'm halfway through my Spring bucket list, and I'll probably realize the remainder of those events. I'm in the process of drafting a new list, and I'll be sure to share it when it's complete (and if you have any ideas for something cool to do or see before I check out, please don't hesitate to suggest them).

We now return to our tale. If you missed the first part of the story, you'll want to go here to get caught up. With no further ado, let's return to our story…

Having overcoming my confusion between Trinidad and Trinidad, I was able to settle down and put up a solid first game of the tournament. Afterwards, we had a brief team meeting, boarded the bus and headed off to the hotel. Walking into the hotel, I felt like a cowboy in a western movie walking through the swinging doors of a rowdy saloon. Boisterous teenagers from across Colorado and New Mexico were bouncing around the lobby in various stages of undress, headed to or from the numerous hot tubs and pools. I have a vague recollection of kids swinging from balconies and chandeliers. We dropped our bags off in our room and reconvened for a team meal. We scarfed our food down in hopes of finishing in time to join the revelry, but curfew came quickly. We were relegated to our rooms and a night’s sleep.

Saturday morning brought more basketball. After the confusion of the day before, I had regained my focus (as much as a fifteen year old can focus).  The details are lost in the mists of time, but I had a hell of a game. I don’t think I had enough assists or blocks for a triple double, but I dropped forty-something points and had double-digit rebounds. As proud as I was of my performance, at that moment I was less interested in basketball than I was going back to the hotel to see and be seen.

This picture isn't from the tourney, but is from that year.
It was the first time I ever played against a 7-footer (32).
Unlike my mates, I wasn't afraid of him...although he
had a perm, and that was mildly frightening.

 When we got back, we were delighted to find that it was no less hopping than it was the night before. Being the stud that had just dropped arguably the most impressive performance of the tournament, I was keen to parade myself around in front of my peers. The problem was that I was shy, introverted, and lacked social skills. Lack of game notwithstanding, my teammates and I donned our swimwear and quickly made our way down to the hot tubs. We were lucky enough to squeeze into a spot in a tub with some cheerleaders from a school near Denver.

We spent the next few hours chatting up the girls and humblebragging about our basketball abilities. Over the course of the afternoon I ended up spending a lot of time talking to a cheerleader named Mah-rya. She was cute as could be, and seemed to be interested in what I had to say. Eventually, we were forced to abandon our determined (yet feeble) attempts to impress the girls in order to attend a team meeting and dinner. I summoned the courage to ask Mah-rya for her phone number and pledged to call her later that night once we got back to our rooms (of course, later in life I would strictly adhere to a two day minimum technique).

Those were the longest and most boring meetings in the history of long, boring meetings. When we finally finished, I streaked to the room to call Mah-rya. We chatted for a bit, then decided it would be a good idea to sneak out and meet one another. So, in violation of curfew and good sense, I bid my roomies goodbye and crept down the hallway to the back stairs and outside.

As I made my way toward the picnic table where we agreed to meet, I was as nervous as I had ever been. I was literally shaking- in part because it’s cold in Colorado, and partly in anticipation of what might happen with the random girl I just met. The details are hazy, but I remember awkward small talk (I was much better on the phone), and awkward hugging (she's short and I’m tall). I eventually overcame my shivering and shyness and shared what was, given the circumstances, a very nice kiss. Afterward, we shared a slightly less awkward hug, then gave in to time and the cold and took separate paths back to our rooms. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the story of my first kiss.

I was on top of the world, I had a couple of studly displays of basketball under my belt, was virtual lock for all-tournament honors, and was high on the adrenaline of my first kiss. It was now well after curfew, and I set about carefully sneaking my way back to the room. Unfortunately, the dumb-ass, fifteen-year-old version of myself forgot to prop open the door to the back stairs and had locked myself out. As a consequence, I was forced to take a more direct route. The massive main lobby, full of lingering adults, now stood between me and the successful completion of my illicit foray. I took a deep breath, hoped for the best, and started stepping. The drama was short-lived, the first person I made eye contact with was Brillhart. He gave me some kind of look, just to let me know. I gave him some kind of look, because I was busted. I knew I messed up and I knew there would be fallout, but I didn't care. (We all know that the motto of the fifteen-year-old is "I don't care".)  Had I known what was in store, however, I may have have adopted a different stance.

Next week, consequences and repercussions…

The soundtrack of this portion of the story, consists of a couple of  tunes that were in heavy rotation during my first romantic foray: this classic by Levert, and an 80’s staple by Taylor Dane.

A Weekend in Trinidad

There is nothing quite like spring break on the gulf coast to remind one of just how annoying 15-year-old boys can be. A week of witnessing loud, obnoxious, awkwardness took me back to when I was an annoying fifteen-year-old. So this week, instead of another tired cancer post, I’m going to tell ya’ll a story from my youth. It will take a while to tell, so I’ll roll it out over the next few weeks.

I’m quite proud to be from God’s own Alabama, and this is no secret. What you may not know is that I actually spent my first two years of high school in Colorado. When my mom and stepfather wed, they stepped away from the ballet world to pursue an opportunity out west. Our first year there was spent in the mountains outside of Colorado Springs, the next year we moved to southern Colorado. The town of Crestone, at the base of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, was home to 73 souls. Kids from Crestone take a thirteen-mile bus ride to go to school in nearby Moffat.

Crestone is a stunningly beautiful place.

I was a freshly minted 15-year-old when I started tenth grade at the Moffat Consolidated School (k-12 enrollment of about a hundred). At the time, basketball was life. In fact, basketball was more important than life. I thought about the game every waking moment. It so happens that basketball was the sport in this little corner of the world, and the primary form of entertainment for the community. Being in the middle of nowhere, in a pre-internet world, there wasn’t much to do there except for farm. The student-athletes were celebrities of sorts, and of course I soaked that up. Both in the summer before and after this year, I experienced “growth spurts” when my game markedly improved. I was aware of my newfound capabilities, and let this go to my head.

Thanks to chemo I'm almost as skinny now as I was then.

The social scene for the new guy in a high school can be difficult, but the kids there loved basketball, and there were relatively few of them, so settling in was fairly easy. As I got to meet my peers on and off the court, it became apparent that even though I was only a sophomore, I was the alpha baller. Early in the year, every conversation eventually turned to basketball, and the focus was the season-opening tournament in Trinidad. Trinidad! The beautiful island nation in the Bahamas? How in the world is a middling team from a tiny town in the middle of nowhere Colorado going to Trinidad? And how in the world are we paying for it? When I asked who was responsible for the trip, the responses I got were weird looks and the answer “The school, of course.” I knew that due their size and the monetary poverty of the area, the school received significant amounts of federal and state assistance for facilities, food, and apparently athletics. I guessed that explained things. It sounded fishy to me, but who was I to complain.

The run up to the trip was a bit rocky. I can be an ass from time to time, and this particular quality was magnified in the 15-year-old version of myself. Despite my talents, I was on the outs with our coach- who I thought to be a poor one. (This was mostly true.) I don’t know that I ever told coach Brillhart that, but I suspect he knew what I thought. I don’t know if my opinion was shaped by his ineptitude or by the fact that he was an authority figure trying to throttle my adolescent awesomeness. In either event, we settled into an uneasy détente- I needed him because I wanted to play, and he needed me because he had a limited pool of talent.

This about sums it up. The only picture of Brillhart
on the basketball page of the yearbook. (He's probably a
really good guy, but I'm afraid he never had a chance with us.)

One particular on-court interaction stands out in my memory. During one practice Brillhart wanted to move me from the post to a swing position (this was a fine coaching move, although neither one of us recognized that the two guard was my natural position). At the time, however, kids couldn’t guard me in the post, and with a defender on my back I was unstoppable. (This was mostly true.) Rather than seeing his move as an effort to help the team succeed by spacing the floor, I saw it as a move to stop me from dominating practice. I did what he asked, but in the half-assed, sulking posture that only a teenager can affect. Between plays, Zack (one of my lesser teammates) suggested that I suck it up and play for the team. I told Zack in graphic terms what I thought he should do to himself. That was the first time I got kicked out of practice.

In hindsight, I think we can agree that of my mother’s three boys, I was by far the easiest teenager. Unfortunately for me, I was first, so I got hammered for things that my brothers easily got away with. To wit, my mother’s world nearly came crashing down over something as simple as a haircut. At the time, I was sporting a flattop- a conservative look, harkening back to the clean-cut ‘50’s. In the 80’s, however, athletes were embellishing their flattops by shaving lines or other shapes in the sides. One day, while watching a game on TV I saw that a player had shaved his uniform number into the side of his head. Eureka! The next day at school, I asked one of my teammates (who inexplicably had hair clippers at school) to help me out. Rather than simply copy the guy on TV, I thought it would be awesome to shave the entire side of my head except for my number 21 (leaving the flattop intact). My mother was mortified, I’m pretty sure she cried. It might have been the end of the world. I don’t recall the serious part of my punishment, but one of the conditions was that I had to wear a toboggan around the house until it grew back.

Way ahead of my time. Tying bows in '87.

Such was life as the remaining warmth of fall faded, and the time for our trip to Trinidad arrived. I had no clue how long it would take to get there, but I was happy to relax and go along for the ride. As the team boarded the bus to the cheers of our parents, the excitement was palpable. I was the proud occupant of the cherished back seat of the bus. Sitting in the way back enabled us to avoid the ears of authority figures, listen to crude music, and tell jokes that we didn’t fully understand. It was on this trip that I introduced southern Colorado to Southern hip-hip (and the Beastie Boys). The music was sophomoric to be certain, but so were we and it was a natural match.

A few hours after our departure we pulled off the highway and wound our way through a small town. It was getting late and I surmised we were headed to the hotel for a restful night before the flight out. When the party bus came to a stop in the overfull parking lot of a gymnasium, it started to dawn on me. Brillhart told us to grab our bags and get ready to change into our home uniforms. I walked into the gym and my heart dropped.

Welcome to Scott Gym, home of the Trinidad State Trojans. Trinidad State Junior College? Trinidad? Colorado? Bull. Shit. No sun? No airplane flight? No trip to a sandy beach? All of my conversations over the past couple of months fell into place and made perfect sense. I felt like an utter fool, but hid my disappointment and embarrassment.

I had a good game that night, but don’t really remember any of the details. Afterwards we returned to the hotel and settled in for a weekend of basketball that turned out to be much more.

To be continued…

Beastie Boys provided the sound track to part 1 of the story.  Paul Revere, and  Rhymin & Stealin were in heavy rotation on the bus.

Spring has Sprung

This week I’ll address a question that I get asked from time to time. Given that the people who ask me are typically close friends, I suspect that others have the same curiosity but are too polite to ask. The question: “do I ever think about death?”

The Rushing clan doesn’t typically “do” spring break- except in the form of soccer tournament travel. I’ve been looking for excuses to travel with the family, however, so here we are back at Seaside. A couple of years ago, I resolved that we were done with Seaside for family vacations (but left the door open to visit Mom when she comes down). I have a tremendous sentimental attachment to the place, but realized that for “Seaside money” we could give the boys a broader set of experiences- our trip to Costa Rica for example. With everything going on in our lives, however, I forgot about my resolution and subconsciously went with what I knew. In fairness, I can’t travel to any exotic foreign destination due to my health anyway, so I guess it doesn’t matter.

Livin' the dream

During the past year, I’ve written around death a lot. I’ve spent time on what will happen to my family in the aftermath, and I’ve addressed what I’m doing in preparation. While I’ve danced all around it, I haven’t gone in on the act itself. It’s not that I’m afraid of it, I just haven’t spent any time thinking about it. Considering that it’s Easter weekend, however, this seems the perfect time to bring it up.

We’ve engaged a counselor that will eventually help the kids through their grieving process. She noted that for children of a certain age, it’s tough to comprehend the finality of death. The concern is that our youngest may have issues with this- i.e. understanding that Dad’s dead, but expecting him to come back. Consequently, I’ve been very sensitive to that concept of late. It seems that everywhere I turn, the idea of life after death pops up.

The oldest and I finished reading Harry Potter a few weeks ago. The Potter books are chock full of death cheating. Harry sees his parents in the mirror of Erised. He runs into them again when Voldemort uses his old wand after killing Diggory. He sees his folks once again when he uses the resurrection stone. He himself cheats death by using said stone- crossing over and coming back. Then, of course, Voldemort crosses back forth a couple of times himself.

When I finished Potter I decided that rather than embark on a new series of books, I would pick an old favorite to revisit one last time. It was a tough choice, but after serious (serious) deliberation, LOTR and the Foundation series lost out to Dune. (I also had ulterior motives- since there are now nineteen volumes of Dune, I’ll probably run out before the books do).

Speaking of death (and rebirth I hope). To my shock and horror,
the original Seagrove Village Market has been demolished. This
to make way for a newer and better iteration, but that old one
held so many memories...

In any event, the Dune saga spans millennia, and there are numerous life after death shenanigans going on. Leto the Great’s Golden path is the broadest example. The most acute example, however, is the concept of the ghola. A ghola is a Tleilaxu creation- essentially a clone grown in an axlotl tank. In the case of Duncan Idaho, the tleilaxu figured out how to return the memories and personalities of the deceased to a new ghola- thereby creating the potential for eternal life.Of course, Leto takes advantage of this by growing a steady stream of Duncan’s over his three-thousand year long life. I digress.

All of this is to say that I’ve have a steady barrage of life-after-death imagery thrown at me for the last few months. Despite that, I’ve had no such thoughts or even daydreams for myself. Beyond the fact that it’s not possible, the idea just doesn’t interest me. Don’t get me wrong; I want to live for as I can (given a baseline quality of life). I feel pretty strongly, however, about leaving when my time is up.

I’ve heard that a lot of people who face death spend a lot of time thinking about the afterlife. I have not. There are a couple of reasons for this. Firstly, as a Christian, there is no work to perform to earn myself a better fate in the afterlife. You don’t get into heaven by doing stuff. There is simply faith. If you believe, then your fate in the afterlife is a function of his grace. As for what happens next, the good book spells it out.  Secondly, I’m more focused on what I’m doing with my remaining time here than I am daydreaming about what will happen to me in the afterlife. I’m confident enough in what will happen later, that I can spend my energy on now.

So, what do I think about death? I don’t really. There you have it, nothing profound, no secrets. Ya’ll have a great week and please keep the prayers coming- not that I’ll beat the tumor, but that I’ll beat spring break on the panhandle. Catch you next week.