Rusty and I were best friends over a long number of years. I think we met when we were four years old, the year that I moved to Louisville. In addition to being at Waggener together, we both attended Vanderbilt and spent many good times there together. Then we were in the SF area together.
Rusty called me “Johnny,” my mother’s name for me when I was young. I dropped this for the more adult “John” in the second grade at the insistence of my teacher, Mrs. Cleveland. Some few people continued with the “Johnny.” Rusty was one of them. And I continued to call him “Rusty,” along with his adult name of choice, “Russ.” I still can remember him calling me this name;“Johnny,” a remnant of our childhood together. Are old men permitted such pleasures?
After graduation from Vanderbilt, we spent the summer on a European trip along with John Slater, a fellow classmate. We rented a Volkswagen for which we paid $157 for the eight weeks. The Volkswagen had a manual transmission which Rusty did not appreciate. I don’t think he had driven one before. Since we planned to do lots of driving, Slater and I insisted that he become moderately competent in using it; which he did. However, on one occasion while in Scotland, Slater or I completed our shift driving and parked the car just uphill from another car. When we left, it was Russ’ turn to drive. He deliberately put the key in the switch, pushed in the clutch with his left foot, released the emergency brake, but forgot to place his right foot on the brake pedal. So the car rolled into the car ahead of us. The result was a dent in the boot cover. Russ was thoroughly disgusted – at the car with the manual transmission, not at himself. Slater and I used the palm of our hands to pretty much remove the dent from the boot cover; and away we went, not giving the incident nor the still noticeable remnant of the dent much more thought.
However, when returning the car to the rental agency in Paris, it occurred to us that we might get “dinged” again, this time perhaps being assessed a non-negotiable charge for a minor dent by a Frenchman who, all of a sudden, might “forget” all the English he ever knew and give us, in our imagination, only a shrug of his shoulders as he walked away with all of our deposit. As it turned out, the rental guy was only concerned with how much fuel was in the tank; and returned our entire deposit, never noticing the dent. Russ was mute and made no mention of it. All was forgiven. But I would guess that Russ never again drove a manual shift automobile.
I last saw Russ the Thursday evening before he died. He and I and Judi and Ryan had dinner together at their place. It was a pleasant evening of reconnecting despite his condition.
I planned to return to see him soon with a common college friend. I had just gotten in touch with the friend to say “when can you go to DC with me to visit together with Rusty” when, on the same day, I received a call from Dale and Judi telling me of Rusty’s death. We had not seen each other frequently after we finished school. But when together, often just the two of us, we reconnected immediately; just as though there was no distance between our meetings. This time, however, there was to be no next meeting.
John Koon
Rusty and I were best friends over a long number of years. I think we met when we were four years old, the year that I moved to Louisville. In addition to being at Waggener together, we both attended Vanderbilt and spent many good times there together. Then we were in the SF area together.
Rusty called me “Johnny,” my mother’s name for me when I was young. I dropped this for the more adult “John” in the second grade at the insistence of my teacher, Mrs. Cleveland. Some few people continued with the “Johnny.” Rusty was one of them. And I continued to call him “Rusty,” along with his adult name of choice, “Russ.” I still can remember him calling me this name;“Johnny,” a remnant of our childhood together. Are old men permitted such pleasures?
After graduation from Vanderbilt, we spent the summer on a European trip along with John Slater, a fellow classmate. We rented a Volkswagen for which we paid $157 for the eight weeks. The Volkswagen had a manual transmission which Rusty did not appreciate. I don’t think he had driven one before. Since we planned to do lots of driving, Slater and I insisted that he become moderately competent in using it; which he did. However, on one occasion while in Scotland, Slater or I completed our shift driving and parked the car just uphill from another car. When we left, it was Russ’ turn to drive. He deliberately put the key in the switch, pushed in the clutch with his left foot, released the emergency brake, but forgot to place his right foot on the brake pedal. So the car rolled into the car ahead of us. The result was a dent in the boot cover. Russ was thoroughly disgusted – at the car with the manual transmission, not at himself. Slater and I used the palm of our hands to pretty much remove the dent from the boot cover; and away we went, not giving the incident nor the still noticeable remnant of the dent much more thought.
However, when returning the car to the rental agency in Paris, it occurred to us that we might get “dinged” again, this time perhaps being assessed a non-negotiable charge for a minor dent by a Frenchman who, all of a sudden, might “forget” all the English he ever knew and give us, in our imagination, only a shrug of his shoulders as he walked away with all of our deposit. As it turned out, the rental guy was only concerned with how much fuel was in the tank; and returned our entire deposit, never noticing the dent. Russ was mute and made no mention of it. All was forgiven. But I would guess that Russ never again drove a manual shift automobile.
I last saw Russ the Thursday evening before he died. He and I and Judi and Ryan had dinner together at their place. It was a pleasant evening of reconnecting despite his condition.
I planned to return to see him soon with a common college friend. I had just gotten in touch with the friend to say “when can you go to DC with me to visit together with Rusty” when, on the same day, I received a call from Dale and Judi telling me of Rusty’s death. We had not seen each other frequently after we finished school. But when together, often just the two of us, we reconnected immediately; just as though there was no distance between our meetings. This time, however, there was to be no next meeting.