Logan’s Story Part 11: The Eulogy

On September 15th, my 24-year-old cousin drowned at Lake Almanor, California. Like every death in any tightly knit group of people, it’s changed our family forever.

I tried to write Logan’s eulogy for someone else to read, but I couldn’t. Apparently I’m incapable of writing words that are so personal to someone else’s heart. Unfortunately, this weakness also resulted in me having to read it.

But at least I got to go first. To be frank, I couldn’t have watched his eight friends talk about him that day and THEN get up and speak. I’m still not sure how they all did it.

People have requested that I post Logan’s eulogy. This makes me extremely proud. My writing is one of the few gifts I feel like I can give, and I wanted to do the best I could for him and everyone else who loved him.

 

Hi, I’m Tammy, Logan’s cousin. I’m also his favorite relative. Actually also his favorite person. So it’s nice to be here to talk to the rest of you. . . people.

I’ve know Logan since he was a baby. From the moment he entered the world, he started making a difference in people’s lives. I left for college just three months before he was born, and if it weren’t for him, my mother would’ve had nothing else to focus on. So she would’ve called me constantly, kept me from studying, and made me flunk out of school. So you see how helpful he was from the very beginning.

I’m really not exaggerating when I say Logan was the focus of our family from the moment he was born. There hadn’t been a baby for 17 years, so everybody basically went crazy. He had almost four whole years of unadulterated spoiling — four years of pure sunshine and roses — and then Garret showed up. Which changed everything because that kid was crazy. He looks mellow now, but. . . At meal times we used to just leave food out and let him run by it like the Tasmanian Devil. Now Logan, on the other hand, actually liked going out to restaurants. And sitting. And conversing. And using silverware.

The weird thing is, Logan and Garret still liked each other. A lot. I’d say they were like Felix and Oscar from The Odd Couple, but both of their rooms were a disaster, so that comparison doesn’t really work. Anyway, the point is, against all odds, they were really close. And as the years went by, they just got closer. They were that lucky combination of brothers and best friends.

But back to Logan. In many ways, Logan was your typical kid. Of course, like all kids, he had his little idiosyncrasies. When he was really young, he’d throw up at the drop of a hat. Like, all the time. But I’m sure no one here has ever experienced a situation where, perhaps, Logan, as a teenager or adult, threw up, say at a party, for any possible reason, other than for something like terrible food poisoning or the stomach flu.

Anyway, he had what many of us would consider a proper Nevada childhood. He learned to drive a boat on Lahontan and ski at Diamond Peak and ride a four-wheeler in Yerington. He rode horses and went camping and was in a play at the Brewery Arts Center.

But because he was Logan, he always managed to make the world a little more interesting. I don’t think anyone remembers how many permutations of color and style his hair went through. No one ever knew when he might show up with, say, a 6 foot 4 male ballerina in a pink tutu. And what skier who ever met him could possibly forget his green parka.

Like I said, Logan grew up surrounded by family. Ours was the type where our grandpa brought soup over every Monday night — which all the kids hated and our parents loved. And where our grandma came over and did all the ironing while watching the Price is Right. And where my mom — Nan — turned her life upside-down when Sue became a single mom. There was always someone to babysit a kid. Or help you move. Or come over if you were sick.

And that’s what made Logan who he was. After our grandparents passed away and then, even worse, Nan died from cancer, our family seemed so small and fragmented. You wouldn’t expect the 20-something to be the one who tried to hold us together. But Logan was the one who’d stop by my house for lunch out of the blue. Or drop whatever he was doing and help my husband work on Sue’s greenhouse. Or suggest we start having Sunday dinners.

I guess we shouldn’t have been surprised. He was the same kid who kept his mom going for years. Who was her shoulder to cry on even when his shoulders were much smaller than hers.

The greatest loss of Logan’s life was probably when Nan died. For him, she was that person we all hope to have who lights up whenever you walk into a room. She — and my dad — were there for him during the most difficult times in his life.

The funny thing is, if you met Logan as a 24-year-old, he didn’t strike you as a guy who’d ever struggled, because he was so confident. He could open up a room with the easy way he laughed and made the people around him light up. There’s no way you could ever imagine him living a life closed inside some dark closet, just aching to get out.

I suppose that’s one reason why this is so cruel. And also why it’s so beautiful at the same time. When Logan died, he was absolutely, totally himself. He was authentic. He wore what he wanted to wear, and said what he wanted to say, and was on his way to a future that he was completely and righteously his.

I think one of the hardest things about all of this is that not only did we love Logan, but we just liked him so much. Not many sons enjoy hanging out with their moms. Not many brothers turn out to be best friends. And not many people, frankly, care about other people as much as Logan did.

But really, it comes down to this: I feel sorry for the guy that won’t get to grow old with Logan.

I feel sorry for the kids who won’t have him as a dad.

I feel sorry for all the people who won’t ever see his wonderful designs or taste his ingenious recipes or hear his passionate rants about politics.

And I feel sorry for all of us — because there will be countless moments at concerts or parties or holiday dinners when we’ll be wondering, “What if he were here.”

But I don’t feel sorry for Logan. There’s a movie, Steel Magnolias, where a young woman dies, and one of the characters says, “She will always be young. She will always be beautiful.” I can’t stop thinking about that. Logan will always be young. He will always be beautiful. He will forever be the energetic man who had the world at his doorstep and a life that held infinite possibilities. When he left us, he was happy.

And as much as I miss him, I’m so glad that even on his last day, he grabbed onto life with both hands, and he jumped in.

 

Part 12: Found