Honorifics
Michael was my friend.
Shortly after he died, our mutual friend Elizabeth McCracken reached out to me, and in her typically eloquent and elegant way, she said, “I realize in my mind he is always Michael Adams, never just Michael–somehow his last name seemed like an honorific.”
Michael Adams and I met just a couple of years ago, though it feels much longer. Brought together by an illness we shared—Parkinson’s disease—we became close friends for so many other reasons.
Mentors
Our friendship was formed and nurtured through weekly meetings Jo’s coffee. In fact, we had a standing date on Friday mornings, just before Michael’s daily swim.
Our purpose, as it turns out, was simply to be together and talk to one another. We shared stories about our families and friends. We spoke of our experience in the professorate. We talked about our frustrations and pressure points as well as our hopes and dreams. We shared our lives and connected in ways I think both wished we had more of through the years.
We also mentored one another. I helped Michael get better at meeting his Parkinson’s-related needs—medications, doctor’s appointments, and a pep talk from to time. Living with Parkinson’s gets more difficult over time, and even the most resilient and courageous people—and Michael Adams was this and more—all of us need people to walk with us on the Parkinson’s road. We all need people to walk with us, whatever the road we are on.
Michael helped me with all of this, too, but his mentorship focused more on helping me become a better writer, specifically a writer of poetry. I remember the first time I sent him a manuscript of poems I’d written for a new book, poems I’d spent hours crafting and polishing as I obsessed over word choices and line breaks—and even more so after he invited me to send the poems his way. I knew of Michael Adams’ standards, you see.
Sitting at our table in Jo’s, he glanced over notes he’d written in the margins of the document I’d sent him. He then looked at me, and smiling that mischievous Michael Adams smile, he said, “Allan, you have a unique and compelling voice as a poet…except when you try to sound like Robert Frost!”
And in more places than I care to admit, he’d written “More Cole, Less Frost!”
Teachers
Michael Adams was a teacher, after all. He was an accomplished artist, too, of course, and an esteemed leader of writing programs—all of that. But his love for his craft and even bigger love for his students made him remarkable.
In our weekly chats, Michael frequently spoke of his former students, some of whom are here today. He spoke about where they now were and what they were doing. He often remarked on his great pride in his students and spoke of his affection for them. He also demonstrated an equal share of devotion to them, long after they graduated and took to their own professional and artistic paths.
Devotees
Devotion IS the proper word here. Michael Adams, the consummate devotee, devoted himself not only to his crafts—to teaching and writing and painting; he devoted himself to anyone and anything he loved.
He was devoted to his beloved Dorothea, and he worried about the toll his Parkinson’s would take on her. He was devoted to Bella and to almost any dog he got to know. He was devoted to the Paisano Ranch and Writer’s Program, and to the Mischener Center and its work, and to his colleagues and friends, to his students, to me, and I’m sure to all of you as well.
I loved Michael Adams, and I still do. And I miss him more than even the best Robert Frost poem can convey.
I wrote this poem a few days after Michael’s death.
Switching Tables
I still come here on Friday mornings,
Tempted to order your Turbo along with my latte.
Brooke greets me, her eyes shiny and her lips, flat.
“I still think of him every day,” she says.
I nod before my eyes flit to our table,
The one tucked in the corner beside the counter.
Another writer is there,
Sitting alone with her stack of books.
Is she waiting for her teacher?
Just as I did those many mornings?
Is she ready to ask questions?
To think new thoughts?
Scanning the room, I spot another seat three tables away,
Where I can relocate, at least for now.
Sitting there, I open my laptop,
Stare at a blank screen,
And think old thoughts of you.
__________
Photo by Luke Chesser on Unsplash
This article is based on remarks made at The University of Texas at Austin Alumni Center, February 19, 2003