Eric was my uncle. He was never officially adopted by my grandparents, but he was a part of our family all my life, taken in when he was about 2 years old.
Eric had Cystic Fibrosis, but he never let it stop him from living life to the fullest. His goal, for as long as I could remember, was to live longer than anyone with CF had ever lived. He built a treehouse up in the woods behind Grandma's house. We played Army in the barn and in the woods, usually recreating World War II battles with us as captured spies who managed to escape--- whether the enemy was German or Japanese depended upon Eric, who dictated our roles. I never cared--- I loved it. We would also play Mod Squad, after the TV show we liked to watch.
Eric was also very creative. He put together model ships and cars, and in the years before his death he became very proficient in 'string art,' making beautiful works of art which the rest of us still proudly display on our walls. He was a skilled artist, and I often wonder what happened to the sketches he once had on his walls. One in particular helped him to vent the frustrations he hid at the limitations of his disease--- he was adamant that he would never marry, unwilling to risk passing on his disease to any descendants he might then have. His decision, made at rather an early age, still amazes me with his wisdom and unselfishness.
I remember once, during the two-year period when I lived with Grandma and Grandpa, Eric spotted a block-and-pulley system that ran along a track attached to the ridgepole in the barn. He managed to rig up a hook, using a pole and a coping saw with the blade removed, and snagged the rope which rested in the block. He used the rope to work the pulley system back along the track to the other side of the barn, and then attached a tire. He swung on it for a bit, then I decided I wanted to try to pull myself up to the ridgepole. He removed the tire, and I put my foot in the loop of the rope and started pulling the other end of the rope.
I learned my mistake when I reached about five feet above the floorboards... and suddenly my center of balance turned topsy-turvy. My feet flew up, my head flew down, and I fell at Eric's feet, still holding the rope. The looped end went straight up to the ridgepole.
With the wind knocked out of me, I looked up, gasping for breath, while Eric stood over me, looking up at the pulley and the other end of the rope, saying, "Wonder how we're gonna get it down now?"
I still laugh at that memory. It's one of the strongest ones I have of Eric-O.
Eric was several years older than me, but he was just a year ahead of me in school. He graduated from Vernonia Union High School, as part of the class of 1985. I still remember him in his red cap and gown.
In his later years, Eric started growing out his hair and nurtured a beard and mustache. His hair was a dark strawberry blond, but his facial hair was definitely red. I have always thought of him as a redhead, just as I am, but others in the family argue that he was just blond.
The CF finally got the best of him in 2000. He'd always wanted to see the new millenium, but I don't remember him talking about future plans after that. I do know that he had faith in God, and I believe that he was at peace with God when he left this earth.
Eric is greatly missed by so many of us, including his classmates and his campmates from the CF camp he used to attend.
Eric had Cystic Fibrosis, but he never let it stop him from living life to the fullest. His goal, for as long as I could remember, was to live longer than anyone with CF had ever lived. He built a treehouse up in the woods behind Grandma's house. We played Army in the barn and in the woods, usually recreating World War II battles with us as captured spies who managed to escape--- whether the enemy was German or Japanese depended upon Eric, who dictated our roles. I never cared--- I loved it. We would also play Mod Squad, after the TV show we liked to watch.
Eric was also very creative. He put together model ships and cars, and in the years before his death he became very proficient in 'string art,' making beautiful works of art which the rest of us still proudly display on our walls. He was a skilled artist, and I often wonder what happened to the sketches he once had on his walls. One in particular helped him to vent the frustrations he hid at the limitations of his disease--- he was adamant that he would never marry, unwilling to risk passing on his disease to any descendants he might then have. His decision, made at rather an early age, still amazes me with his wisdom and unselfishness.
I remember once, during the two-year period when I lived with Grandma and Grandpa, Eric spotted a block-and-pulley system that ran along a track attached to the ridgepole in the barn. He managed to rig up a hook, using a pole and a coping saw with the blade removed, and snagged the rope which rested in the block. He used the rope to work the pulley system back along the track to the other side of the barn, and then attached a tire. He swung on it for a bit, then I decided I wanted to try to pull myself up to the ridgepole. He removed the tire, and I put my foot in the loop of the rope and started pulling the other end of the rope.
I learned my mistake when I reached about five feet above the floorboards... and suddenly my center of balance turned topsy-turvy. My feet flew up, my head flew down, and I fell at Eric's feet, still holding the rope. The looped end went straight up to the ridgepole.
With the wind knocked out of me, I looked up, gasping for breath, while Eric stood over me, looking up at the pulley and the other end of the rope, saying, "Wonder how we're gonna get it down now?"
I still laugh at that memory. It's one of the strongest ones I have of Eric-O.
Eric was several years older than me, but he was just a year ahead of me in school. He graduated from Vernonia Union High School, as part of the class of 1985. I still remember him in his red cap and gown.
In his later years, Eric started growing out his hair and nurtured a beard and mustache. His hair was a dark strawberry blond, but his facial hair was definitely red. I have always thought of him as a redhead, just as I am, but others in the family argue that he was just blond.
The CF finally got the best of him in 2000. He'd always wanted to see the new millenium, but I don't remember him talking about future plans after that. I do know that he had faith in God, and I believe that he was at peace with God when he left this earth.
Eric is greatly missed by so many of us, including his classmates and his campmates from the CF camp he used to attend.
Eric was my uncle. He was never officially adopted by my grandparents, but he was a part of our family all my life, taken in when he was about 2 years old.
Eric had Cystic Fibrosis, but he never let it stop him from living life to the fullest. His goal, for as long as I could remember, was to live longer than anyone with CF had ever lived. He built a treehouse up in the woods behind Grandma's house. We played Army in the barn and in the woods, usually recreating World War II battles with us as captured spies who managed to escape--- whether the enemy was German or Japanese depended upon Eric, who dictated our roles. I never cared--- I loved it. We would also play Mod Squad, after the TV show we liked to watch.
Eric was also very creative. He put together model ships and cars, and in the years before his death he became very proficient in 'string art,' making beautiful works of art which the rest of us still proudly display on our walls. He was a skilled artist, and I often wonder what happened to the sketches he once had on his walls. One in particular helped him to vent the frustrations he hid at the limitations of his disease--- he was adamant that he would never marry, unwilling to risk passing on his disease to any descendants he might then have. His decision, made at rather an early age, still amazes me with his wisdom and unselfishness.
I remember once, during the two-year period when I lived with Grandma and Grandpa, Eric spotted a block-and-pulley system that ran along a track attached to the ridgepole in the barn. He managed to rig up a hook, using a pole and a coping saw with the blade removed, and snagged the rope which rested in the block. He used the rope to work the pulley system back along the track to the other side of the barn, and then attached a tire. He swung on it for a bit, then I decided I wanted to try to pull myself up to the ridgepole. He removed the tire, and I put my foot in the loop of the rope and started pulling the other end of the rope.
I learned my mistake when I reached about five feet above the floorboards... and suddenly my center of balance turned topsy-turvy. My feet flew up, my head flew down, and I fell at Eric's feet, still holding the rope. The looped end went straight up to the ridgepole.
With the wind knocked out of me, I looked up, gasping for breath, while Eric stood over me, looking up at the pulley and the other end of the rope, saying, "Wonder how we're gonna get it down now?"
I still laugh at that memory. It's one of the strongest ones I have of Eric-O.
Eric was several years older than me, but he was just a year ahead of me in school. He graduated from Vernonia Union High School, as part of the class of 1985. I still remember him in his red cap and gown.
In his later years, Eric started growing out his hair and nurtured a beard and mustache. His hair was a dark strawberry blond, but his facial hair was definitely red. I have always thought of him as a redhead, just as I am, but others in the family argue that he was just blond.
The CF finally got the best of him in 2000. He'd always wanted to see the new millenium, but I don't remember him talking about future plans after that. I do know that he had faith in God, and I believe that he was at peace with God when he left this earth.
Eric is greatly missed by so many of us, including his classmates and his campmates from the CF camp he used to attend.
Eric had Cystic Fibrosis, but he never let it stop him from living life to the fullest. His goal, for as long as I could remember, was to live longer than anyone with CF had ever lived. He built a treehouse up in the woods behind Grandma's house. We played Army in the barn and in the woods, usually recreating World War II battles with us as captured spies who managed to escape--- whether the enemy was German or Japanese depended upon Eric, who dictated our roles. I never cared--- I loved it. We would also play Mod Squad, after the TV show we liked to watch.
Eric was also very creative. He put together model ships and cars, and in the years before his death he became very proficient in 'string art,' making beautiful works of art which the rest of us still proudly display on our walls. He was a skilled artist, and I often wonder what happened to the sketches he once had on his walls. One in particular helped him to vent the frustrations he hid at the limitations of his disease--- he was adamant that he would never marry, unwilling to risk passing on his disease to any descendants he might then have. His decision, made at rather an early age, still amazes me with his wisdom and unselfishness.
I remember once, during the two-year period when I lived with Grandma and Grandpa, Eric spotted a block-and-pulley system that ran along a track attached to the ridgepole in the barn. He managed to rig up a hook, using a pole and a coping saw with the blade removed, and snagged the rope which rested in the block. He used the rope to work the pulley system back along the track to the other side of the barn, and then attached a tire. He swung on it for a bit, then I decided I wanted to try to pull myself up to the ridgepole. He removed the tire, and I put my foot in the loop of the rope and started pulling the other end of the rope.
I learned my mistake when I reached about five feet above the floorboards... and suddenly my center of balance turned topsy-turvy. My feet flew up, my head flew down, and I fell at Eric's feet, still holding the rope. The looped end went straight up to the ridgepole.
With the wind knocked out of me, I looked up, gasping for breath, while Eric stood over me, looking up at the pulley and the other end of the rope, saying, "Wonder how we're gonna get it down now?"
I still laugh at that memory. It's one of the strongest ones I have of Eric-O.
Eric was several years older than me, but he was just a year ahead of me in school. He graduated from Vernonia Union High School, as part of the class of 1985. I still remember him in his red cap and gown.
In his later years, Eric started growing out his hair and nurtured a beard and mustache. His hair was a dark strawberry blond, but his facial hair was definitely red. I have always thought of him as a redhead, just as I am, but others in the family argue that he was just blond.
The CF finally got the best of him in 2000. He'd always wanted to see the new millenium, but I don't remember him talking about future plans after that. I do know that he had faith in God, and I believe that he was at peace with God when he left this earth.
Eric is greatly missed by so many of us, including his classmates and his campmates from the CF camp he used to attend.
