Leader of the Band

Writing has got to be one of the most frustrating tasks to ever be given, and I am the moron that gives it to myself on a daily basis. To attempt to express emotion, wit, poetry and intelligence all at once by stringing the right combination of words together is absolutely asinine. But I do it because every now and then I get it right, and its awesome (not in the sense of "Becky is so totally awesome," but in the true sense of the word - leaving someone totally speechless). Nine times out of ten, however, it is the most frustrating part of my day. Most people don't understand what I mean when I try to explain that frustration, but my father does. He'll understand when I tell him I have spent the last two hours attempting to write a tribute to him and his legacy, and I have gone absolutely nowhere. He'll understand that this is not anything against who he is - but that I simply cannot put into words my respect for this man. I cannot write about his legacy...simply because I do not know what to say.

Much of who I am today is a driven from what I saw in my father. My father is the writer in me, he is the voice. My passion, power and poetic prose all come from him (although he was never as alliteration happy as I was). When my father and I get fired up, the same thing happens. We pace. We rant. We pontificate. And we will repeat until every last room is converted or crying (the latter sometimes has adverse affects). When my father wants to, he can blow roofs off houses, or as I used to say, "blow fish right out of the lake like cruise missiles!"

My father is a determined man - I believe the term my mother uses is "stubborn." He genuinely wishes to care for my family and provide for them without the assistance of anyone (thanks for passing that one along, Dad.). He works hard at what he does; at everything he does. I don't think I have ever seen him settle for less than what he is capable of, and I am sure that is because when he does it eats at him constantly. Personal success is important to him, but only as far as providing for the people around him. In short, my father cannot let people down; it is not in his nature.

Now I am a father. Providing for a family of my own, trying to make sure my family is taken care of. I now realize what immense pressure my father put on himself to ensure that my childhood was a happy one. The debt he incurred to make sure we had cars to drive and new clothes at school, the hours he put in at work to pay the bills, vacations, broken windows (I still consider that the best bow and arrow shot of my life) and boken bones (Nichelle...not me - I am invincible), and the overtime he put in at scouts, baseball, band concerts, choir festivals, basketball and the one on one time that seemed ample to me. I am fairly certain all have that would have been re-paid with a sincere thank you. I am certain I did not say it enough.

So again, here I sit - now three hours into this process still trying to figure out how to put my thoughts into a non-schizophrenic expression of gratitude for the man who has given me his life so that I may live mine. For that, I say thank you, Dad. I get it now. Thank You. I have had moderate success in life, and I owe much of it to the attributes he gave me. I am the living legacy of Brad Russon.

"...I thank you for the music and your stories of the road. I thank you for my freedom when it came my time to go. I thank you for the kindness and the times when you got tough. But papa, I don't think I said 'I love you' near enough."