John-Alex Mason went to the crossroads

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blues, clara k.showalter, colorado springs school, crossroads, death, john mason, john-alex mason, life, music, robert johnson

I had a dream last night. In it, a tall man with twinkling blue eyes and a shock of white blond hair walked towards the Gates of Heaven. Saint Peter opened the gates to usher the newcomer in. The man just smiled, waved politely and kept walking.

This was a good man, so Saint Peter was naturally confused. Why would a good man walk past the Gates? Peter’s curiosity was piqued, so he walked out the Gates and followed the man. The citizens of Heaven were also curious and followed Saint Peter.

As the man walked on, he strolled past the descent to Hell. The Devil was naturally very confused. This man didn’t belong anywhere near his domain. The Devil peeked his head out as the man strolled by without a second glance. The Devil saw Peter coming down the road and raised an eyebrow in silent inquiry. Peter just shrugged and kept walking. The Devil couldn’t let Peter solve the mystery first, so he dropped into line behind the citizens of Heaven, and the denizens of Hell followed.

A little further down the road a dilapidated juke-joint sat at a crossroad. The sign was faded and unreadable. Inside you could hear the clicking of bottles and quiet laughter. The tall man sped up as he saw the building. Reaching for the door, he pulled it open and walked in, making his way to a chair where a cigar box guitar waited. Next to that chair waited a lanky black man, idly picking out a tune on his guitar.

The tall blond man stuck out his hand. “John-Alex Mason”.

The lanky black man reached out and shook the offered hand. “Robert Johnson.”

Both sat down and Robert started picking out a tune. John-Alex quickly matched him note for note. The citizens of Heaven and Hell sat spellbound while John-Alex Mason and Robert Johnson met at the crossroads and played the blues.

—

In every mental image I have of John-Alex, his big blue eyes, white blond hair, and big smile take center stage. For many, his music defines John-Alex. His music will be his legacy for many. For John-Alex, the legacy that matters will always be his children. He’s left us too soon, and they will never get to know all the elements of their amazing father. For them, I leave the legendary Skunk Joke.

When we were in Middle School at The Colorado Springs School, there was a daily morning meeting to go over things that might be important for the day. Somewhere along the way, John-Alex started telling the Skunk Joke.

Once upon a time there was a Mamma Skunk, a Papa Skunk, and a Baby Skunk.

Mamma Skunk said, “My instincts tell me it’s going to rain.”

Papa Skunk said, “My instincts tell me it’s going to snow.”

The itty-bitty Baby Skunk said, “My in stinks too, but it doesn’t tell me anything.”

Now this was Middle School, so of course it was funny. John-Alex wasn’t content with telling the joke once. He told it again, and again, and again. The joke quickly became the process of John-Alex telling the joke. Week in and week out, sometime during morning meeting, John-Alex would raise his hand and would start his delivery.

Every time he had a huge smile on his face as we all joined in to deliver the joke with him.

Twenty plus years later and I still laugh when I think about that joke. That was John-Alex. Always looking to make people smile, always looking for ways to make the day better. For many his music will continue to fill that void. For me, it’s always going to be the Skunk Joke.

Some days you gotta agree with Calvin. Miss you John-Alex.

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Eulogy for a champion

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bfl, body for life, death, michael t. harris, michigan

Michael T. Harris died Sunday, May 30th 2010.

He lives on through the thousands of lives he's touched around the world. Uncle Mike was a cornerstone of the Body for Life fitness community. He was a Body for Life Grand Champion, a father, a grand father, and a husband. He was a recovering alcoholic, and most important for him he was a Christian. These pieces all combined into one powerhouse of a man, a man who was forthright, honest, and told you exactly what you needed to hear. Even when you didn't want to hear it.

Funny thing, most of us would describe a best friend the same way. And that's what Mike was. He was the best friend you could ever have. You could argue with him until you were both blue in the face, completely disagree with every point he made, yet at the end of it all you knew he still loved you. Because that's just who Mike was. He loved people. He cared deeply and that's what inspired him to reach out day in and day out.

I could pull dozens of Mike stories out of the hopper. I could recount arguments, moments of counsel, and even dig out photographic proof that Mike would indeed eat peanut butter and bananas. Those snapshots in time would give you a glimpse at the kind of person Mike was.

Yet it's Mike's final two acts which sum him up. Mike went out for a bike ride Sunday morning and didn't come back. He died while out on the trail, living an active life. Most of us talk about wanting to die doing something we love. Mike did just that. He was out enjoying the body he built for himself over the years.

Which brings us to his last act. Mike Harris was an organ donor. He took the time to sign his organ donor card and let his family know of his wishes. While I don't know which organs were donated, I can imagine. Somewhere this morning a man is waking up with new corneas, and he notices that he sees things with a remarkable clarity and sharpness. A young woman wakes up and takes a deep breath, inflating lungs that feel like they can carry her up an endless flight of stairs. A former alcoholic who had lost both kidneys is off dialysis for the first time in years.

All of them have a strange craving for bananas and peanut butter.

Last we come to his heart. How I envy the person who ends up with that huge, caring heart. Not may of us can say we have the heart of a lion beating within us.

Love you Mike.