"For this is all a dream we dreamed one afternoon, long ago...."

Angela + Angela, 1995.

Angela was my best friend from boarding school. I met her on the first day of freshman year at Marian Heights Academy, in August 1988. Eighteen days ago, on Wednesday, November 12th, I lost her to a car accident.

Although it's lifted somewhat, I'm still in a great deal of shock. Still doing that thing where I wake up in the morning and then it hits me all over again. "Oh that's right, Angela's gone." For the first few days after getting that phone call, I was 100% on autopilot, going around in a zombified grief-trance. I was so out of it that my family wouldn't let me drive. I notified a few classmates of Angela's passing, but selfishly gave up after the fourth call because it made me sick to say the words, and typing them out felt even worse.

Since attending Angela's visitation (John and I drove down to Missouri to pay our respects last weekend), the dam has broken and I've officially entered the blubbering, sobbing mess phase. The Sally Field "I want to know WHYYYYYY!" phase.   

Appropriately, Angela and I were in Steel Magnolias together our senior year of high school, and Angela played M'Lynn, the Sally Field character who gets to make that speech. (I was Miss Clairee -- I got to say, "Go ahead M'Lynn, slap her!")

Clairee and M'Lynn, backstage on the set of Steel Magnolias, 1992.

Angela and I played sisters a year earlier in another school production, Crimes of the Heart, and we had a blast. There was a scene where she and I were sitting at the kitchen table together, listening to another character talk. As this character wraps up her monologue, Angela and I were supposed to look at one another and sort of snicker for a minute, then burst into inappropriate laughter. We wanted to get the scene right and make the laughter genuine, so in rehearsals we would murmur nonsensical phrases under our breath to try to crack each other up. We talked to each other without moving our lips, like ventriloquists, saying things like "Poop Soup," and "Buffalo Farts" until we dissolved into punch drunk hysterics. And you know what? We nailed it every performance. (Such method actors we were!)   

I've gone through boxes of old pictures, looking for more gems from our four years at Marian Heights, but I'm finding that the best photos of Angela and I are the ones from our post-high school era. When we graduated MHA and left Ferdinand, I went back to Indianapolis to attend court reporting school, while Angela--a native of the Missouri "Bootheel" region--started her undergrad career at St. Louis University. Once Angela and I realized how quick and easy it was to just slide up and down Interstate 70 (only three and a half hours, depending on who's driving), we visited each other several times a year throughout the nineties. Sometimes Angela's sister Bonita would come with her on her sojourns to Indy, and I have a memory of the three of us singing Janet Jackson's "Nasty" for karaoke at the bar my boyfriend managed. Our song selection stands out because it was the most awkward song to sing for karaoke, full of long pauses and various grunts and "ooh"s and "uhhh"s. We were laughing so hard at how weird we sounded, we could barely finish it. 

Another time Angela came to Indy for a visit, she and I decided to catch a movie---When A Man Loves A Woman---the Meg Ryan drama where she plays an alcoholic mother bottoming out. Sitting in our seats before the show, we idly wondered how much of a tearjerker the movie would be. One of us brought up the Leslie Nielsen/Priscilla Presley scene in Naked Gun where they wander out of a movie theater, laughing their asses off, and the camera pans up to reveal that they've just seen Platoon. We both joked about recreating that scene if the movie turned out to be a major downer. I think we were actually expecting WAMLAW to be weepy but fairly light, maybe something along the lines of Beaches, or Lifetime Channel for Women-type fare. We were both unprepared by how dark WAMLAW is; in one memorable scene, Meg Ryan gets blackout drunk, slaps her children around, downs a fistful of pills, and crashes through a glass shower door. It's all very brutal. 

When the end credits started rolling and the lights went up, Angela and I both looked at each other, like, "Wow, that was....a lot." 

Then she started snickering. I was like, "What?" And then she looked at me, and laughed some more, and finally I got it. I broke into a Beavis and Butthead-esque "Oh yeah. Uh, huh huh huh huh huh huh," in recognition. Shenanigans continued as we headed up the aisle of the theater, walking and laughing, catching each other's eye, and laughing some more. 

By the time we reached the lobby, we were doubled over and hyperventilating, cackling wildly at absolutely nothing. We stumbled past the cheerful ticket taker, who, noticing our mirth, called out, "Glad you ladies enjoyed the show!" And that, of course, made us laugh even harder. 

 

Angela had this great, absurdist sense of humor. I'm pretty sure she was the only friend of mine who actually read Woody Allen's Without Feathers on my recommendation. I remember her getting a bang out of the chapter with the "lost" Biblical writings.  

(Sample passage: "And the Lord produced two stone tablets and snapped them closed on Job’s nose. And when Job’s wife saw this she wept and the Lord sent an angel of mercy who anointed her head with a polo mallet and of the 10 plagues, the Lord sent one through six, inclusive, and Job was sore and his wife angry and she rent her garment and then raised the rent but refused to paint.")

In turn, Angela introduced me to the Enneagram. One of her professors was really into it, and so Angela got into it, too, and gave me an armload of books on the Enneagram during one of my visits to St. Louis. (I'm a 4w3, in Ennagram parlance; Angela, a 2w3. Interesting stuff, and IMO more accurate than Myers-Briggs.) 

With Angela as a tour guide, visiting St. Louis was awesome. She lived in the Central West End, a hip neighborhood with fun, quirky shops (Heffalump's!), indie coffee houses, and Forest Park (a larger, less famous version of Central Park). Angela lived with a roommate in this giant loft apartment with exposed brick that was straight off the set of Friends. It was cool as hell.

One of my favorite trips, though, was the summer I visited Angela down in her hometown of Bernie, MO, in the aforementioned Bootheel of the state. It's an interesting region--on the north end of the Mississippi Delta--lots of rich history, southern-inspired cuisine (I had fried okra for the first time in Bernie!), and Delta blues music. 

Anyhoo, I loved it:

I can't even put into words how much I love this photo of Angela.

My favorite part of this photo? Angela's thumb. 

Never discard "imperfect" shots. 

Someday, you'll be glad you saved them. 

 Hanging in downtown Bernie, 1993.

Me, all countrified.

Angela feeding the sheep.

In the kitchen of Angela's childhood home. 

If I could, I would so time travel back to this moment in 1993 and just hang out there indefinitely.

Around 1997-ish, Angela was accepted to a graduate program at Tulsa University (I honestly can't remember if it was a PhD or Master's program. She didn't make a big deal out of that kind of stuff. She didn't need to. Girl was smart.) I was overjoyed, because Tulsa is where half of my family lives. That meant that even though Angela would no longer be as close as she was in St. Louis, I'd still get to see her anytime I was in Tulsa. The timing was perfect---my sister Michelle and my Aunt Donna had just moved into a large rental house in an up-and-coming neighborhood on the southside of the city, and they had a loft for a third roomie, so Angela joined them. 

Seriously, looking back on it all, I can't believe how lucky I was. How lucky we both were to have all the time together that we did. It's one of the things I hold onto now.

Hanging out with Angela in Tulsa during the summer of 1999, she had some news. She'd met a guy through her church that she really dug, and it seemed serious. Like, this dude might be The One. Angela introduced me to Brian, and I got a good vibe from him. He seemed really smitten with my friend and he treated her well, which was my biggest concern. I soon found out that he was a movie buff with an offbeat sense of humor. Another good sign. During my visit, he hosted a dinner party at his apartment, and we all watched Radioland Murders. I was like, "Okay, this guy's a keeper. Well done. Approval: granted."

Angela and Brian got married in 2000. They started a family a few years later, settling down in the Missouri Bootheel to work and live. I always thought it was cool that they did that. Angela worked in mental health, and in her hometown, she saw a community that was underserved, and felt compelled to change that. Her kids got to grow up close to grandparents and cousins, in the same place she'd grown up. There was a nice symmetry to it all.

Angela and I kept in touch over the years, but we didn't see each other like we used to. You know how it goes, you grow up (a little), you get married, life gets busy and complicated, suddenly you're 40, then 50....sigh. Yeah. You know how it goes.

I'm sad she is gone, but I'm glad she was here. I'm glad she found a great partner in Brian. I'm glad she went into mental health, because there was never a person more compassionate, more empathetic, more suited to that field than Angela. I'm glad she got to be a mom, because she was really good at it. 

I'm glad I got to be her friend. 

(If you know, you know.)

"That you are here, that life exists....that the powerful play 

goes on and you may contribute a verse."

Well it seems 2020 has turned me into one of those weepy middle-aged fraus who are perpetually hand-wringing over relatives and friends who are sick, dying, or deceased, but in the words of Hard Harry, SO BE IT.  

Two days ago I got word that Mr. Duane Verkamp--my favorite teacher from my beloved alma mater Marian Heights Academy--recently passed away from pneumonia. Fuck this fucking year. 

Me with Mr. Verkamp and his wife Maureen

at MHA Alumni Weekend, summer 2000.

In truth, Mr. Verkamp was so much more than just my favorite teacher, but it's near impossible to explain what that means to anyone who didn't know him. The only way to sort of explain it--to people from my generation, anyway--is to picture Mr. Keating from Dead Poets Society, but like a mellow hippie Boomer version. And instead of a New England boys' prep school in the 1950s, the setting was an all-girls Catholic boarding school in rural Indiana in the late 1980s - early 1990s. (Also, we weren't sneaking into the woods at midnight to read poetry to each other; we were sneaking into the woods to smoke and/or make out with our townie boyfriends. But that's another story.)   

A few photos from my high school yearbook, 1990-91 (junior year)

Jeez, could they have made the faculty photos 

look any more like mug shots? 

In addition to teaching English, Mr. V was also my forensics coach.

(Forensics club was what most other high schools called debate team.)

And then there's me at 17. 

I was a naughty Catholic schoolgirl before it was cool.

There's really not much I am able to put into words at the moment; grief has made me its bitch. All I can say is that an amazing human being is gone and I'm heartbroken and I didn't picture it happening this way. In the words of that song, I always thought that I'd see him again. 

I think I've earned the right to post this:

"All hands on deck at dawn, sailing to sadder shores...."

On August 28th my brother-in-law Roger (my sister's husband) passed away from colon cancer at the age of 47. He was just diagnosed in June, so it took him pretty quickly. Despite the giant COVID tornado down here in Texas, I ended up flying to Indianapolis so I could be there for his wake and funeral. In the end I was glad I went. Sometimes you just gotta throw caution to the wind and go with your gut instinct. This was one of those times. 

I've been playing Echo and the Bunnymen's Ocean Rain (from the album of the same name) a lot over the past few months. I don't know if Ian McCulloch intended for it to be a mourning song, but it has that feel. It's melancholy without being maudlin, and it's brought me some comfort.  

I hope that better times are ahead, but I don't know. I do know that if a certain right-wing fascist and his cronies are voted out on November 3rd that it would at least give us all some hope. It wouldn't fix everything, but at this point nothing will.

Dad's second grade class photo.
Centralia, Illinois

Happy Birthday Dad

My father would have been 84 years old today. I thought I'd post a few of my favorite photos of him throughout the month. 

Dad's 40th birthday.
I was born two years later. :-)

Mom and Dad's wedding, June 1st, 1971 (on his 40th bday, see above)
They got married at a park at midnight--my Mom's idea--in Tulsa.
A friend officiated. 

Me and Dad. He's making sure I don't eat the dandelion.

Dad's birthday, a few years later (me in the background--maybe about 8 years old?)
I love this photo. And I miss our yellow 1970s kitchen.

Dad and me, crashed out in his favorite armchair.

Hanging out on the banks of Lake Michigan.
Shortly after Dad moved to Sheboygan, WI (post-divorce) to work for Kohler.

More photos to come this month. 

"He's a man you don't meet every day." 

Richard Charles Ryan 

June 1, 1931 - May 7, 2014

Dad and me, circa 1993

I lost my father last Wednesday, May 7. 

I haven't been able to write anything; my brain has shut down. As far as my emotional state, I've been cycling from anguish to rage to numbness to anxiety to hopelessness ad infinitum. My husband has been amazing--he is truly my rock. I've also been getting a lot of support from friends far and near, some of whom have experienced the loss of a parent themselves. It has meant so much to hear that what I'm feeling and going through is normal and completely understandable. Thank you to everyone for being so awesome. Your kind words and support bring more comfort than you'll ever know.  

I'm going through all the old photos of Dad that I have. There are some great ones but unfortunately--or fortunately--I made some awesome scrapbooks for Dad a few Christmases ago that have all the best family photos of him with all his kids and grandkids, as well as pictures and clippings from his career as an adman from the 1950's through the 1990's. There are also some funny pictures of him during his swinging bachelor days in Tulsa and Chicago, which are a hoot. I've got dibs on the photo albums so I am looking forward to having those again and maybe posting the best shots here on the blog. I think Dad would like that.

His memorial service is being held in Tulsa at the end of this month. He didn't want a funeral, just an Irish wake with plenty of booze and toasts and music. Dad's favorite local Irish band -- Cairde na Gael -- will of course be providing live music.

Nicest group of musicians you'd ever want to meet.

I'm still processing everything and I may not be able to write about his death again for a long time. 

What else is there to say? I guess this says it all......

Ned Vizzini
1981 - 2013

I guess there's no "good" way to find out about a person's death. As these things go though, social media has to be one of the worst. 

Yesterday I got on Twitter and noticed that Ned Vizzini was trending. I was like "Oh, that's cool," and clicked on his name. Then I saw the "top tweet", a headline that hit me right in the heart.

Author Ned Vizzini, 32, commits suicide in Brooklyn

I'm still in shock. 

I interviewed Ned in 2012 for Praxis. He was kind, funny, and generous, and I was beyond thrilled that he took the time to talk to me for my little literary magazine. I'd been a huge fan of his work for nearly ten years. It wasn't, however, the first time I corresponded with him.

In the summer of 2003, I was working part-time at the circulation desk of the Fountain Square Library in Indianapolis. One quiet weekday afternoon, I noticed a YA book that had been dropped into the return slot titled Teen Angst? Nah... I checked it in and then, instead of putting it on the shelving cart, I started to read it while standing there at the desk (as I said, it was an unusually quiet day). I was surprised and impressed by this quirky, funny, wise collection of essays from a gifted teen growing up in a loving but eccentric family. I finished it by the time my shift was over.

At the back of the book, there was a website and an email address, encouraging fans to get in touch with the author. I dashed off an email to Ned, telling him that although I was much older than his targeted demographic (30), I still really enjoyed Teen Angst and hoped that he would write more (the book, published in 2000, was his first and only one at the time). I didn't expect to hear back, but a few days later I received a message from Ned. He said he was glad that I enjoyed the book and thanked me for reading. I was touched that he'd taken the time to reply to me.  

Fast forward two years. I was living in St. Paul, MN and, while perusing the stacks in Highland Park Library, I found Vizzini's second book, the 2004 YA novel Be More Chill. I checked it out, read it over the course of a weekend, and loved it. I decided to get touch again, telling him in another email how excited I was to find that he'd written a novel and that I thought it was a very clever and innovative story. I also added something to the effect of "I'm not sure if you remember me, but we exchanged emails a few years back when I wrote to tell you how much I adored Teen Angst."

I got an email from Ned the next day. He wrote, "Yes, I remember you." He thanked me for checking out his novel and told me that he was working on another book that was due out the next year (2006).

I watched for Ned's next book and read it as soon as it hit the library. I was surprised that it was a bit more personal and, although it featured a lot of the humor that he'd become known for, it was a bit more serious than his other work. Titled (ironically) It's Kind of a Funny Story, it was a semi-autobiographical account of a severely depressed young man who checks himself into a psychiatric unit when he starts having serious thoughts of suicide. The novel struck a chord with a lot of his young readership, many of whom wrote in to tell Ned about their own issues with suicidal thoughts and depression and how IKoaFS had helped them get through it. I found myself wishing that the book had existed when I was a teenager, battling my own untreated depression.

Ned Vizzini in an interview with the mental health website Strength of Us: 

It's Kind of a Funny Story is 85% true. I actually did spend a week in the adult wing of a psychiatric hospital in Brooklyn after calling a suicide hotline in fall 2004. I was 23 at the time, however, not 15. I made the main character, Craig, 15 years old in the book but gave him my problems and worldview.  

In 2010, IKoaFS was made into a feature film starring Zach Galifianakis. As a fan of the book, I didn't feel that the movie did it justice. The Galifianakis character wasn't even in the novel, yet he featured prominently in the movie (kind of gimmicky, in my opinion). I also thought a lot of the book's humor was absent from the film. Still, I thought the performances were excellent and I was happy for Ned; it was exciting to see his work adapted for the big screen. 

In our interview, Ned talked about about his experiences on the set of the film:

P: You wrote a series of reports from the set of It’s Kind of a Funny Story where you talked about watching the actors shoot the “Under Pressure” scene. Having witnessed it performed live right before your eyes, what was it like seeing it on the big screen? And now (two years later) what stands out the most about your time hanging out with the actors and film crew?

NV: That “Under Pressure” scene looks better on the big screen than it did when it was being filmed. Of course it looked cool then, but when you hear the music being piped in and see the actors taking their positions, you peek behind the curtain in a way you can’t with the finished product. In terms of what stands out the most: filming on the Brooklyn Bridge. I had a date with me when I visited the set that night and she’s now my wife.

Read my Praxis interview with Ned here.

Going through my inbox while writing this, I'm surprised at how many (short, friendly) emails Ned and I exchanged back and forth, particularly over the past year. We also replied to one another several times on Twitter. I think it just goes to show what a sweetheart he was. A busy bestselling author who published two novels in the past two years--The Other Normals in 2012 and House of Secrets in 2013--wrote for television (Teen Wolf, Last Resort, and Believe), contributed work to Salon, The New York Times, and The Los Angeles Review of Books, lectured at colleges throughout the country, and yet still took the time to engage with fans and support his fellow writers. Although I never met him in person, I feel like I got to know him well, or as well as you can get to know someone over email and Twitter.

Link to one of the Tweets I received from Ned, dated January 26th.

The last I heard from him was an email on October 19, which I now sadly realize was two months to the day that he took his life. It was in reply to a message I sent recommending that he read Greg Sestero's The Disaster Artist:

andie thanks for sending me a book rec I actually appreciate!! Tom Bissel cowrote this 'Room' book and I like his writing so I want to check it out.

As I said, I'm still pretty much in shock and my thoughts are unorganized and disjointed. I'm just so saddened by his death. I can't even begin to imagine the hell that his family is going through. My heart goes out to them.

Rest in peace, my friend. The world was lucky to know you.

"Did you have to change all your poet's fire into frozen dust?"