Jenn McKinlay: In my late twenties, my entire life imploded. I lost my first literary agent, I ended a nine year relationship which included a three years long engagement, and I moved into a new place. It was a duplex in central Phoenix and it was 830 square feet that was mine all mine! Well, I did share with my cat, Chubby, but he was a fairly chill roommate so no complaints from me. My address was on small side street that was quiet, despite being in the thick of the Biltmore area, and my half of the duplex looked across a wide lawn that boasted citrus trees.
My neighbor directly across the way was a charmer of Irish descent named Howard Adams. A couple of things about Howard -- he was the state liquor commissioner, his best friends were a pack of rowdy firefighters, and he was in a wheelchair, paralyzed from the chest down with limited use of his arms and hands.
You would think his disability would have slowed Howard down. No. If anything, he gained speed. The man was simply a force of nature. In addition to being the state liquor commissioner, he'd been a Phoenix City Councilman and he was appointed by presidents Reagan and Bush as a member of the U.S. Architectural and Transportation Barriers Compliance Board, meaning he helped with the Americans with Disabilities Act.
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| This photo is from the The Arizona Republic archives as my personal photos of Howie (far right) are in an album in my storage unit, because of course they are. |
But when I met Howie, he was in charge of the booze licensing for the state and he had quite the liquor cabinet -- because that was all anyone could ever think to gift him. He and I enjoyed many a happy hour that usually ended with me singing Ave Maria (in Latin) much to his former Pittsburgh altar boy delight. Naturally, this became his nickname for me. On Sunday mornings after a rough night with Howie and the firefighters, he would motor his wheelchair over to my bedroom window and yell, "Ave Maria, wake up. Coffee's on. You need to come over and fix the eggs." Of course, I went because you just didn't say no to Howard.
Why am I telling you about my friend? Because when the idea of my book Wait For It (which comes out in three weeks!!!) came to me, Howie was front and center in my mind as a person who'd enlightened me in so many ways about life and hardship and coping. I knew my hero needed a hero's journey much like Howard's, so I dusted off my memories and spent some time in my past. Unexpectedly, the more I thought about Howard and our ridiculous times together the more memories resurfaced. Stuff I hadn't thought about in years, like how I had to watch the X-Files with him because he loved it but he also got scared. As we watched, he'd slowly lower his newsboy cap until it covered his eyes. I'd squawk, "Howie, you're not even watching!" And he'd yell back, "I can hear it. It's fine."
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| Recipient of a starred review from Booklist! |
I realized as I worked on the manuscript, that by revisiting my time with Howie and using bits and pieces of those days for the book, I was keeping those memories alive. Memories for which I am so very grateful.
I have a million more stories I could share about Howard, but I'll leave it with this one. He and I were reclined in his study, listening to Irish music (of course) and after a whiskey or three, I asked him if he was ever bitter about being in a wheelchair. He said, "No, I was on my way to becoming a real assh*le, and I think this was the big guy's way of keeping me humble." I've never forgotten that and it became a central characteristic of Nick Daire, the hero in Wait For It, who also relies on a wheelchair.
Howard passed away twenty years ago in 2001 but the impact he had on my life will forever remain. So, here's to you, Howard. Thanks for being my friend, thanks for the laughs, the booze, the songs, and even the stinky cigars.
Red and Readers, chime in! Who was a person in your life that made such an impact that their memory resonates many years later?
