In Memory of Rodney P. Backer

When Patrick and I met, eighteen years ago, it was late spring in Flagstaff. My grad school classes had ended, and I was working (very) part-time at a coffee shop. I was a terrible, but happy barista. Patrick drank my lattes, without mentioning once that I'd burnt the milk. I had just moved into an apartment downtown near the library, and he had just moved into a house on Aspen St., only a few blocks away. We quickly discovered an alley-way shortcut connecting us within just a couple of minutes. I remember there were crickets that would leap at our ankles and lots of yellow and purple wildflowers along the way.

Patrick lived in the upstairs hallway of the house with several roommates. They had a huge overgrown yard which functioned as a second living room, complete with a couch through which more wildflowers poked their pretty heads. There was always music in the house. The soundtrack of that summer was an eclectic mix of Prince and Earth, Wind, and Fire and The Specials and Squeeze and Ween. The Phoenix Suns could not lose that spring.

All of us seemed to have flexible jobs, mostly at restaurants (except for Steve who put on a uniform every weekday and headed off to a grown-ups job). What this meant was that most of our time was spent playing. I was twenty-four and falling in love.

The recollections of that summer are crystalline. The world belonged to us. We roamed the empty rides set up downtown for a carnival at night, we hopped into our cars and went to Vegas just because. We got drunk and went bowling. We went to the movies together, we threw parties (a pretty big reggae band once set up and played in the living room in exchange for a place to stay). We spent entire days in our pajamas. We got dressed up in our fanciest clothes and went to the cowboy bar to play pool. We were young and invincible. We were all in love with our lives.

Rodney, who lived in the bedroom off the kitchen, came up with the idea of creating The Aspen House Newsletter, to document our play. We must have known even then that this kind of playful bliss couldn't last. Not technically living in the house, I was a correspondent for the newsletter. In one of my contributions, I talked about the "extended recess" we all seemed to be enjoying from the grown-up lives we all were on the verge of. But we all knew that eventually the bell would ring, that recess would end.

And, as expected, it did. I graduated, and Patrick and I moved to Seattle. All the other tenants moved out and moved on. Years passed. We got married, we had kids. We got jobs. We lost touch and then found each other again on Facebook.

Then last week, we got a message that Rodney had passed away. Suddenly and without warning. He was forty-three years old. Rodney, the ring leader of our antics. The brilliant, sarcastic, and somehow both cynical and absolutely optimistic, Rodney. Our fearless leader. Our friend.

Patrick is in Phoenix right now for his memorial service, staying with many of our dear friends from the Aspen House. He said that last night they stayed up late, remembering Rodney. Playing together like kids, I suspect. I really wish I could have been there. For me, here at home, I will remember Rodney like I remember everything else about that summer. He was a magical person, and that was a magical time. And he taught all of us the importance of taking play seriously.

May you rest (and play) in peace, Rodney. You will be missed.