The boy who is in each of these pictures is named Ethan Townsend, and he died on September 4, 2009. He was hiking with a friend in a China when a rock slide crushed them both. He was 24 years old. I was his RA in the dorms (Twain) at Stanford in 2004-2005; it was his sophomore year and my senior year. He lived two doors down from me, and everyday he asked me how my day was.
Last spring, he randomly called me because he was cleaning out his phone and wondered if my number still worked. We discussed his physics PhD program at Colorado, our shared fascination with paragliding, past and future travel adventures, love disappointments, and when we were going to see each other in Seattle. I am so grateful for his call.
I went to his inspiring memorial service in his hometown of Ashland, Oregon. Hundreds and hundreds of people - aging long-gray-haired hippies from the community, college friends who flew in from Boston, Chicago, Boulder and L.A. - filled the bright high school gym. I sat with his other friends from Twain who were wearing white t-shirts with a cat drawn on them; this was Ethan's signature drawing (he called it a tiger) that he left on any whiteboard note or birthday card he wrote for them.
It was obvious from the stories how much the town of Ashland, the Townsend family, and mere acquaintances loved Ethan. One of my favorite stories was hearing about how he would give people night-time roof-top tours of Stanford because, as an expert lock pick, he could access all the buildings and staircases. He took a graduate-level philosophy class is sophomore year - just for fun - and aced it. He once rebuilt his computer inside of a mini-fridge because it was over-heating and the sound of the fans that he had been using was too loud. He never sat on a chair at his desk, only on a yoga ball. He would always patiently and graciously help people with their math and physics homework - homework that he had finished in minutes.
Many people stood during the open-mic portion of the service and gave impromptu tributes, including his kindergarten teacher, his sixth grade teacher's husband, his soccer coach, high school teammates, a friend for whom he had recently been a best man, a neighbor, an uncle, and almost all his freshman dorm mates. His parents even stood together and thanked everyone for the outpouring of support for them and their daughter.
What emerged was the picture of a man who who was a humble genius, who was kind to a fault, who prioritized people, who built and explored and created and loved.
One person at the service said that even though Ethan was not able to live a long life, he was able to live a remarkable one. I know that I will not feel Ethan's absence as acutely as those closest to him, but I will continue to feel inspired by who he was.
Baby Picture Epiphany #3: I heart Tupperware.
