Right after I heard that James passed away I started recounting the stories I often tell in which he was present and realized how integral he was in my best material. I started mentally composing a eulogy and when Meg sent out a note that people could speak at the Newman House service I called and asked if I could participate. I then started writing and went through several versions. When I spoke it was pulled from notes and copy but mostly the memory of what I had written multiple times over the preceding few days. Below is a copy of my planned talk with editorial to provide more color and details on what James meant.
In the last 20 years I have lived in six different cities making it difficult at times to have traditional friendships. I have found it necessary to surround myself with people that I can plug into after being absent for long periods of time. My friends need to be comfortable maintaining a long distance connection or being able to pick up where we left off. I think of it like a circle where I will always end up with back with my friends in a new city, or on a vacation, pick up where we left off… until one of us moves on again.
When reflecting on James I realized how many different points we reconnected at and how he’s a part of so many of the significant stories of my life.
Even though I went to elementary school with James I did not really get to know him until high school. The connection for James and I was cycling. James was part of a small team I was on and we traveled to several races together in New York, New Jersey, and even were able to attend the Olympic Training Center together in Lake Placid. At the Olympic Training Center neither of us exhibited the talent that the polish coaches desired. The only words of advice we elicited from the coaches as they yelled at us from their follow car were “faster, faster” and “echelon, echelon.”
Our nemesis was George Hincapie who is infamous as one of the most experienced American riders in the Tour de France. George was intimidating at 14 years old. He was six foot, 170 pounds and could compete with the pros at 14. After one race with George, James came up to me all excited. "Ted… George might be a good rider, but he’s not too bright. He spelled junior ‘J-U-N-O-R.’” (Ed. note: Later, when I was recounting the story to Jacqui and Meg they laughed because apparently James was a notoriously bad speller.)
After college James returned to Binghamton for a few months before heading to do his graduate work. I had been living with my parents since graduating from college and James became a part of the small group of friends I spent time with. James ended up driving with me to my wedding that summer in Montreal which turned out to be about as weird of an event as it possibly could have been. As we left Binghamton the temperature was 85 and humid. By the time we hit Montreal the temperature was 116 – it was so hot, varnish from church pews was staining people’s shirts. The night before the wedding the entire party watched OJ get chased down the highway adding to the surreal nature of the event. My Scottish in-laws, who my grandfather called “the funny little people with accents” and James eloquently called the “leprechauns,” proceeded to drink themselves into oblivion creating a festive environment.
That marriage did not last long and up to that point it had been the most difficult moment in my life. Shortly after things disintegrated James called me and expressed both his regret and sympathy. While I don’t remember the exact words, I remember the feeling it gave me. It struck me as a mature, sophisticated action at the time as many of my friends, being young at the time, did not seem to know how to treat me. To this day I use it as a model for how I think I should behave in those kinds of situations.
After James went back to school and I moved to Canada we would connect occasionally in DC, NY, or on the occasional business trip to San Francisco. I saw him most recently in November during a conference he was attending in San Francisco. During dinner I got a call from my wife Caitlin that she was in labor. James was very understanding and that night my second child was born. I sent James a note that my son, Edward Dillon Southwood Burns, was healthy and that both he and Caitlin were doing fine. James replied, “Congratulations, and that is a very impressive name – but what about James?” The truth is, I named Ned after my father because I could not imagine my life without an Edward. Now I find it difficult to imagine my life without James. (Ed note: This is usually where I break down, mostly because I do wish I could work his name in my life somehow so I can remember him more.)
James' passing has robbed me of that reconnection I was so sure would happen. I am thankful that James was able to get past my prickly and sometimes difficult nature and maintain a relationship for so many years. I am thankful that he is a part of so many of my best stories, many of which I can’t share because my parents are here.
November 2008
November 2008
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