Thinking good things, recalling my old friend

By Rob Carrigan, robcarrigan1@gmail.com

Out there on the green prairie, in the Akron Cemetery, there is a black and white marker, that says, among other things, "Think good things."

I remember the last time I was there. Though I don't think the marker was there then, yet. It was more than 20 years ago, at the end of August.

A young man's sons were turning loose balloons. They floated so, so slowly, up into that blue and grey prairie sky.

The green grass around cemetery, the man had watered and trimmed in previous summers. The people gathered that day, the man had somehow touched. "Loving husband, father, teacher, coach, fireman and friend," says the black and white marble.

Lynn Leavell was a great friend of mine, and I certainly 'think good things,' as I remember him today.

Over the years since his death, I have written a number of things about him.

And oddly enough, I have written about writing about him.

I think that is true because Lynn Leavell, the person,— and writing, the practice, are truly my two oldest and best friends.

“Friendship is the hardest thing in the world to explain. It's not something you learn in school. But if you haven't learned the meaning of friendship, you really haven't learned anything,” said Muhammad Ali.

Politically, I would not get along with any of you. Your definitions of right and wrong, generally don't completely fit my odd take on things.

But over the years, I have learned not to be concerned about that too much.

“All opinions are not equal. Some are a very great deal more robust, sophisticated and well supported in logic and argument than others,” noted Douglas Adams, author of the 'Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.' series.

And some friendships are that way. Extraordinary. A great deal more robust, sophisticated and well supported. My friendship with Lynn Leavell was such, I think.

To be completely honest, I never worried about what the man thought. I doubt if he concerned himself with my opinions. It wasn't part of the algebra.

Maybe Cassius Clay was wrong, and we did learn some of that in our own sort of "school."
Lord knows, we went to the same 'classes' — both in formal education, and by virtue of 100-feet difference of location and time frame.

Cassius Clay was born and raised in Louisville, Kentucky, and began training as an amateur boxer when he was 12 years old. At age 18, he won a gold medal in the light heavyweight division at the 1960 Summer Olympics in Rome and turned professional later that year. By 1964, still just 22, he won the WBA, WBC, and heavyweight titles from Sonny Liston in a big upset. Clay then converted to Islam and changed his name from Cassius Clay, which he called his "slave name," to Muhammad Ali.

Lynn Leavell was a big fan of Ali, whether he would say so, or not. His Grandfather Paddy, sure cussed him however.

But Paddy was pretty animated anyway, when there was a boxing match on. I remember him getting right up there, in any pugilist's face, when boxing was on the TV screen.

Strangely, I always thought Lynn Leavell looked a little bit like the Cassius Marcellus Clay Jr. of old. The even, bushy eyebrows and strong jaw, and that faraway look in his eyes. The air of determination.

Because Ali was one of the most significant and celebrated sports figures of the 20th century, Lynn Leavell was sure to have an opinion of him, because, from the cradle to the grave, Leavell was nothing — if not a sports fan. He lived and breathed sports. He thought about it night and day.

He idolized Vince Lombardi. “Winning isn't everything—but wanting to win is.”
Unfortunately he also liked the Dallas Cowboys, but that was in the days Roger Staubach and Tom Landry, and that can be forgiven.

By virtue of a weird, lagging birthday, Sept. 15, 1962, he was unable to play Little League baseball as soon as most of his classmates, despite being the biggest kid, most of his way through grade school, junior high and high school. By his last year in Little League, no one wanted to pitch to him, because he would knock it over the snow fence in center field, at about three out of four "at bats."

The last time I saw him, back in 1997, was that summer before he died, and Rusty Hector and I made a road trip up through that green prairie country of Washington County. It is hard to believe he's been gone that long. It is sometimes hard to believe the rest of us are still here.
But maybe it is good to get right up there in any pugilist's face, when boxing is on the TV screen.

"Think good things," the stone says. It is right there, written in the stone — in black and white.

Humor, sadness and the angry bear in a trap

From what I have seen, there is a certain humor to losing you mind. True, it is that awkward, nervous, uncomfortable kind of laugh. But beneath that is a sadness … a catch-your-breath, can't-let-you-see-me-cry sadness, that puts a tremble in your voice to talk about it. Even deeper, there is a sense of betrayal. You can’t trust anyone. Not even yourself. It makes you angry — violent, strike-out, inflict-some-pain angry. There is no peace to the descent into madness. Life is crazy when you are losing your mind.
Back in 1974, Don Wallace was slowly dying, but he wasn’t going peacefully. I guess that kind of thing can make you crazy.
It seems to me, he felt the betrayal, the anger, the uncontrollable, uneasy feeling that makes you want to laugh and cry at the same time.
And when you are dying , I guess you think about legacy. What will you leave here on earth? How will they remember you?
That goes directly to the idea of memory. After all, when you leave, the only thing you are likely to take with you is your memories.
In the end, that is alternately the only thing remaining here — the memory of you.
To Don, though he hadn’t thought of it much before the cancer-imposed deadline, he was thinking about it a lot in the summer of 1974.
Patty Hearst, the Pooka, changes in world affected him greatly. And life on a time limit made him angry as a bear in trap.
My dad told me a story once about a bear that he and his older brother trapped on the ranch where they grew up in north western Colorado. Even back then there was a very strict prescription from Game & Fish regulating how to trap a bear.
But the bear was running off horses and raising heck with the rest of the livestock.
My grandfather had recently bought a sorrel mare from up around Baggs, Wyoming, (40 or 50 miles away) and my dad’s two older brothers spent almost a week tracking it from farm to farm all the way back there, when it ran off because it was frightened by the bear that was knocking around their place on Morapos Creek.
As result, shortly afterwards, they decided to try to get rid of the bear, and in adherence to the conventions of Game & Fish at the time, established a trap set up on the lower 40. Not long afterward, alerted by a terrible racket in early hours of the morning, and after waiting for daylight, soon found that a bear had indeed sprung the trap and took off down the creek, dragging the big log attached over the berms, and gravel bars, through the willows, and out into a grassy meadow downstream.
The bear however, tired from the dragging experience, had laid down somewhere out their in the tall grass and couldn’t be immediately located when my dad and his older brother Bill went to search for it. And they were pretty leery about running out into the tall grass after a wounded bear.
Eventually, the bear did rise up in the grass, as my dad told the story, and my uncle Bill shot it in the head a couple of times (from a distance) with a .30-06 to no avail. The bear once again took off down the creek dragging the trap and log. My dad and his brother returned to the house, told my Granddad what happened, and he, recognizing that they were a bit out of their league, sent the hired hand and his daughter (both of which had more experience with such things) to chase the bear. They were able to bring the bear carcass back later that afternoon and the hide nailed to the barn wall measured just over 11 feet from tip-to-tip according to the story.
That anger, and steadfast determination, was also characteristic of Don Wallace’s fight with cancer. Some afternoons he would be roaring about the injustice involved. Other times, he would lie quietly in the grass, trying to muster strength to rise up and take on his attackers head on.
In the meantime, he was also concerned about what kind of legacy he might leave.
To that end, as I delivered his paper to him one day out on his back porch, he gave me a small, leather-bound volume of poems that would fit in a pocket. He called it "a book about dreams." I kept the book and tried to figure it out, but at that age, I am afraid I wasn’t up to it. The book went in a drawer; with other things I meant to keep … and in time was lost. I remember only a fragment:

“You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.”
__ Edgar Allen Poe

Not long after that, Don Wallace’s presence on his back porch, waiting for news of the latest escapades of Patty Hearst, Richard Nixon, and the return of Florida Skunk Ape, tapered off. By late fall, I rarely would see him and I was busy myself, trying to figure out how to play junior high football. I would wonder about him each time I dropped a paper but there was no sign. By the time I was struggling with basketball, I had not seen him in months. I’d always think maybe I should have someone check to see if he was okay, but I never did.
One afternoon before practice, my friend Lynn (who delivered papers upriver at the same time I deliver them downriver from our houses) told me Ed Gould had found Don dead in his house. Apparently he had shot himself with that .22 pistol that once had rested there on table.
I don’t know what I thought about it at the time, or even now. Since then, however, at times I still think about the Pooka and Patty Hearst, dreams that can be carried around in little books, and the crazed anger of bear caught in a trap.
For me there is a certain humor to it, but it is that awkward, nervous kind of laugh, with sadness underneath that puts a tremble in your voice.
###

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• Pooka, Patty, Photos, Papers and let's ride.

The bear's lessons

"Most things break," says Wallace Stegner. "The lessons of life amount not to wisdom, but to scar tissue and callus." As a symbol for strength, courage, and introspection, bears often are depicted in animal folklore as teachers. Good, bad or indifferent, they help to show us the way. As I write this, my hope is that I have learned at least some of the bear's lessons.

Rob Carrigan, robcarrigan1@gmail.com

Please click on the following to view:

Part 1: As I wander about seeking.

Part 2: Bear begins the eternal hunt once more.

Part 3: Dolores, and other bears laid bare.

Part 4: Evil turned into pine nuts, yucca fruit and cacti.

Part 5: Bears forever marked by loss of the shepherds.

Other related posts:• Picture
• A missed thank you
• We communist, taking root and blossoming

Bears forever marked by loss of the shepherds

Part 5
In early times, when pandas still lived in the mountains of Tibet, the bears were white as snow. They were friends with four shepherd girls that took care of their sheep in the mountains nearby. While the shepherd girls were playing with a panda cub one day, a leopard suddenly leapt out from behind a rock and attacked the cub. The young girls, ever protective, threw themselves in front of the small bear to save it and were killed by the leopard. All the pandas were devastated by the girl’s deaths and held a ceremony to honor them for their bravery. As was the custom in Tibet, the pandas blackened their arms with ashes as a form of respect. As they wept for the girls and their ultimate sacrifice, they wiped their eyes with their paws, they covered their ears to block out the sound of the crying and they clung to each other in grief. As they did these things, the ash spread and blackened their fur. In honor of the girls, the pandas did not wash off their blackened fur. To this day, pandas are covered with the black markings to always remember. — From Tibetan Legend

From: Rob Carrigan
To: Rusty Hector
Sent: Friday, March 5, 2004

I know what you mean by articulation. I’m just trying to get some stuff on paper. I don’t know what will come of it.
Refresh my memory on “Mel, two pockets on a shirt are not cool.” I agree with you about the pith helmet. That kind of thing was typical. Bomber hat and goggles on his motorcycle, Orange Crush bandana under his football helmet, having to go home and change his shirt in sixth grade because it sported a cat in a glass jar and appeared with the caption “happiness is a tight pussy.” He did like to stand out.
— Rob.

From: Rusty Hector
To: Rob Carrigan
Sent: Friday, March 5, 2004

I remember the “good ass is hard to find” shirt that he wore under his shoulder pads. The pocket comment came in Durango one day when I was looking at shirts. I was considering a purchase of one that had two pockets.

From: Rob Carrigan
To: Rusty Hector
Sent: Monday, March 22, 2004

Rusty:
Scott talks about Lynn as “a person that I cared about not disappointing, … I looked up to him more than he ever knew.”
You say “he will always be with me, experiences, conversations, moments.”
Are you a religious man? The reason I ask is because, at times in the past few years (since his death), I have felt his presence. Like he was my own personal saint or guardian angel or something. I know how weird that sounds and maybe it is just intense memory or emotion. Whatever it is, it has helped me make some decisions. But also makes me creepily uncomfortable.

From: Rusty Hector
To: Rob Carrigan
Sent: Sunday, April 18

I have been pondering this for quite a while.
Wouldn’t say I was a religious man. To me, the term denotes tradition and repetition. I am a Christian, just trying to live my life ‘Christ like” and have a relationship with The Big Chief. I understand that Lynn also came to the saving grace… I think that he is now in the presence of the Lord, maybe even offering prayers on our behalves.
Perhaps the angel who is assigned to you is using memories of Lynn to help convey things in your spirit, so it would be in a way you understand. I draw comfort from his memory with the different decisions I’m faced with. Sometimes wondering (or hearing) the way I think he would have handled a situation. We all have the utmost respect for him. He just had that way about him. I’d call it “Quiet Confidence.” For those of us who loved him, it was the assurance of him knowing who he was and where he was headed.
Were your decisions good ones?
I still think about several things in my life where Lynn gave me advice. Sometimes, I was seeking it, and other times I wasn’t. Each time it seemed appropriate and it was never sugar coated, but I knew it was because he was trying to help me.

From: Carl Rice
To: Rob Carrigan
Sent: Monday, March 22, 2004

I could see those qualities in Lynn when he dealt with peers. I think is was partly because he had mastered the art of parenting while raising most of his family. He was like an adult in a very young body. He was always the perpetrator of calm and sense of direction. I remember the time I called a time-out in a crucial situation at the end of a game with Mancos. He came to the sidelines and I was going over options that were available for getting a first down on a third and 7. I was carrying on as only I could do and he said, “calm down coach, we will get it.” I said go get it done! He went back in and ran a dive for nine yards and a first down and that let us run out the clock. That intuition or confidence was amazing and yet at times when we were together alone, he seemed like a very small and helpless child. It was almost as if he thirsted for recognition that was not attached to responsibility. I remember when he graduated and we were shaking and grabbing kids. I walked up to him and just stared for a bit then simply hugged him and said I loved him. He broke into tears. I always wondered why that happened. He was however, easy to love as he was to respect. He was to me, the most precocious of a group of wise young men. He was special because of his awareness of the human condition and his willingness to look beyond the obvious. He was to me, both a son and friend, with full provisions of both.

From: Scott Weinmaster
To: Rob Carrigan
Sent: Sunday, March 28, 2004

Rob,
Sorry to get back so late but been a busy guy. Am i religious? i guess in a way. i don’t go to church or anything but i do pray, guess i got my own relationship with the big guy. i really haven't felt a presence of lynn or any of the people that i have lost, i guess i rely on me…
Not to say i don’t think about what some of them might think about my actions. But as always i make my own decisions … good and bad and i have made both. lol i do really hope that i will see them all again someday … but i guess i am a realist … this is what u got so deal with it… the only way i know how to live at this point in life. Live each day!! don’t know what’s in store tomorrow…

###

Please click on the following to view:

Part 1: As I wander about seeking.

Part 2: Bear begins the eternal hunt once more.

Part 3: Dolores, and other bears laid bare.

Part 4: Evil turned into pine nuts, yucca fruit and cacti.

Part 5: Bears forever marked by loss of the shepherds.

Other related posts:• Picture

• A missed thank you

• We communist, taking root and blossoming

Evil turned into pine nuts, yucca fruit and cacti

Part 4
The Navajo legend presents Changing Bear Maiden as a demonic she-bear. Originally a human maiden, she weds a coyote, which her twelve brothers kill. In retaliation, she takes on the form of a bear and slays eleven of her siblings. Her youngest brother manages to shoot her with an arrow; he divides her body and the various parts transform into pine nuts, yucca fruit, and cacti. Her evil is defeated, yielding positive results for the earth and providing nourishment for the Navajo people.
— From Amy Sillup, Suite101.com

From: Rob Carrigan
To: Carl Rice
Sent: Friday, January 16, 2004

Coach:
What did he like and dislike?
What did he love and value?
I would say he was a planner who usually had laser beam focus. He set his goals early and often. As a result, he usually had a pretty good success ratio, and the façade of at least appearing calm. In retrospect, his public persona was one of a person way beyond his years. It was as if he knew his ticket was punched for the matinee only.
He respected you a great deal. That’s the reason for his search for approval from you specifically. You were a different animal than he had seen before. He recognized that early and saw you as one that he could respect. His folks are by no means bad people, but he seemed to recognize the limitations of such an existence — and want more.
You also provided an outlet for his talent and interest in development of strategy, particularly sport strategy.
What did accept less of?
In what way was he fragile?
And finally, though it is off the beam, but I’m curious, how do you see the rest of us?
__ Rob

Carl Rice wrote:
I would say you are very accurate. He was a loving son who was ashamed that he had to scrape. He hated the things that people thought and said about him and his family yet he saw the weakness. He loved his Grandmother and grandfather yet he was jealous of their attention for Scott. He was his own worst enemy because he acted like he needed nothing but he needed support so much that he felt guilty. You guys think he was different than you. I don’t see him that way. He just didn’t ask as much.

You ask what I think about you guys and I almost gasped because I have never articulated that to you. I have worried what you thought of me. I guess that is selfish. You guys were like characters in a Shakespearian epic. You each have allegorical presence to me. Each good and bad, comical and tragic, selfish and understanding etc…
I learned more from teaching and coaching you guys than I had even suspected in the first 24 years of my life. It is impossible to do what Lynn and I have done without adopting the personalities that you are responsible for. I think of all of you almost daily and pray that your lives are full and plentiful.

I think this writing is good but want to examine your motives first hand. You always represented the thinking general type, the overachiever. I talk about you to every team I coach and every clinic I speak at. The conversation is not about football, it is about courage and belief in yourself. It is about what you can do if you don’t consider failure as an option. You personally mean much more than that to me. Have you ever thought about the symbiotic balance that you guys had? Have you ever wondered how it happened? What it represented in your life? And if it would ever happen again? Coach

From: Rob Carrigan
To: Carl Rice
Sent: Monday, Jan. 19, 2004

Coach:
I always have been a persistent little troll. Everyone wants to know what others think…
The team we are talking about offered an unprecedented honesty that I saw neither before, nor after that particular time in my life. If I was an ass, I was usually told about then and there, and the same was true for others.
Balance was a good way to describe it. We kept one or the other of us from tipping the scales too far. The dynamic with you was a little different in that you were the adult-in-charge and beside that, could have easily stomped a mud hole in us — but not that different.
In many respects, you offered us an equality that most adults never offered us before. In my own wistful reminiscence of that time and space, I miss the honesty the most. Sometimes you need people to tell you when they think you are screwing up. But as I get older, I either quit listening or most folks just quit telling, or both.
I can’t believe I’ve completely quit making mistakes. (Neither can my wife and kids.) My own honest evaluation of you is very positive. You are a good guy that cared about us. You noted our successes, you told us when we screwed up. You even allowed us to see some of the chinks in your own armor. But you also challenged us to create our own legends. You asked us to ask more of ourselves and to consider the possibilities. Thank you.
Back to Lynn: I don’t see him as that different, except for what I call “the faraway eyes.” I can’t help thinking that some of the things he did, the way he did them, he did because he could hear a clock ticking. — Rob.

From: Carl Rice
To: Rob Carrigan
Sent: Monday, January 19, 2004

I agree about the eyes and the presence. You were not a persistent little troll. Your body was not as big as your heart. That is a good thing. I will take heart anytime. Carl.

In the midst of gathering information about Lynn's life, his younger brother Lane, died of similar causes.
From the obituary pages of the Dolores Star and the Cortez Journal:
Funeral services for lifelong Cortez resident Lane Leavell will be held at 2 p.m. Saturday, Feb. 21 at the Lifeway Baptist Church. Pastor Jimmy Kennedy will officiate. Internment will follow at Cortez Cemetery. Lane was born the son of Kay Leavell and Darlene (Sparks) Leavell on Feb. 8, 1971, in Cortez. He died at Southwest memorial Hospital on Thursday, Feb. 19, 2004. He was 33. On July 10, 1993, Lane married Amy Sue Risenhoover in Dolores. A heavy equipment mechanic for Nielsons/Skanska, Lane loved his job. He was an active and devoted member of Lifeway Baptist Church, and he was a member of the Dolores Fire Department. In his free time, Lane enjoyed building model trucks. He was proud that he was the one trusted annually to haul the Galloping Goose train to Durango to put it on the tracks. Mostly, though, Lane loved his family and cherished those relationships. Surviving Lane are his beloved wife of 10 years, Amy Leavell of Dolores: his children, Garrett Leavell and Madelynn Leavell both of Dolores; his parents, Kay Leavell and Darlene Leavell of Dolores; his parents in law, Leon and Saralynn Risenhoover also of Dolores; and his grandmother, Jean Sparks of Hendersen, Nev., Three sisters, Penny Thompson and husband, Gene of Mancos, Lisa Balderrama and husband Rudy, of Cortez, and Lori Willbanks and husband, Keenan of Dolores also survive Lane. Preceding Lane in death was an infant daughter, Sarah Leavell; brother, Lynn Leavell; grandmother, Bernice Leavell; and grandfather, Paddy Leavell.
###

Please click on the following to view:

Part 1: As I wander about seeking.

Part 2: Bear begins the eternal hunt once more.

Part 3: Dolores, and other bears laid bare.

Part 4: Evil turned into pine nuts, yucca fruit and cacti.

Part 5: Bears forever marked by loss of the shepherds.

Other related posts:• Picture

• A missed thank you

• We communist, taking root and blossoming

Dolores, and other bears laid bare

Part 3
Spectacled bears, the only bear native to South America and its largest carnivore, are under threat from loss of habitat and from poachers. But Dolores, a spectacled bear who lives at Leipzig Zoo in Germany, had more immediate concerns. In November of 2009, her coat which normally should be thickening up at that time of year in preparation for winter's colder temperatures, began falling out in clumps. Bizarrely, Dolores and all the female Spectacled bears at the zoo have lost their fur completely. Despite the hair loss, some itching and perhaps a bit of self-consciousness, the bears are not showing any ill-effects. — From Metro of London, Nov., 2009

From: Rob Carrigan
To: Carl Rice
Sent: Wednesday, Jan. 14, 2004

Coach:
I consider myself a storyteller anyway. I am working on some stuff that might hit print somewhere. Given that, there is always the possibility that something said to me could see the light of day. I very much enjoy our recent email exchanges, but if you want something off limits, please tell me and I will respect that.
Lynn’s story is a great one on many planes. It is a bit of a painful exploration on my part, but nobody said anything in life has to be easy (note: previous discussion of Intensity drills.) I have no intention of exploiting anyone, but think it is a story worth telling. Hoping to explore some of the themes we have previously discussed as it relates to his life. Hoping to identify the lessons learned. Finally hoping to make some sense of it myself and find some peace in the process. ___Rob

Carl Rice wrote:
If I understand correctly, your purpose, it sounds like a passionate task. Did you read “Beachers”? Each of us has a story and it is a conglomeration of quotes and misquotes that have been dealt to us and by us to posterity. I loved Lynn and stand beside his life and memory with pride. I do however know a pile of weaknesses and inconsistencies that were demonstrated in his life. I choose to regard the great things that he was. I support anything that you do that is honorable and with in reason, factual. You, yourself are a chapter in my emotional book and a most valuable part of the lessons that life has provided me with on my way to becoming a better person. We have a responsibility to teach and honor within the confines our lives. Please share with me more of your intentions.
Carl

From: Rob Carrigan
To: Carl Rice
Sent: Thursday, Jan. 15, 2004

I have not read “Beachers,” but will try to locate it and take a look. That is the John Grisham novella about a star player’s struggle to forgive himself and his coach, right? His buddies meet in the bleachers and discuss the “Old Days” and past glory. Just goes to show you, there are no new ideas. From reviews, Coach Eddie Rake is central in that story. Any relationship to Carl Rice?
Lynn was a good man. Like all good people, he was not perfect. He was not really a hero figure, (although to some, maybe?) but an above-average cat. But in his relatively short life, he touched people in profound ways (as noted, we all do). When we showed up in November, mostly it was out of respect for Lynn’s memory and the circular coincidence surrounding a Dolores/Akron playoff match-up. Some of the connections were uncanny and it felt like some strange “juju.” My current leading idea is to try to capture a bit of that energy on paper with the different perspectives. I envision a treatment where a story is told through different characters eyes… It shapes up as a circle of life sketch. Is that too similar to “Bleachers”? Is there a better way?
Can I tell “evil black-hearted coach” stories in order to create a decent villain?
As Mark Thompson would say, “Just funnin’ ya.”
We all know you were trying to teach us honor and that your heart is not really black. The “evil” designation, I suppose, is still open for debate.
— Rob.

Carl Rice wrote:

Rob,
I had a player come up to me and with tears in eyes tell me he was being encouraged to press assault and battery charges on me because of my coaching. He said he didn’t know what to do. I told him to do whatever he needed to do. My conscience is indeed mine and is of no concern to anyone else. I now tell you, do what you need to do. You guys are dear to me but I am not in charge of what you think or your memories and perceptions. You have my blessings to do what you want.

From: Rob Carrigan
To: Carl Rice
Sent; Friday, Jan. 16, 2004

Coach:
Yes, and I have been sued in Federal District court for turning in someone who wrote me a bad check. At times, right and wrong gets a little cock-eyed in the short term.
Earlier you said, “I do however know of a pile of weaknesses and inconsistencies that were demonstrated in his life. I choose to regard the great things that he was.”
In my own experience, the Lynn image is mostly positive. Perhaps I didn’t see something I should have. Your acknowledged general perception is good but it has an edge on it. Maybe that is just your way.
My choice of Lynn as central is admittedly mechanical. He has been dead for years. To most of us, he wasn’t particularly controversial, but for me provides a common thread, glue to hold events together, wins and losses and noble fights. The truth be known, this writing, though I hope to dig out and present different perspectives, is mine. It is my view of what happened. You all can write something for your selves.
So where were the holes in his armor? I won’t dwell on it, but I need to know what put the edge in your voice. What were the great things he was? __ Rob.

Carl Rice wrote:
Rob, I knew Lynn from the time I first went to your town. He was the first student I met the first day I arrived in Dolores. He hung around me like a bee hangs around sugar water. He would do anything I asked of him, it was like he was thirsty for someone to approve of him and recognize his value. Lynn was a fragile person who put on a marvelous show, his talent was he was cool under pressure and that he was the most stoic youngster I have ever met. Few knew what he disliked and even fewer knew what he loved and valued. The edge that I have is not for the personality I loved. I don’t want anything to cheapen his memory. I don’t know what the perception of Lynn and my relationship was but I know what it was to me. We talked more than his parents did. Through college, we sent letters to each other and following college he came to live with me in Akron. He became closer than an old player. He was like a son. I was proud of him. His flaws, like all of ours are best left to the wind.

###

Please click on the following to view:

Part 1: As I wander about seeking.

Part 2: Bear begins the eternal hunt once more.

Part 3: Dolores, and other bears laid bare.

Part 4: Evil turned into pine nuts, yucca fruit and cacti.

Part 5: Bears forever marked by loss of the shepherds.

Other related posts:• Picture

• A missed thank you

• We communist, taking root and blossoming

As I wander about, seeking ...

Part 1
“In Scandinavia, there was a firm belief in the ability of some people to change into or assume the characteristics of bears. Our English word "berserk" comes from this legend. It was thought that if a warrior was to don a bear-skin shirt (called a bear-sark) which had been treated with oils and herbs, that the warrior would gain the strength, stamina, and power of the animal. These people would be driven into a frenzy in battle and were said to be capable of biting through the enemy's shields or walking through fire without injury.” — Gary Coulbourne

Sometimes, stories should be allowed to tell themselves.
In November of 2003, I began exploring the idea of writing something about how my friend, Lynn Leavell’s life and death had an impact on my own, and the lives of some of my friends. Pieces of that exploration have appeared here and there, but the definitive account, the be-all-to-end-all version that puts the matter to rest, never seems to emerge.
After wrestling with this mystery off and on all these years, the truth may be that I will never understand. Life may simply be just one damn thing after another, or not.
But following are few of the conversations and exchanges I’ve shared as I wander about, seeking.

From: Rob Carrigan
To: Scott Weinmaster
Sent: Thursday, February 26, 2004

Scott:
I am working on a writing project that involves Lynn and our trip to Dolores in November but ran into some roadblocks. I have asked Rusty and Carl Rice similar questions. What I am thinking of writing may take many forms. The idea that appeals to me now is an examination of value systems, environment, culture, etc… as it relates to one man’s life, Lynn Leavell. By talking about Lynn and his life, we try to take a good honest look in the mirror. Some of us will have different takes on what was, is, and might have been. A starting place for you and I on this, as I see it, is for you to tell me how you viewed Lynn? How you viewed yourself as it related to him? Your perceptions of the group as a whole? And any other observations you care to comment on?
An important disclaimer: in the course of this and future conversations, you want to tell me something but it is off limits as far as writing about it, you must make that clear to me. Because, otherwise, it might find its way into print. Thanks for your consideration. Let me know what you think. ¬—Rob

From: Scott Weinmaster
To: Rob Carrigan
Sent: Febrary 27, 2004

rob,
lots of things to think about… as far lynn and i, we kinda grew together as young kids, but as i went out of town, i lost track of all the family, until my mom sent me back to dolores my 9th grade summer, lynn made me feel at home as soon as i got back… he introduces me to everyone, u know the group… lynn was closer to me than my own brothers… we just seemed to click from the beginning … for a guy that wasn’t all that talented at sports physically, he was a wonder when it came to knowing the game … never knew anyone that had such a brain for the game … all games, he used his head more than body … that’s why he needed a special helmet to cover that rock of a head... lol… he was gentle and caring … but a hell of a competitor!! i remember that he was upset with me at 1 point thinking i was taking away from him being the head of the boys with granny … we both cried and of course had a few drinks back then but realized that it didn’t matter, we were bros and what mattered was how we felt and dealt with 1 another… as far as how i related to lynn, i guess i have to say that i was the alpha dog … but knew i couldn’t do much without him and the others … i feel that lynn respected me for that … he was the buffer and the smart 1 … i still regret that didn’t go to mesa, life would have been different, he wouldn’t have let me screw up … so i guess he was a person that i cared about not disappointing, … i looked up to him more that he ever knew … i always thought he was the star and not me … we had a lot of great times together … i miss him! so i guess the easiest way to do this is to send me specific questions … and listen to me ramble … 1 ? at a time, u know I can get overwhelmed lol… but to me, Dolores and all of u were the best thing that ever happened to a city boy.
scott
###

Please click on the following to view:

Part 1: As I wander about seeking.

Part 2: Bear begins the eternal hunt once more.

Part 3: Dolores, and other bears laid bare.

Part 4: Evil turned into pine nuts, yucca fruit and cacti.

Part 5: Bears forever marked by loss of the shepherds.

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• A missed thank you

• We communist, taking root and blossoming

We communists, taking root and blossoming

“We communists are like seeds and the people are like the soil. Wherever we go, we must unite with the people, take root and blossom among them.” — Mao Tse-Tung, 1966.

By Rob Carrigan, robcarrigan1@gmail.com

Dolores seemed like an unlikely place to harbor communist ideals or to produce a Marxist model for utopian cooperation and advancement. But right there it was. Evidence, plain as the nose on you face.
It started out innocent enough. Lynn Leavell had a simple wish. He hoped that one day, all the neighborhood kids would enjoy basketball.
Not just watching it on TV, or playing under the tyrannical guidance of an oppressive coach in gym class or after school — but in the freedom of someone’s own back yard. His — for example.
So, despite only being 9 or 10-years-old, and of limited resources and abilities, he set out to make that happen.
To set the record straight, Lynn was generally a capitalist. He had strong beliefs in the monetary system, the exchange of goods and services, the advancement of a man (or woman) by hard work, and careful administration and application of the fruits of that toil.
But it was like that well-worn Polish joke, “What’s the difference between capitalism and communism? Capitalism is the exploitation of man by man; Communism is the reverse.”
The first step was to convince his dad, who worked out at the sawmill at the time (or maybe it was his mom for she worked out there as well,) to bring home a big old pole. It had to be one tall enough and sturdy enough to hang a backboard from.
The pole appeared one day finally, without fanfare, and was deposited right there at the edge of the yard, parallel with Mary Ruth Major’s fence.
And what a knarly-looking monster it was? It was straight and tall, without bends, curves, irregularities or deviation regarding its reach toward the sky. But man, it was not pretty.
Every six to ten inches, all the way up and all the way around, little nubs, where once a small limb had hastily been trimmed with a chainsaw, protruded slightly from the pole. Some were smashed down flat. Others, the size a man’s thumb, needed the attention of additional sawmilling.
Not to be discouraged, Lynn set work with a hand saw and in some instances a hammer, or wood rasp, and occasionally even a hack saw, in his efforts to smooth over the problem protrusions.
His efforts were rewarded with a passably-smooth pole that was eventually raised, part of it submerged in a deep hole, and set with concrete out in the back of the back yard, near where the old shed used to be, but with plenty of space all the way around. Most of the time a basketball would fall within the confines of Leavell property, no matter how errant a shot.
Time passed and indeed, the neighbor kids did find the wooden backboard at regulation height upon the great knobby pole, to be quite satisfactory. Hours were wiled away after school, on weekends, vacations and during the summers. So much so, that a big brown hole was worn into the lawn and endless contests of H-O-R-S-E, Around the World, one on one, two on two, two on one, and whatever variation you could think of, would occur at all times of day. Every so often, a player, or the game’s host, would pause temporarily and the saw would be summoned to deal with the as-yet-untouched, but never the less still dangerous, knot on the pole.
The games and the yard itself developed a unique, or perhaps unheard of, quality of fairness and equality. Players of awesome ability were matched against those of mediocre, or even sub-par ability with little or no ill effect. Young men played side-by-side with young women. Men against boys. Brother versus sister. Good opposed evil, and so on.
That is where the reference to communism surfaced that I warned you about. Communism, pure and simple, blossoming right there in the soil of Leavell’s back yard on Seventh Street and Hillside Avenue in Dolores, Colorado.
Communism — in its distilled state … disproving Will Rogers often repeated remark, “Communism is like prohibition. It is a good idea but it won’t work.” Or lying bare the idea that a cow of many, is well milked and badly fed.
But old Karl Marx couldn’t have set it up any more perfectly. For in that back yard emerged a genuine model, the real deal.
From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs.
###
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With an Orange Crush bandana and anything else flashy

By Rob Carrigan, robcarrigan1@gmail.com

Life is shaped by experiences and the people you rub up against as you go through it.
Lynn Leavell was a close friend of mine. He grew up directly across Seventh Street in Dolores from me. As kids we catacombed entire city blocks with Tonka Truck tunnels, under sidewalks, through city storm sewer systems and in to neighbor’s yards. In the winter, when city crews created 30-foot piles in the middle of the street, we would tunnel through them as well.
I can’t remember a grade in elementary school when he wasn’t in my class. He had 12 years perfect attendance. I missed a day in third grade. We walked the five blocks to school every day together and Granny (his technically), who was a cook at the school cafeteria, would always offer us something when we arrived.
When we both were 11, we went into business together with a Durango Herald paper route that covered the whole town. He took “upriver,” I had “downriver.” We bought 10-speed bikes with some of the first of that money and rode the all the way to Cortez and back a few times. Our folks were ready to ground both of us for life when they found out, but they were usually about ready to ground us for life. They were probably still cussing us in recent years during their regular “community updates” in front of the Leavell or the Carrigan house or in the unpaved street between.
In high school, he was the student architect and quarterback behind a number of Dolores’ successful Single A football seasons, even though his cousin Scott was the star. That didn’t stop him from being easily the most identifiable Dolores Bear, with an Orange Crush bandana and anything else flashy that Coach Rice allowed him to get away with wearing to perpetuate his regional reputation as a Prima Donna.
We worked together off and on at the hardware store, me being the boss by virtue of six months seniority.
He bought a motorcycle and used to wear this army-surplus leather aviation helmet and old-fashioned aviator goggles with the Orange Crush bandana as he scooted through, the sagebrush, scrub oak, juniper and pinion “downriver.”
Today that whole area is under 500 feet of McPhee Reservoir. I had to buy a motorcycle myself so I wouldn’t miss out on swimming with the “bonedigger” girls at Big Rock. College students from Washington State University and University of Colorado did $7 million worth of archeology in that river valley before water started to backup the eight miles into town. Lynn, myself, and the rest of our friends knew every square inch of the lake bottom.
We had regionally famous run-ins with local history and mythology. We lived true stories. Stories that you could never have imagined on your own — things like brushes with death and catching a local politico with someone other than his wife “buck naked” in a cave. Government agencies are probably still looking for someone to pin a killer phone bill on from the old Graystone farmhouse where we had big ol’ party our senior year. The Graystone two-story was one of the few structures left on the lake bottom for fish habitat. Folks tell me they catch monster trout in that area today.
When we graduated from high school, Lynn, James Biard, and myself pooled our resources and purchased what we were later to decide was an excessive amount of Tennessee sour mash in celebration. James tells me he doesn’t care much for sour mash to this day. Except for medicinal purposes, I avoid it myself.
Lynn went to Mesa State in Grand Junction and I went a year to Fort Lewis College before transferring to Colorado State University in Fort Collins. Dolores kids and folks that we knew from Mancos, Cortez, Dove Creek, Pagosa, Bayfield would run into each other at college, and road trip back and forth with abandon. His friends at Mesa, became our friends at Fort Lewis, and with others we knew at School of Mines, and Boulder, and Western State and CSU and Adams State and Metro and UNC and where ever else we circulated.
Some how after college Lynn ended up in Akron as a teacher and assistant football coach under Coach Rice. When Rice left, he became head coach, and eventually principal of Akron High School. Most years his teams were successful in making it to the state playoffs at least, and by most accounts, Lynn lived at the school. He married, had two boys and one day, after trying to figure out why he couldn’t see as well as he used to, was diagnosed with an inoperable tumor that wrapped around stem of his brain.
For eight years he fought the cancer, and also lived his life, principaling, finishing a masters degree, continuing to coach, teach, raising his kids, working summers for the city as rec department coordinator — and always the Prima Donna, tooling around Akron with a pith helmet on.
One May, having received a call from Lynn’s family informing us that the experimental wafers that they put in his head were not working, myself and another buddy from Dolores, Rusty Hector, went to visit him in Akron. We spent the day going over some of our mutual history and things were pretty normal with him. He remembered with great clarity events in Dolores 20 years hence but seemed to slip a few gears when it came to recalling things he had told us that morning. By the end of August, a few weeks from his 35th birthday, he was dead.
That was more than 20 years ago. I learned a million things over the years with Lynn and from him. There are really two main lessons that I think standout. Life is short — and winning isn’t everything, but trying to win, makes it interesting. I never really thanked him.
###

Picture

We would never again be connected by the same passion and change.

By Rob Carrigan, robcarrigan1@gmail.com 
 
This story first appeared in the Denver Post when I served on their Voices panel in 2004.

I stared at the photo of my buddies at the football game for the longest time without realizing what was wrong. Something was missing. Then, after tossing the photo on the scanner, the image software forced me to put a name to the puzzle.
“Where’s Leavell?.jpg” the label now reads. In the photograph there is an empty seat in the front row on the right-hand side. A brain tumor killed our friend Lynn Leavell more than six years prior, but that didn’t stop him from leading us home.
Lynn was our quarterback for the Dolores Bears in 1978 and ‘79.
He later coached, taught and served as principal in Akron, Colo. In November, Dolores and Akron met leading up to the Colorado Single A football quarter finals. If played in Akron, the game would have been played on Lynn Leavell Field. But in Dolores that fall, Lynn reined in absentia over an important homecoming.
When I showed up at the game in November, it was out of respect for Lynn’s memory and the circular coincidence surrounding a Dolores/Akron playoff game. Others, I think, showed too, for similar reasons. His cousin Scott Weinmaster, picked me up in Colorado Springs in a rental car after a flight to Denver from his home in Florida.
We spent a lot of time talking about Lynn, on the way down to Dolores, and then with others when we arrived. To us he was not really a hero figure but just an above average cat. In examining the hole he left in our lives, we struggled for a better grip on understanding our own existence.
In the words of our coach, Carl Rice, “Lynn’s talent was that he was cool under pressure and the most stoic youngster I have ever met.”
He was a planner who usually had a laser beam focus. He set his goals early and often. As a result, he generally had a pretty good success ratio, and a facade of at least appearing calm. His public persona was of one of a man way beyond his years. It was as if he knew his ticket was punched for the matinee only.
Lynn was also an assistant coach in Akron under Rice. Carl Rice now lives, coaches and serves as principal back in Akron.
“He was like a son. I was and am proud of him. His flaws, like all of ours, are better left to the wind,” says Rice. “We each have a responsibility to teach honor within the confines of our own life.”
“He was his own worst enemy because he acted like he needed nothing but he needed support so much he felt guilty. You guys think he was different than you. I don’t see him that way. He just didn’t ask as much.”
But as usual, in that November, we were asking a lot from Lynn and his memory. Dolores football and seeing old friends was one thing. But personally, I hoped for connection. The kind of connection to a group where you can finish each other’s stories — even if you haven’t seen other members of the group in more than 20 years. As we settled into old familiar roles, I found some of that connection.
At one point, in an argument with Weinmaster and James Biard about what to make of Lynn’s death, I asked for peace. I think they both misunderstood me. I wanted peace, not in the sense that he was gone, and I needed to accept it. But peace in what his absence represented.
With Lynn’s absence—without him being in the picture anymore— two lessons were driven home with the force and violence of helmet-on-helmet, head-on tackling drills. First, that life is short and you need to make the most of it.

And related to that, we would never again be 17-years-old with plans to live forever. We would never again be connected by the same passion and change.
I, for one, find no peace in that. The empty seat in photo still brings me great sadness.