My Uncle Al’s laugh could chase the sounds of fear away. Tuesday will mark my family’s third winter without him. These words are for him.
It was a March morning, when the weather is so unpredictable you could see all four seasons in one day. A 3-year-old me was eating my Little Mermaid birthday cake and basking in the beauty of spending an entire day at Chuck E. Cheese with friends and family. The morning started off quietly with the sounds of spring whispering through the air, but it quickly turned into a fiery storm before the rain poured. Moments after I moved from the couch, the most unpredictable storm ensued as swords of glass erupted through the window behind me and the sounds of screeching brakes screamed through the atmosphere.
The moments of that morning were painted into my memory in slow motion, as family members sprinted to the driveway to help the man who had lost control of his motorcycle speeding around the corner. As the motorcyclist’s heartbeat quieted to a silence, my dad gripped the 20-year-old in his arms. He reassured the man he’d be OK. My father held on for hope the ambulance would help him before it was too late.
What seemed like hours later, the ambulance had taken the driver, but his clock of life had already made its final tick, far too early in his young life.
Twenty three years later, I accepted a position as Life and Style editor for Kokomo Tribune and I was approached to participate in a motorcycle ride benefit for Bridges Outreach during my first two weeks here. As someone whose palms still perspire at the sound of a revving motorcycle engine, my mind instantly replied with a, “No.” - but to my surprise - an excited, “Sure!” flew off my tongue. Before I had the chance to correct myself, the benefit ride’s organizer, Doug Newman, said he’d get me set up with someone and even find me a pink helmet - it’s hard to go back on your word when someone wants to keep you safe and stylish.
I spent the weeks leading up to the Bridges Outreach motorcycle ride, wishing I had said no. But, if I was ever going to face my fear a police-escorted motorcycle ride on the back of a trike for a do-gooding organization was a much easier face of fear to meet.
So, on a fall morning, I shook hands with Jack McKinney - who was driving the motorcycle - and looked fear in the face while wearing an intimidating hot pink helmet, giving fear a scare for itself, I’m sure. I spent the first minutes of the ride, clinching my jaw and wishing I had applied extra deodorant or just brought the bottle with me as a nervous sweat set in. But then, Mr. McKinney cranked up the country music as we weaved through roads lined with autumn oaks. The motorcycle engines’ hums of horror quickly dissolved. Then, enjoyment and ease picked up where fear once was.
An hour later, we arrived at the destination with the other riders and my first instinct wasn’t to jump off the motorcycle and kiss the ground - as I had expected - it was to hug Mr. McKinney and thank him for opening my eyes to an experience I would’ve rather refused just a few hours earlier that day.
Kokomo may not be a stranger to firsts; the city didn’t snag the title City of Firsts for being hesitant to try something new or overcome a fear, but it was one of my first experiences in The City of Firsts where I knew I would find a world of hearts to write about and that gut instinct has been right.
To the man who smiled at the face of fear, this column is for you.
[friday]
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Lindsay Eckert
Discussion
Lindsay's column: 01.11.13 >>My first in the City of Firsts
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Facebooks threads into more than I expected
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I immediately thought, “I’d have to be pretty self-centered to think my ‘Facebook friends’ would care about such an answer.” So, the section stayed blank on my profile for far longer than most. -
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Earth Day: Experience it every day
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The Waving Girl
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Never too late for April Fool’s Day
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The Egg Battle of 1990
Easter may be a time of sugary sweet Peeps and darting for hard-boiled eggs dressed in their Easter Sunday best. For me, it’s been about that and getting back to my roots. Growing up, my family and I nestled into my Pap’s motor home and headed for the mountains of West Virginia – our annual Easter Sunday home for my entire childhood.
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Bracket Madness
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Reality is only as deep as our passions
When I was in seventh grade the “Real World” was a reality show I was forbidden to watch. The behaviors flaunted were borderline unfit for TV, let alone a 12-year-old’s eyes. However, that’s what older cousins were for, I suppose, because my remote somehow found its way to MTV a time or two and lessons in how to not live your life ensued. But, today Howard County 7th graders are getting a multifaceted look into life in the “Real World” — and not the kind that encompasses Jell-O wrestling and TV-censored bleeps interrupting 80 percent of a sentence.
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You belong among the wildflowers
It’s the kind of lyrics that wreck your heart and warm your heart all at the same time. The melody happily whistles well wishes while the fingertips of yearning for yesteryear slip over each note. It’s the kind of song that sounds like the simplicity of childhood and feels like the rare chance of finding and living a childhood-type happiness — even if the years between now and the date on your birth certificate say you’re an adult.
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Save IU School of Journalism
As the doors swing to a close, the pens held at the hands of journalists aren’t writing, the recorders aren’t rolling and the cameras aren’t capturing. The envelope of Indiana University School of Journalism’s future is unfolding, but the details are sealed tightly by Lauren Robel, Indiana University Provost, who recommended the school merge with Indiana University’s College of Arts and Sciences (COAS) last week — expelling the journalistic institution from its Ernie Pyle Hall home and potentially downgrading the nationally-ranked school to a program within the bigger-is-better school of thought.
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