From Stephanie

Much as I’d like to be, I’ve never been very good at being daring or taking risks. When I was scared about something or just trying to work a situation through, Marcel was one of the best people to go to. For a period in high school, I was the regular ride-giver. Since Marcel lived closest to me, I would always drop him off last. It usually only took five minutes or so for me to get him home, but over the course of those daily five minute rides I’d share my latest conundrums—things like should I graduate early and move away?—and he’d give powerful advice in a few sentences. (Yes, to the graduating early and moving. A resounding yes. It was an easy answer for him to give me; all the other conversations about that were his reassurances about my fears.) This continued after high school, too. The last two times I visited him in St. Louis, we spent the day or evening adventuring and then stayed up well into the wee hours talking about All The Things, but often landing on what I wanted to do and was afraid of. He always encouraged me to take the risk, to go on the adventure, to follow my heart.

I like to think this last year was an adventure he would be proud of. He certainly was my compass for it. Last July, after nine years of dreaming about moving across the country to Seattle, but letting little fears hold me back, my husband Scott and I packed up our stuff and our cats and actually DID it.  Most of our stuff went in a pod and was hauled by truck. With the cats and all the plants, there was not a lot of room in the car, but I insisted on one item: a shadowbox that Scott made for Marcel’s “Instructions for Life” which Thea had gifted me with, printed on a paper towel, like Marcel’s original version. I needed that traveling with me, reminding me to “Take into account that great love and great achievements involve great risk.” I also wanted it to be the very first thing in my new home—even though it had to sit on the floor for the week it took our furniture to arrive.

I thought about Marcel throughout the entire drive from Chicago to Seattle as I took in sights that were completely new to me—the Badlands, the mountains in Idaho, the desert in Eastern Washington—and imagined the conversations we’d have had on that long car ride. Strangely, even though I moved away from the place where I met Marcel and we grew up, I feel closer to him out here. I think that’s because I spend every weekend out in the woods, hiking mountain trails, examining old trees, picking and eating wild berries (making sure they are not poisonous, of course), seeking out waterfalls, keeping my eyes peeled for eagles, and seeing new (to me) birds, funny-looking waterfowl, and slugs. I feel him out there when I’m walking quietly, when I’ve reached a peak and am staring out at the world spread out beneath, and especially when I come upon a log that looks very much like a funny lady in a hat thanks to mushroom and moss growth and conveniently positioned plants. I feel him, I think of him, and I thank him over and over for sharing his adventurist spirit with me.