Looking through albums, I stop on this photo, as I always do. It’s from a day when we were all at home in April, probably for my parents’ anniversary–kids, grandkids, in-laws–including three-month-old twins Sarah and Gina. I’m sure Josh, who’d just turned two, was getting lots of attention so he wouldn’t feel slighted because of his new sisters. And somehow during all that excitement and activity, Daniel, about three and a half, ended up in “Oompah’s” lap for a few quiet moments.
Never were grandkids more loved by their grandfather. For many years, these tiny shoes dangled from the mirror of his Pinto station wagon. They are still packed among my things. Though I’ve thought several times about sending them to their original owners, there’s something so sweet about keeping them together.
Josh's blue shoe, a pair of Daniel's shoes, a red shoe each from Sarah and Gina.
“April is the cruelest month,” T.S. Eliot wrote, and it’s true that it’s always pulled at my emotions. Sometimes I realize I’ve been staring into space for an hour, two hours, in wonder that April has robbed our family again. There is a shoe missing, the grandchild my father never knew.
Aaron, your cousins and your brother hold you in their hearts. We all do.
When I decided to do the year-long legacy writing project, writing about memories inspired by photos, I knew many dates and occasions would lend themselves to specific recollections: my parents’ anniversary, certain birthdays, events related to friends. As I once said to Rhonda and Lindsey, I consider these posts love letters to the people from all places and times of my life, a way to share what they meant or mean to me. In regard to my nephew Aaron, I’d already anticipated posts related to his graduation from high school next month, memories of the first time I met him, special moments we shared with my mother before her death in June of 2008, and his nineteenth birthday on December 19.
Aaron died on April 25. As I went through the painful process of sharing this news with friends, so many of them said things that will be part of my coping and healing. One such thing stands out. My friend Carreme wrote, “Please do write what you had planned for Aaron for this year. What better way to honor him.” I know she’s right. I wrote a letter to Aaron that was buried with him, and in it I said, “And I will write to you and about you many more times, as I’m sure you could have guessed.” Aaron loved hearing and reading our family stories. We all looked forward to the many he would add to our collection.
I can’t thank everyone enough for the memories or words you’ve shared with me. And I want to give any of you who wish a space and opportunity also to share your thoughts with Aaron’s parents, Lisa and my brother David, as well as Aaron’s other family and friends. Please feel free to express your condolences or to describe memories of Aaron or special moments with him in comments to this post. I will make sure your words are received by them.
Aaron was preceded in death by the two grandmothers he loved, Dorothy Baggett Cochrane and Gaylene Rogers Brown. He is survived by his mother Lisa, his father David, his sister Heather, and his brothers Daniel and Alex. He will be missed by his girlfriend Rachel; aunts Debby, Becky, Laura, Louise, Linda, Anne; his uncles Danne, Owen, and Tom; his nephews Dave and Steven; his many cousins Josh and Dalyn, Sarah and Mark, Gina and Eric, Maddison, Lexi Lee, Jamison, Matthew, Jacob, and Jennie; and Cochrane family special connections Geri, Terri, Aimee, Tim, and Lynne. (If I’ve missed, mis-remembered, or misspelled anyone’s name, please comment to let me know and I’ll add or correct.) Aaron will also be missed and remembered by many friends from school, church, taekwondo, work, and the places he volunteered his time.
Some of you have asked if there are specific organizations to which you might donate in honor of Aaron’s memory.
Among the things Aaron’s younger brother Alex spoke of in his eulogy was Aaron’s involvement with the Miracle League, an organization that gives special needs kids a chance to play baseball. Their donation address is Miracle League at Town & Country, P.O. Box 200277, Austin, TX 78720-0277.
From the time they were young boys, Aaron and Alex volunteered at animal shelters to walk dogs. They adopted rescued dogs, including Aaron’s chihuahua. Aaron supported Ay Chihuahua Rescue. Their address for donations is Ay Chihuahua Rescue, P.O. Box 201625, Austin, TX 78720-1625.
If you want to give to either of those organizations or to one that’s local to you, and you’d like the family to know, you can give my notification address, and I’ll make sure Aaron’s parents know. You are also welcome to send cards or letters to this address for me to pass on: Becky Cochrane, [updated as of 2015] P.O. Box 924104, Houston, TX 77292.
In closing, I’d like to share the remarks my brother gave at Aaron’s funeral. Thank you to everyone who will take the time to read about this young man who means so much to our family. As I expressed to my friend David P when we talked about the special bond between children and their aunts and uncles, Aaron was the gift I didn’t know I wanted until he came. And as his cousin Gina said, “My heart will ache forever.”
Aaron in 2011, photo by Geri
From David Cochrane:This is the text of remarks I delivered at Aaron’s memorial service on May 1, 2012, at the Cedar Park, Texas, ward house of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Although under the pall of sadness, I may have made slight deviations, this is as I intended my remarks.
Aaron Buchanan Cochrane, I was in the room with your mother at LDS Hospital in Salt Lake City when you came into this world.
Aaron Buchanan Cochrane, now, all too soon, we find ourselves in another room with your mother after you have left this world. Would that it were not so!
Aaron Buchanan Cochrane, Lisa and I chose the name you carried so as to remind you of both of your families.
Aaron Buchanan Cochrane, friend, cousin, nephew, uncle, brother, son, born in Utah, you lived most of your life in Texas, and you were keenly interested in your roots in the South.
When you would visit my mother Dorothy, you would pore over her decades of photos, ask many questions, hang on her stories, share her memories. Your aunts Debby and Becky have similar memories of your visits with them. Always the questions.
After my mother passed, you were able, due to the graciousness of Becky and her husband Tom, to join us at her memorial service. You stood by my side as her remains were placed with those of your Grandfather Bill at Fort McClellan in eastern Alabama.
When Cochranes gather in times of sadness, we tell stories; we always have. And always those stories become more and more outrageous. You sat with us — cousins, your aunts, your brother Daniel, your nephew David (your nephew Steven too young to make the trip), family friends, me — that night and listened to stories and laughed long and loud with us, mostly about people you’d not known, nor, in some cases, heard of.
That night, when you and I returned to our room, you began to ask questions about the people of whom we’d spoken. Thus we decided to make a pilgrimage to visit the resting places of other of your forebears. That next day we traveled to northwest Alabama to pay respects to your paternal great-grandfather and great-grandmother. We continued on to visit your second- and third-great-grandfathers. We drove to Tupelo, Mississippi, where Dorothy’s parents, the Baggetts, rest. We visited old homesteads, small towns, country cross-roads churches. You heard stories of long-gone antecedents who fought to establish this country, others who fought to rend it asunder, and still others who fought to defend it, of slave-holders and activists for equal rights. You took it all in and let it become a part of you.
And yet, of that day, what I took was the memory of you and I… a cemetery, Center Methodist Church… deep in the Alabama hills, the foot of the Appalachian Mountains far back in the piney woods… a downpour like can only happen in the Gulf coastal states began to fall. As you and I ran back toward the car, a small, soggy-sodden, bedraggled kitten was suddenly running alongside you. Somehow it knew you were its salvation. Without breaking stride, you picked it up, and into the car it went. As we sat there, the wet cat shivering, you unbuttoned your shirt, and put it inside that shirt next to you. Then you matter-of-factly announced that you were going to take it on the plane back to Texas; it could go in your carry-on. Me: “Uh, maybe we’d better call your mother.” No answer. You were determined in your plan.
Off the lone paved road, there was a dirt road down which we spied a single house. We drove to it. No one was there, but on the front porch was a small box with towels in it, a saucer of milk, and some food. You knew the kitten was home, and you were, then, willing to let go of it. For myself, I knew what you were made of, and I was proud.
On a recent visit with your Aunt Becky and Tom in Houston, you seemed happy. They noted that even though you still asked questions, you’d begun to develop your own way to tell the stories.
Only a few weeks ago, my partner Geri Mendoza and a colleague visited Austin on business. You, your mother, Geri, her colleague and her sister, all had lunch together. When you discovered that the sister was a photographer, you asked questions, then fell into a long, involved discussion on cameras and the art of photography.
As I’ve spoken with people over the last couple of days, the one theme that kept emerging is that Aaron showed none of the signs one might expect of one who took the action he did. To the contrary, he brimmed with thoughts of the future, was interested in the world around him, and displayed a sense of humor that ranged from subtle to slapstick. In short, his was not a story of a descent into hopelessness and despair, but that of a young person with all the attributes — intelligence, curiosity, interest in others — that would have allowed him to successfully go wherever he wished with his life.
That leaves us with the question, then, of why, with so much yet to do, did he choose the path he did? As we know, there is no answer, only more questions. If there is no answer, then the word “inexplicable” remains. If there is no answer, then words like “fault” or “blame” cannot apply. There is no guilt to be had, only sadness, only our shared deep sense of loss.
Aaron Buchanan Cochrane made one bad decision all too quickly, and, thus, the inexplicable and the irreversible become one. Time does not heal all wounds, but it may lessen the pain. Aaron may no longer be with us, but we’ll always have Aaron. And we will always honor and love him, just as we will continue to love and support Lisa, the mother who gave him to us.
Wednesday afternoon, Tom and I drove our nephew Aaron a couple of hours outside Houston to meet up with his mother. During his visit here, I didn’t make him do anything nefarious (Lynne!) or take him to get a tattoo, so I’m betting he’ll get to visit us again. That’s certainly what five dogs are hoping, as well as the human Compounders.
As we drove through the countryside, we could see the first faint dusting of wildflowers. Anyone who lives near Texas’s Hill Country goes out sooner or later to see the gorgeous wildflowers growing alongside the roads. And it’s a rite of passage for every Texas child to be photographed sitting in a field of bluebonnets, Texas Paintbrush, Indian Blankets, greenthreads, winecups, primroses, or any combination of those.
My first spring in Texas, Jess was about seven, and I snapped this photo of him on an excursion to the country.
This is a photo Lynne took of Jess’s daughter Lila, when Lila was just over a year old.
Sometimes it amazes me to realize I’m seeing Jess’s child do the same things he did. Still, I’m not a grandmother. Lynne is. Can’t figure out how the math works there.
I am an aunt, but I didn’t make Aaron jump from the car and pose for me, since the flowers aren’t in full bloom yet. Our way of celebrating Pi Day was to eat lunch together at Happy Fatz, where we split this dessert. Okay, it’s not officially pie. It’s cheesecake. But it looks like pie. So close enough!
Some random things to show I don’t live completely in the past.
Writers.
Recently, Tim and I attended Michael Thomas Ford’s signing at Murder By The Book. MTF looks very solemn in this photo, as he was listening to a question from a reader. But there were a lot of laughs at the event, because he’s a funny man. He was there to promote the third in his Jane series: Jane Bites Back, Jane Goes Batty, and Jane Vows Vengeance.
Current-day Jane Austen as a vampire whose nemesis is the undead Charlotte Brontë; who finds love and unusual potential mother-in-law conflict in upstate New York; and who can talk to three-legged chihuahuas and ghosts: What’s not to love?
Aesthetics. Coke introduced the white polar bear can to raise awareness of the threat to the polar bear and its habitat due to climate change. In partnership with the World Wildlife Fund, Coke committed three million dollars to the campaign. Consumers reacted poorly to the Coke can, either because of their devotion to the color red or because they confused the white can with Diet Coke’s silver can. Coke stopped production of the white polar bear can and now shows the bears on the traditional red can. I’ll bite my tongue on all the things I could say about this–except to note that I loved the white can.
Art.
We had an honest to goodness Craft Night last week! Lindsey and I both painted. I’d vowed that when Project Runway All Stars ends, I’d return to working on the Bottle Caps and Friends series.
I hope to hang it somewhere this year.
Adorability.
Last October, I spied this tiny Starbucks cup at Target and shot it (left). As adorable as I found the shot-glass sized cup, there was no point in sharing the photo because of the lack of scale. Then on a recent drive-through, I was given a little sample of Starbucks cherry pie in one of the shot-glass cups. Notice how the logo has changed in the interim, with the Starbucks name vanishing to leave only the mermaid.
Family. Our nephew Aaron is visiting for a few days. On Monday, he, Tim, and I went to Houston Camera Co/op so Tim could look at external flashes; Aaron could look at potential new cameras (he’s going Canon, because that’s what he’s learning on, and Canons still make me drool, even though I’m a Nikon owner); and I could learn what to do about the smudge that I keep having to photoshop out of all my pictures. The REALLY helpful gentleman (pictured with Aaron, beyond Tim in this photo) who assisted me has SOLVED MY PROBLEM by showing me how to get to the innards of my camera (if ONLY I’d read the manual–bad tech writer!) and delicately clean away the smudge. This will save me a lot of time with my photos, so I’m quite happy.
Home. I saw a photo online of a grouping of globes displayed in a home. I liked it, but I have only one globe. I moved it from my office to my living room and added some of my crystal balls, my Manhattan snow globe, Tom’s childhood marbles, and other globe-shaped items next to it. There are twinkly lights there, too, so the crystals glisten at night.
Friends. In addition to being my nephew Josh’s birthday, March 12 is my late friend Tim R’s birthday. We dropped by the cemetery to leave wind chimes on his crape myrtle. I wonder if they’ll still be there the next time I visit? I say that not because people steal things, the way they stole from my parents’ gravesite. The other things left over the years are all still there. I just don’t know if it’s too big to be allowed to hang from the tree. We’ll see!
Since it’s Mardi Gras, I figured I’d look back a mere year, when my family had what we call “Accidental Mardi Gras.” It wasn’t actually Fat Tuesday, but we’d forgotten it was Carnival season, so it was a surprise when Tom, David, Geri, Debby, Aaron and I took a day trip to Galveston and stumbled into it. It’s a good thing that something was going on, since it was too foggy in the coastal city to do much except enjoy the crowds, the beads, the mini parades, and the funnel cakes.
My family is always a good time, whatever the season. Here are a few images that I don’t think I’ve shared before, but if they’re repeats, so be it. Laissez les bons temps rouler!
When she was four and her mother told her that Tom and I lost both of our dachshunds within five days of each other, she wanted to do something to make us feel better. Her mother went online and found dachshund illustrations to print so she could color and send them to us. She came up with the stained glass effect on her own. The coloring she used on the dogs makes them look very much like our pups, and these drawings have been displayed in our house ever since.
When she was twelve, after my mother’s memorial service, more than 30 adults and 12 kids gathered at a restaurant. The restaurant had set up a long table for the kids, and without being asked, she and my nephew Aaron (who was 14) took charge of the kids’ table, keeping them occupied with colors and conversation so the grown-ups could talk. They probably never knew that I noticed, but I did, and appreciated their thoughtfulness so much.
When she was fourteen and Tom and I got to spend a week with family in the mountains of Arkansas, I had the best time teasing her in the pool and having long conversations with her about books and school and whatever stuff popped into our heads.
She makes great grades. She donates her time to help other people. She’ll stand up for someone who’s being picked on. She has tons of friends. She loves to ride horses. She loves her dogs. She’s a kind, smart, beautiful young lady. Anyone would be proud to have her as a daughter, and Tom and I are blessed to have her as a niece.
We love her very much, and today she turns sixteen. Happy birthday, Toni!
Find a Penny, pick her up,
All day long you’ll have good luck.
I like pennies. Even ones that aren’t canine. Whenever people talk about doing away with pennies as a currency, I feel myself resisting the idea. I guess I’m getting old and unwilling to change. (Get it–change. Ha.)
A touristy thing I’ve done over the years is to drop a penny into one of those machines that flattens pennies and imprints them with names or illustrations of a particular place. So when I look at them, I can remember walking on Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco with Tom to enjoy the sea lions. Sitting at Cafe Du Monde with Lynne or my Saints and Sinners friends. Going to aquariums in New Orleans with Tom’s family, in Gulfport with my sister and mother, in downtown Houston with Steve and Jim or my sister and Tim. Ordering ice cream or coffee or candy at La King’s in Galveston–on different trips with Rhonda, Lindsey, and Tom, or with my family including Aaron, who also got a penny pressed. Going to Moody Gardens in Galveston with Tom and Steve C and cracking up at penguin antics. Being on the Strand in Galveston on too many trips with my sister (and sometimes her friends) to count; with Steve C, Jim, and Tim when they all got goofy trying on cowboy hats; or with Lynne and Craig and Tom, including one December when we went to Dickens on The Strand and Craig nearly froze me to death driving home with the window open so we could all stay awake. I have pennies from Houston’s Museum of Natural Science and Johnson Space Center. From the time after my mother’s memorial service, there are memories of when I went to the Clinton Presidential Museum in Little Rock just after my sister and I met her daughter and family in Gatlinburg–not to mention the time Tom’s entire family surprised his mother on her birthday when she arrived in Gatlinburg to find us all there in a huge house we rented.
Even though the pennies commemorate the places, what I really remember are the people who shared those times with me–or Tom and me. We may be busy people, but we find time–or make it–for who and what we value. That’s not luck–it’s love.
I bought a fabric remnant forever ago from Jo-Ann Fabrics. This morning I finally turned that fabric into napkins.
These join last year’s napkin effort (from another Jo-Ann remnant). Those napkins were so small no one would use them, so this morning I also sewed them together, making four medium-sized napkins out of eight little ones.
Of course, all of these go with my ongoing project of napkin rings. Though at the moment, I have no idea where the unpainted napkin rings are. They’ll turn up sooner or later. In the meantime, the existing ones make a cheerful photo.
When I decided to do the year-long legacy writing project, writing about memories inspired by photos, I knew many dates and occasions would lend themselves to specific recollections: my parents’ anniversary, certain birthdays, events related to friends. As I once said to Rhonda and Lindsey, I consider these posts love letters to the people from all places and times of my life, a way to share what they meant or mean to me. In regard to my nephew Aaron, I’d already anticipated posts related to his graduation from high school next month, memories of the first time I met him, special moments we shared with my mother before her death in June of 2008, and his nineteenth birthday on December 19.
Writers.
Coke introduced the white polar bear can to raise awareness of the threat to the polar bear and its habitat due to climate change. In partnership with the World Wildlife Fund, Coke committed three million dollars to the campaign. Consumers reacted poorly to the Coke can, either because of their devotion to the color red or because they confused the white can with Diet Coke’s silver can. Coke stopped production of the white polar bear can and now shows the bears on the traditional red can. I’ll bite my tongue on all the things I could say about this–except to note that I loved the white can.
Art.
Adorability.
Family. Our nephew Aaron is visiting for a few days. On Monday, he, Tim, and I went to 
Home. I saw a photo online of a grouping of globes displayed in a home. I liked it, but I have only one globe. I moved it from my office to my living room and added some of my crystal balls, my Manhattan snow globe, Tom’s childhood marbles, and other globe-shaped items next to it. There are twinkly lights there, too, so the crystals glisten at night.
Friends. In addition to being my nephew Josh’s birthday, March 12 is my late friend Tim R’s birthday. We dropped by the cemetery to leave wind chimes on his crape myrtle. I wonder if they’ll still be there the next time I visit? I say that not because people steal things, the way they stole from my parents’ gravesite. The other things left over the years are all still there. I just don’t know if it’s too big to be allowed to hang from the tree. We’ll see!
