Relay

We’re only a few months away from it being ten years since my sister Erin died. This is on my mind a lot right now because the Relay for Life in Elk River, which my family has been involved with since 2003, is coming up this Saturday.

In the days leading up to the first relay following Erin’s death, I got a phone call right out of the blue from the editor of the local paper in Elk River. He said they were planning to run a human interest story about the relay in an upcoming issue and were contacting the team captains (I was ours) to see if there were any participants who felt they might be interested in writing about their experience that night. My response? “Well, actually....”

I met him in his office a few days later with a writing sample and we decided to go forward. Later that week I did the Relay scribbling observations in a pocket notebook all night, then went home to sleep the rest of the morning, woke up and spent an afternoon writing my piece and submitting it that evening before going to my sister’s house for dinner with some relatives we still had in town. A couple days later the editor called me back and said they were so happy with my piece they had decided to run the whole thing, unedited, even though that meant devoting two pages’s worth of print space.

I’ve searched for it online over the years, hoping it would turn up in an archive somewhere thinking I could just put it up as a link, but I’ve never had any luck. Being that this year is the 10th relay we’ve walked since Erin’s death, I thought it would be as good a time as any to dig out my copy, type it up and post it here, which gives me a chance to edit it down for space (it is kind of long) and to polish up some of the writing I’ve been embarrassed to look at since the day it went to press. Here you go:

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My younger sister Erin died ten months ago today. There are still moments when that overwhelms me. I look at pictures of her from our childhood and instead of seeing a happy little girl mugging for the camera or tearing through her Christmas gifts or chasing down a soccer ball, I see someone completely unaware of the fate awaiting her in the final years of her life, years which will come much too soon. For my family, everything is now divided between the time we had with her and the time following her illness and death.

But that isn’t the focus for tonight. During the Relay for Life we are a part of a community who knows exactly what we’ve endured because they’ve had the same experiences. They hate cancer as much as we do, and they’re here tonight for the same reasons we are.

FRIDAY, AUGUST 5

5:15 p.m. -- We have nine people listed as money collectors on our team, but we will have more than 30 people walking with us tonight. We have designed t-shirts for the event that read, “Last year we walked in her honor -- this year we walk in her memory.” These words frame a portrait of Erin, one she had once said was the only good picture she had ever taken. Those of us arriving first get to work at setting up our campsite, a collection of chairs, two coolers, four tents, and too many sleeping bags and pillows to count. During the night our campsite will be given the nickname Tent City.

6:50 p.m. -- The opening ceremony is about to begin, and the hundreds of people begin filling the bleachers. I see dozens of groups passing by on the track, easily identified by the custom-made shirts they wear or the team banners they carry. The kids on our team, ranging in ages from 4 to 12, run to the very top of the bleachers and sit in the corner.

7:04 p.m. -- The color guard brings forth the flags as the ceremony begins, and the crowd immediately falls silent. After the National anthem is performed, different people take the microphone to share information about the Relay, directions for the events and activities throughout the night, and congratulations to the people in attendance for their participation. The Relay for Life oath is read. The line that strikes me the most has to do with making the world cancer-free for future generations. I look around at the hundreds of people sitting with us, and think of the thousands of other Relay sites across the country, and all of the money being raised by these events. I think that if it does happen, if we really do pull this off someday and find a way to get rid of cancer, those future generations are going to owe us big. I turn and look down the row behind me and see my mother, sitting with her three sisters and crying. I knew it was going to happen at some point tonight. It only took minutes.

7:30 p.m. -- The survivor lap begins. Dozens of people line up on the track to share their personal stories with the crowd, telling us their names and how long they have survived the disease. One of the survivors is my aunt, who had beaten her cancer just months before Erin had been diagnosed with hers. (She’s passed in the years since I wrote this.) Pained and sympathetic moans can be heard throughout the crowd every time a child comes to the microphone.

7:52 p.m. -- The survivors complete their lap and the Relay is officially underway. The atmosphere is celebratory, which is completely appropriate. People aren’t here tonight to think about how much they hurt and commiserate, but to show support for the cancer survivors in their lives or remember and honor those they have lost. Music blares from the DJ tent. Crowds of people play Frisbee and football on the empty field inside the track. Kids walk around with glowing necklaces and wait in line for turns in the jumping castle. People are lined up three deep at the Lions’ food counter. Hundreds of people walk, several of them slowly and methodically, closely examining each of the luminary bags lining both sides of the track. It always surprises me to read the luminaries. I see the names of people I grew up with, or people my family knew, or familiar names that follow any other number of connections.

The first two years we were here Erin had her name on brown paper bags, indicating she was a survivor. This year the bags with her name are white. I know if healthy Erin had been with us tonight, she would have been the team captain and would have found her way into the middle of everything. She would have been thrilled to see so many people from our family there, and would have convinced even more to join us.

9:30 p.m. -- While walking through the silent auction tent, I see an old friend of Erin’s from as far back as elementary school, a survivor herself. She brings up a common theme in conversations I’ve had over the past few days -- how she has been missing Erin and thinking about our family since this year’s Relay is going to be such a hard time for us. She’s right of course, but the thing is, every ‘first’ we have had since Erin’s death has been hard: The first month after she died, the first Thanksgiving, the first day of the new year she wasn’t going to see. Her first missed birthday, my first birthday without her, the day I went from being three years older to four because I got older than year and she didn’t.

9:50 p.m. -- Ironic moment of the night: I decide to walk out to my car and get a sweatshirt before the luminary lighting ceremony. As I’m walking back through the parking lot, my nose picks up the unmistakable stink of cigarette smoke. I look around and see who people sitting in someone’s truck having a smoke break -- while at the Relay for Life. Guess what, all you smokers out there: My sister died from lung cancer (even though she didn’t smoke), so because of this I’ve seen one of your possible futures from a front-row seat. The day could come when you’ll be wearing a scarf over your face in April because you won’t be able to handle breathing in cool air. When you hear the doorbell ring, if may take most of your energy just to stand up, cross the room, and answer it. Your bedroom might be filled with industrial-sized oxygen tanks. You might degrade to a point where you’ll have to be medicated into unconsciousness simply so you can breathe without panicking. These are just a few of the joys that might be at the end of the path you’re following.

9:55 p.m. -- The air is noticeably cooler, and the first mosquitoes of the night are beginning to emerge. I make my way back up to the bleachers in preparation for the luminary lighting. At 10 p.m. the overhead lights go out and the crowd is immediately quiet. The luminary bags spelling out HOPE on the visitor’s bleachers are lit while a local church bell choir performs. People are invited to begin lighting the luminaries lining the track. There are thousands, but it’s a job that only takes minutes to complete. It hits me again while I’m sitting there watching these rings of light come together: She’s really gone.

SATURDAY, AUGUST 6

12:25 a.m. -- Five and a half hours to go. I’m determined to stay awake for the whole event, and right now the night ahead seems very long. The Big Dipper is easily visible in the sky just above the north end of the track. It continues to appear larger and sink lower throughout the night.

3:00 a.m. -- Two of Erin’s close friends showed up to walk at different times early in the morning; in fact, they had both participated in her funeral. Most of the team had retired back to Tent City for the night, so it was good having new people on the track to walk with. Having the chance to talk with them highlights for me what a multidimensional person Erin was. Even though we were siblings and our family has always been close, there were things about her life that were very separated from mine. It’s easy when someone is sick and dying to construct an idealized image of them or start to see them as some kind of iconic figure. And really this isn’t fair, because doing so largely ignores many of the characteristics that made them into the person they were. I was reminded of this while walking with Erin’s friends and hearing about moments from their histories with her that I knew so little about. It was wonderful to hear these stories, but it also pointed out how widespread the pain from her death was felt. It’s easy to forget how much she meant to so many others, and how many people have also been hurting in the wake of her illness and death.

3:15 a.m. -- The only members of our team still at the track are my mother, my sister, my cousin Chris and me. I’ve taken a seat in the bleachers for a few minutes to rest my feet. I’ve just finished off my fifth Coke of the night, so I now have every confidence I’ll be able to make it through to the end without sleeping. There is no line at the food stand, which hasn’t been active since a late-night pizza delivery a few hours ago. The DJ is still playing music but I’ve switched over to my iPod, drowning out what has become a little too much country for my taste. People are mostly walking slowly in pairs or threes. Most have changed into warmer clothes, and a few have even taken to walking around wrapped up in blankets brought over from their campsites. A lot of people stop frequently along their walk, looking closely at the luminaries, which are much more than paper bags with names written on them. They have been lovingly designed, each adorned with favorite photographs, meaningful symbols or nicknames, written with heartfelt messages of support or grief: “We love you, we know you’ll win the fight.” “We miss you, even after so many years have passed.” From what I’ve experienced, grief never goes away but eventually becomes something you have an easier time managing. It’s oddly comforting to have this view of all these lights in front of me, the visual of how many people have been affected by cancer and how many collections of friends have been going through the same things we have. I feel less alone.

3:40 a.m. -- I’m officially cold now. It feels like late October instead of early August, but I’m not complaining because the cold seems to have taken care of the bugs for the night, and after the streaks of 90-degree temperatures we’ve had this summer the cold feels good. Our team is now down to three people: Chris, me, and Erin’s friend Judy who showed up about an hour ago. Chris has not stopped walking since 10:30, except for short breaks to stretch. After a few minutes I’m warmed up enough to comfortably match his pace.

4:20 a.m. -- Wow. I’m only 37 years old. When did my knees turn 59?

4:40 a.m. -- The first light of the coming day is visible in the eastern sky, and it grows a little brighter with each consecutive lap. Chris and I are still moving, but our conversation is now mostly about the several varieties of foot, leg, muscle, and back pain we’re experiencing. We’ve noticed a collection of signs displayed by the DJ tent, announcing some of the top fund-raising teams in different categories. We’re one of those teams, with our name posted on a bronze award sign. I think our team total came in just shy of $5,000 this year. I’d celebrate if I had any energy to spare.

5:11 a.m. -- I’ve hit the wall, and break off the track to rest for awhile. Chris keeps going, saying he has crossed a threshold where his pain doesn’t even register anymore, and he’s determined to keep going until six. Things are very quiet back at our camp. I try to mop most of the dew off one of the chairs, and my iPod and I settle in for a well-deserved rest.

Before tonight, I hadn’t noticed how far along I had come in my own recovery. Erin’s death isn’t something I’m ever going to be able to shake off, nor would I want to; it’s become a defining element in this new chapter of my life. It tears at me like nothing I can describe to see the people around me suffer as much as they do, and I will always have my moments as well, but as I sit there in the quiet sunrise I’m surprised to discover how much peace I’ve made with the whole experience. And I know this is due in no small way to the people in my life propping me up when I needed it so I’d have chance to work on finding my own balance again. For the first time in a long time, I realize I can feel that balance coming back to me.

6:02 a.m. -- Chris and I finished our final lap, now rejoined by our cousin Cyndi. After all of the work that went into setting up the Relay, it only takes about an hour to clean it all up. While waiting for my pancake breakfast, I overhear the final total for the night was over $100,000. A good night’s work, and well worth the sore feet.

When the time comes for me to drive home, I feel an abstract sense of closure, as if one part of my life has come to a decisive end while the next part is just forming a beginning. And I know that whatever form this next part will eventually take, even though Erin is no longer with us, she will always be a part of it.

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We’re still participating this year, and once again we’re going to have a good part of our extended family there with us. If you might be interested in donating to our team, the event isn’t until Saturday, August 2nd. I've provided a link to our team page below. You might have to login to Facebook first, but I think it should work:

Relay for Life Elk River

National U2 Day (1980s version)

Sometimes when I have a day that allows me to listen to a lot of music, I’ll focus in on one specific artist. If it’s an artist with a lot of material in my library, it can take the better part of a day to really sink my ears into the music and enjoy it. It’s almost always a rewarding experience, because it does so much to remind me about music I once loved but may have lost a connection with over the years as new music has come along to take its place. (Of course there are also inevitable days that leave me wondering what the hell I was thinking when I was into that artist so heavily.) Today turned out to be one of those days good memory days, even though I made the criteria a little more specific than usual: Today I’ve been listening to nothing but music from U2 produced between 1980 and 1989.

Narrowing down to just the 80s goes back to a lot of the stuff they did when they were more garage band than corporation. Not that they didn’t achieve ridiculous levels of success in the 80s -- I think even the most casual music fan could probably listen to their albums chronologically and pinpoint the moment they became one of the biggest millionaire bands of the world. But that’s always been one of the things I’ve liked about this band the most: Even though they have a distinct sound overall, each album is different than the others.

To celebrate what I’ve declared to be National 80s U2 Day (at least in my house), here are my top 10 U2 songs from the 1980s. I have to preface this list by saying it was not at all easy to make and would have been even more challenging if I hadn’t narrowed it down to a single decade. So here’s how it turned out. As always, in no particular order:

Bullet the Blue Sky: A battle cry for peace if there ever was one, with one of my all-time favorite drum riffs and guitars that sound like heavy machinery.

Gloria: Back in sub-suburban Minnesota of the early 1980s, finding U2’s “October” album in a pre-Amazon mall record store or hearing anything from it on forever-homogenous Twin Cities’ radio would have been like finding the Holy Grail filled with Leprechaun gold and Skittles. I was completely taken with the urgency of this song the few times I was lucky enough to come across it on MTV, and played through it repeatedly the day I finally bought the album (on cassette).

Where the Streets Have No Name: "The Joshua Tree" was the big album in the dorms back in the spring of 1987. One of the guys that lived in the room in the southwest corner of my floor bought it right away. Theses guys had HUGE speakers in their room, so when they played their music loud it filled the halls in two directions at once, and this was their favorite song off that album. Too often dorm guys with big speakers play crap music (of which there was no shortage in 1987), but this was one of the few times I could get behind it. Hearing that resonating swell that defines the first minute coming at you so loud and so constant was epiphanal.

Running to Stand Still: Looking at the other songs that made this list, and extending beyond the music U2 offered in just the 1980s, I think it’s safe to call this my favorite U2 song. When I first heard it I just took it at face value as a beautifully understated song with painful lyrics. Learning it was about drug abuse gave it an added layer of tragedy I hadn't considered, but didn’t take it too emotionally far from what it had come to mean to me personally.

All I Want is You: One of my favorite love songs of all time, but only if the entire six-and-a-half minutes are played, and the brilliant, storm-warning guitar solo that fades into a coda of strings at the end hasn’t been truncated down to a more radio-friendly version.

Hawkmoon 269: Another of my favorite songs, period. This was the kind of anthemic song U2 produced so much in the 80s that it eventually became somewhat of a caricature of their over-earnest, bombastic “Joshua Tree” sound. But no matter how their sound has changed over the decades, this one continues to resonate with me like few others, to the degree that I included it on the master playlist I’m using for my FOLLOWING INFINITY revision soundtrack this summer.

Bad: I woke up with this song in my head this morning, out of nowhere. It was what inspired National 80s U2 Day. Both the original version found on “The Unforgettable Fire” and the live version from “Wide Awake in America” are beautiful and heartbreaking.

Sunday Bloody Sunday (Live): Waiting to for the chance to see the Live at Red Rocks video for this song was one of the reasons we 80s kids would stare hopefully at MTV for hours at a time.

Christmas (Baby Please Come Home): This appeared on the first “A Very Special Christmas” album in the winter of 1987. This song is so strongly imprinted on my idea of December at St. Cloud State I can barely imagine one without the other. So, so many years later it still remains one of my favorite contemporary Christmas songs, even surpassing the original version.

New Year’s Day: My U2 gateway song. You never forget your first.

Another Hopeful Monday Night

Tomorrow will be July 15, which, by most standards would mark the midpoint of the summer. Overall I've enjoyed my summer vacation a great deal this year, but there's been one big thing missing: A new definitive summertime album.

This isn't to say there hasn't been any good music to come along this summer. Going back to the last week of school, I've added seven new albums to my music library:

"Simplicity" by Tesla -- overall it's a very good rock album and I like it a lot, but it still has the feel of a band putting out new music well beyond their heyday, which is exactly what this is. It's hard not to compare this to the better work they did... yeesh... 20 years ago. Fine, I admit it: I'm getting old.

"Great Western Valkryie" by Rival Sons -- I bought this after listening to a couple previews and reading reviews. A bluesy rock album, but way too one dimensional. It hasn't earned much playing time.

"The Hunting Party" by Linkin Park -- I bought this because I'm a big fan of the band and I'll be seeing them at the end of the summer. This is probably my favorite of the summer so far, but it's way too intense to reflect the lackadaisical feel needed for a definitive summertime album. (Although I have to say it's truly excellent workout music, especially when paired with their previous release "Living Things.")

"Burials" by AFI -- I bought this just because they're the opening act for the Linkin Park/30 Seconds to Mars tour. I figured since I like both of those bands, I'd probably like the one they hired as an opening act, and I do. But with song titles like "I Hope You Suffer," "A Deep Slow Panic," "No Resurrection," "Heart Stops," and "The Face Beneath the Waves," again -- considerably non-lackadaisical.

"Nothing More" -- A very good self-titled debut release I bought because I was curious and it was cheap. It has a lot of progressive-rock tendencies that remind me of bands like Fair to Midland and (yes, I'm invoking the name) Dream Theater, but that same complex nature makes it hard to find yourself with any of these songs stuck in your head.

"Famous Graves" by Cheap Girls -- I already gave this one enough blog space a few posts back.

"Redeemer of Souls" by Judas Priest -- First off, it's hard to get past the undeniable Spinal Tap quality of the title. Second, it's super long - probably would have been a double album back in the days of records, tapes, and CDs. Third, even though I like the music, its both very intense and complex.

So this has left me digging deeper into the library to find better fits for the summer. I've fallen back on a lot of Big Head Todd and the Monsters and The Hold Steady after seeing both acts live recently, and they've gotten the job done well so far. But I'm still hoping for something new to come along that will imprint the summer of 2014 for me.  Being that it's a Monday means new releases will show up on the iTunes store tomorrow, and in fact if you play the time zones right, many will actually be for sale in the last hour or two of Monday. Does this mean I'll stumble upon that missing piece later tonight, and the second half of my summer will have slightly more emotional guidance than the first half has? I can only hope. If not, I'm open to suggestions....

Four Days of Cheap Girls

FRIDAY
I’m reading the newspaper in the morning, scanning over the “variety” section to read whatever has been written up about the concert I’ll be seeing the next night: The Hold Steady playing at the Weesner Amphitheater in the Minnesota Zoo. I know, a zoo, but it’s actually a great venue for an outdoor show. I see the Hold Steady gets a mention, which is no surprise due to the band’s deep local roots. I also see they’re playing with an opening act -- a band I haven’t heard of before called Cheap Girls. The first thing that comes to mind is how a friend of mine from high school always said the best name for a band would be Free Roast Beef, because people would see that name on the sign outside and would absolutely come in to see the show. I don’t know, I guess he had a thing for roast beef. But of all the other potential band names in the world, it didn’t surprise me to see someone may have applied that same logic string and named themselves Cheap Girls.

I like to think of opening acts as opportunities. I’ve seen some tragically awful ones in my concert-going days, but I’ve also discovered a few that have become staples in my music library. I went on iTunes and was surprised to see Cheap Girls already had something like three or four albums to their name. I played a few previews to see what I was getting into, and thought they would be a reasonable sonic match for The Hold Steady. But I was too preoccupied in getting ready to see The Hold Steady for the first time, so I didn’t bother checking out Cheap Girls any further.

SATURDAY
I drive to my sister’s house in the late afternoon. Almost as soon as I arrive my brother-in-law Dave hands me a CD -- Cheap Girls. Dave is a very enthusiastic music fan, and in his own words, once he discovers a new band he goes in all the way. Even though he’s a huge Hold Steady fan, he said he was almost more excited to see Cheap Girls since they had become a new favorite of his. He said they had a guitar-drive power pop sound that reminded him a lot of Bob Mould’s old band Sugar. From what I’d heard in the previews, I agreed with that description.

We got to the zoo in plenty of time for the show, including Cheap Girls. They turned out to be a trio, with the bass player doubling as the singer. The thing about them I couldn’t get past was how much the bass player/singer looked exactly like what I’d imagine Nephew #3 will look like in fifteen years (at least from where we sat). It was striking.

Overall I liked the sound. The songs were surprisingly structured for an up-and-coming alternative band, and while there wasn’t exactly a lot of virtuosity on display, they were a nice, tight live band. They looked like three guys who had been randomly matched up by student housing in college and decided they might as well start a band since they had all the instruments covered. The singer had some odd mannerisms, like standing up on tiptoes at random moments, bumping the microphone forward an inch or so with his chin when he sang, and walking around like he just woke up with his bass in his hands during guitar solos.

SUNDAY
I imported the disc and loaded it up to my phone to give the album some car time, which I’ve found is the best way to learn new music. But then I wound up editing almost the whole day and got distracted by my revision playlist, so I forgot about it.

MONDAY (today)
I was determined to play Cheap Girls for all of my driving today, to give them that necessary car time. The first song, “Slow Nod,” started off promising, with the kind of celebratory sound you’d expect to hear during a final photo montage during the closing credits of a movie about people who just survived a wacky, shenanigan-filled summer and came away from it as better people. The next few songs were remarkably similar, and I found myself driving the long way when I could to listen to it more. The singer's voice was a little on the nasally and twangy side for me, but at least the guitars were higher in the mix and they sounded great.

The album, “Famous Graves” (the title of which reminds me of a favorite book of mine, KILLING YOURSELF TO LIVE by Chuck Klosterman), isn’t very long, clocking in at just under thirty-six minutes, with some songs barely long enough to play you though finding your way out of a parking lot. But a straight-ahead guitar rock song that’s only three minutes long can be about perfect, and Cheap Girls have some good ones. This could be an album that will get some plays from me this summer, but I think it will end up being something imprinted on the summer of 2014 instead of having much staying power.

But hey: A few more plays through, and who knows....?

The World Cup

Confession: For the most part, I don't get the whole sports fan thing. I don’t hate sports; I just generally don’t care much about them. Sure, there have been times I've gotten caught up in the excitement. I think watching a Twins game can be an amusing distraction, and I'll pay attention to the Vikings season with reasonable interest. I love following the narrative of the Olympic games. But I've never felt the need to paint my face. And I don't memorize statistics in preparation to debate the value of any particular player at a moment's notice. I don't talk about the problems of my local professional teams saying what "we" need to do better, as if I have any involvement beyond that of spectator. If you really think about it, Jerry Seinfeld said it best: "You're actually rooting for the clothes when you get right down to it."

But soccer? That was always my exception. That was my sport growing up. I played on teams for ten consecutive summers of my childhood and teenage years. I know how physically exhausting it is to run at an off-and-on sprint for ninety minutes. I've played in extreme summer heat and have seen sweat so rich with salt it was as white as milk as it dripped from my skin. I know what it feels like to have a plastic shin guard shatter against my tibia. I saw the Kicks play at the Metrodome. I tailgated with my friends outside Met Center before Strikers games. I even kept my own stuffed Ozzie the Parrot -- Tino Lettieri's personal mascot, which he kept in his net during games -- in my dorm room, even though hardly any of the other guys on my floor knew who Tino Lettieri was. I went through the training and passed the test to become a registered FIFA referee. I coached two different youth teams during two collegiate summers. I spent a childhood guiding my younger sister into becoming the kind of dominant high school player who was named to two high school all-conference teams.

So when I see so much interest and American media coverage explode around this year's World Cup, I have mixed feelings. On one hand, I love seeing people get so pumped up about my game after witnessing its consistent maginalization for so long. But on the other hand, I know it won't last. I know these are fair-weather fans, hopping on the latest bandwagon distraction. Maybe some of the more recognizable players will make it around the talk show circuit for a few weeks, but after that they'll quietly slip back into general anonymity. Terms like "the Group of Death" will fade from the cultural consciousness as quickly as catchphrases like "the polar vortex" did.

But for the moment it's nice to see American fans temporarily pretending to care about a great sport, that's only truly appreciated by a relatively small number of us here in America.

As well as the rest of the entire world.