Monday, October 29, 2018
My cousin Ryan Dearinger passed away too soon. At 46 years old. He was ten years my Senior. His deep and infectious laugh always made me laugh, then with head nodding, pulling his hair behind his ears, he would give a huge smile.
Ryan and I didn't see much of each other outside of Christmas and Thanksgiving later in life, but as I was growing up, he was always around on the weekends we spent in Reasnor. Most Sundays after church, our family would gravitate to my Grandma's house in the sleepy, softball driven town by the South Skunk river.
The cousins would gather, cause trouble, and have a laugh. Basketball in the park.
Ryan was a gifted artist. His portraits in particular. Lifelike details; Hair, eyes, noses. (I was always jealous about his rendering of noses for some reason, perhaps I could never get it right.) He's pencil drawings are incredible. Renderings of the Beatles, Marilyn Monroe, and subjects unnamed, truly are noteworthy from an artist's point of view. Why he didn't capitalize on that talent, that gift, and skill? We will never know.
The one thing that will forever make me think of Ryan is his unconditional abhorrence for vegetables.
No seriously. Meat and potatoes only at Thanksgiving. Turkey, ham, fresh mashed potatoes and gravy. Yes please!
Fuck your carrots, cheese tray, and sweet potatoes.
His plate lived like he did. His way, or no way.
See you in the details, love ya, and hold the vegetables.
