I was born on September 11, 1958.
My parents, Stan & Marilu Eder, were 18 and 19. I am their first child, the oldest of five, and for years my father called me the “Love Child.” I was born 9 months and 10 days after their nuptials.
Marilu Eder, my mother, the head of the detention ministry for 25 years at a women’s prison, passed away on September 20, 2016. My father, Stan Eder, a man possessed by the internal combustion engine, passed away on April 26, 2020. I did hospice for Mom and, with my brother, Brian, helped Dad on most days in the last four years of his life. I miss them both.
On my seventh birthday (1965), Mom and Dad had all of my buddies over, rented a Shetland pony from my buddy, Andy Wurm, and we had a great cake and drove Mom crazy for hours. Mike Biondo, Nick and Donny Birritear, Vincent and Victor Rogers, and Andy Wurm were my buddies, and we did everything together. During those formative years, I played street hockey and was knocked down with a puck 3 times. Mom, using the medical information available at the time, told me to rub it off.
On my fourteenth birthday, September 11, 1972, I went fishing that morning with Dad at Rock Lake, a pay-to-fish lake near Saint Louis. That afternoon, I ran my first cross-country race, a 2-mile race at De Smet Jesuit Prep, two loops on the course. Paul Heck won the senior race in 10:01. I was last in the frosh race, in 18:09 for two miles. My brother, Brian, later recalled, as I came over the hill, he thought I was in another race. I was.
I was hooked on running early on. I ran lots of miles (100-120 a week before my junior-year summer), with Mom checking the courses and signing a daily note to show I completed my workout. Rocket Ray Devlin, our coach at Bellarmine, told me, when I asked how I could improve my fitness, “Run more.” As I had just moved to California in Feb. 1974 and had no friends yet, I just ran each day, most days to Vasona Park from 2415 Meridian Avenue, and then returned.
Birthdays were a big day in my family. Grandma Vi made a German chocolate cake, Mom made my dinner, and I always got a can of black olives. I loved black olives.
On the morning of September 11, 2001, I had just dropped Adam, our son, off at Junior High. I was grabbing bagels for my then-wife and me. I was listening to the radio when I heard about the first plane crashing into the Twin Towers. As I was getting our bagels, the second plane hit. I knew it was an attack and teared up, listening to the news broadcasts.
A good friend and photographer, Victor Sailer, was a fireman at the time. Victor was supposed to be at the Twin Towers that day. I was very worried about Victah as he was called. Victah had this way of getting into the thick of things.
I left a message on his phone, asking him to please call me anytime; I just needed to know he was safe.
At 11:55 PM on September 11, 2001, I received a message from Victah that he was alive. He also reminded me of my deal with God. I had left a message on his phone that if he was alive, I would promise to lose 100 lbs in the next year ( I was way over 350lbs at the time).
Victor reminded me of the promise. I lost the weight, and walked the Columbus Marathon that next fall.
Several alums from my university were killed on the flights; I would find out later. I did not travel for two months; my first trip was the NIKE Border Clash.
Now, as I enter my 68th year on this little planet, having visited 75 countries, 7 Olympics, 17 World Championships, and met wonderful people all over it, I am still an optimist. Each 9/11, I take some time to thank the creator for each day, each minute, and each laugh, and to cry on this planet.
Be grateful for the good things.
