The Man, The Legend, The Davis Dad. Or: The Definitely True Obituary of Howard C. Davis

Coffee stockholders are mourning the loss of their shares today. Right-wing recycling overlord Howard Crittenden Davis graduated from Shady Pines on April 23, 2015 during a top-secret mission to save blind puppies from a burning orphanage, probably.

Born on January 1, 1943 to Charles S. Davis and Faith (Howard) Davis of Getzville, NY, Howdy was the last in a long and noble line of Welsh sheep thieves and claimed to have been a "technical writer" (secret agent).

Among the various high schools Howdy sampled, his favorites were Nichols and Darrow, from where he graduated in the 60's. The 1960s, most likely. He did some Army, then graduated college with a B.A. in Sociology and a minor in Underwater Basketweaving Habits of Left-Handed Gnats. 

Howdy is survived by his partner-in-crime of 38 years Jerrie (LoDestro) Davis, favorite daughter [eldest category], Morgan (Davis) Krauss of Williamsville, and favorite daughter [gifted/talented/humble category] Erica (Davis) Secor of Charlotte, NC; his unfathomably talented and devoted sister Margo Davis who took him to that Bills game where everybody else left early because it was sucking--because it was the Bills in the 90s--but then they got their heads out of their butt holes, kicked some ass, and took some names. 

Howdy is also survived by three awesome Granddaughters: Hailey "Zerbertz Queen" Krauss, Kelsey "Bag-of-Squirrels" Krauss, and Catie "Poppy-That's-MY-Cookie" Krauss, as well as Henry Jones Jr. (Flat-Coated Retriever) Secor, and Ridley (reddish dog-like mutt) Secor.

Howdy is predeceased by Vicky (setter), Blinker (setter), Louie (standard poodle), George (setter), Hugo (setter), Socks (cat), Addie (collie-shepherd), Doc, (houdini/greyhound), Sammy Davis Jr. (one-eyed greyhound), Hannah (bichon/hell-beast), a mug of last week's coffee (still in the microwave), two sets of dentures, a wrist bone (2011), and, due to his own ingenious idea lovingly referred to as the "Kevorkian Machine", half the vole population of East Amherst. His spirit animal is a large wooden badger.

Howdy will be especially remembered for his self-awareness:

            I'm a septuagenarian who still has both his marbles and car keys.

His guidance on sibling relationships:

           

            Don't bleed on anything good.

His passion for the arts:

           

            Bach would have been a Barbershoper.

And his unwavering optimism:

            It's probably Barbershopable.

And his aptitude for conflict resolution:

           

            If you're going to argue, don't stand in front of the television.

Howdy was the founding father of the prestigious dozen-member strong Facebook group Only Ladies Wear Hats Indoors and continues to infuriate his wife by never having told her his password from his college fraternity days.

When he wasn't "writing" (going on secret missions) or raising upstanding (and naturally brilliant, yet unfathomably attractive) daughters, Howdy was a part-time astronaut. Just for extra cash on the weekends. He also enjoyed texting mildly inappropriate jokes on his clamshell phone, and intentionally never watched Star Wars.

In heaven, Howdy plans to sing bass in a Barbershop quartet with Leonard Nimoy (tenor), Johann S. Bach (lead), and AndyRooney (baritone).

In lieu of mourning, Howdy would respectfully remind you to stop sniveling; it happens to the best of us. Then, buy a friend a drink, get a dog, and do whatever you can to keep the whole world singing.

 Miss you Dad.

An Ink and Paper Twin

You may already know that my genre is middle-grade horror (think GOOSEBUMPS + the basement from CABIN IN THE WOODS), so there's nothing too treacherous to worry about when writing late at night. However, I'm beginning to recognize a recent arrival in my manuscript as similar to an in-real-life (IRL) neighbor from my childhood. And that is creepy. Especially since this new character's voice grows louder and clearer than my main character (MC)--who is creepy enough on her own.

I'm thrilled that my work-in-progress (WIP) is getting stronger. I don't just mean better--though I won't object if this alone were the case--just that the MC is getting antsy for me to finish her story. She's usually the loudest voice in the WIP, but a little over a week ago, this other boy crept in.

And he's everywhere.

Seven nights ago he showed up in a scene barring my MC's way into the Half-witch Woods. He said he was protecting her, but I'm not sure. I don't think I trust him. Either way, my MC seems neither to care nor mind.

Three nights later, he showed up briefly in a dream. Can't remember what, but when I woke up, my skin crawled.

Yesterday during class I had to give my students an early break so I could email myself his connection to my MC's family--during which he proceeded to rant about me not referring to him by his 'real' name.

Last night, I woke from a dream in which I came-to in an abandoned nine-story boathouse--him standing on the dock watching the killer jellyfish circling closer and closer and closer. Woke up sweating.

I did not plan this character.

I do not want this character.

Yet, I need this character.

The tiny gods living between the pages of my manuscript demand him and they are never wrong. But it's creeping me out. You try ignoring an imaginary depressive-ogre-nightmare-boy who makes your story a million times more goosebump-giving.

Resistance is futile.

I tried avoiding him.

I tried writing around him.

I tried writing him out.

Bad idea.

As a result, he is currently holding my unconscious MC hostage in the middle of the Half-witch Woods, threatening to bury her. Unless I learn his 'real' name.

I don't even know what that means.

Until then, he has taken the name of this childhood neighbor who was no where near as creepy and only half as intimidating. Regardless, this character insists they are ink-and-paper twins.

And I am powerless.

Cookstock 2007

Doug Cook and I have known each other for going on two-and-a-half years, now. We’ve kept in touch since I left the staff of the Hyde Wilderness School and now that he’s back on the east coast after a summer-long motorcycle journey across the US of A, we’re able to visit each other whenever we please.

Last Saturday I went to his grandmother’s 90th birthday party in southern Connecticut. It was a 35 minute drive from my door to his grandparents home and set on a handful of beautiful acres surrounded by dark woods. Kind of like a more secluded --and older-- 71 Primrose Lane for those of you who know it.

I parked at what was to be the beginning of a very, very long line of cars and made my way down the hilly driveway and up the front walk with a potted red chrysanthemum balanced on my hip.

I rang the doorbell. It tinkled out a muffled, if not, merry rendition of some show tune I’d never heard of, but I’m sure my parents would probably remember. Through the single-pane windows in the door, I saw half a dozen people hovering around what I would soon learn was one of approximately six hundred appetizers. Seeing those few people in the kitchen, I could faintly hear the rest of family, friends, and neighbors spread through out the house and property --each of them eating, chatting, laughing, drinking, eating more and laughing more.

But none of them heard the doorbell.

I stood on the steps with this sprawling plant on my hip, banging on the door as politely as I could. Still, no one looked over. I was debating on just letting myself in when I tried to imagine what Doug would say if I stood there. In my head, clear as day, he said, “Why didn’t you just let yourself in?”

So, I did.

Going through the cool dark hallway into a bright noisy kitchen is not entirely uncomfortable, but there is something to be said for walking into a strange house for the first time and having your sudden appearance met by a steady stream of blinking from ever-so-many-more than half-a-dozen relatives. People were everywhere. None of whom were Doug.

For the smallest fraction of a second, I panicked that I should have stayed on the front steps ringing the doorbell uselessly into the wee hours of the morning, but that thought had little chance as a lovely young woman --who looked vaguely familiar-- waved to me. She was smiling at me, so I smiled and said, “Hi, I’m Doug's friend,” –and then, shifting the plant on my hip,– “Is there a birthday girl here?” The younger woman nodded and said, pointing to a lovely elderly woman standing in the middle of the kitchen, “That’s her, right there.”

Suddenly very aware of how many people were there –something like: two grandparents, four great-aunts, nine-great-uncles, fourteen nephews, eighty seven nieces-- I went to the indicated woman and introduced myself. The young woman --who turned out to be Doug's older sister-- relieved my hands of the chrysanthemum and in it’s place was a full plastic cup, the lip of which was crusted in salt. A Margarita.

Before I could gratefully decline, I was introduced to approximately two hundred and seventy-three other people and a dog whose name I never heard.

In the time it would have taken me to pick out a birthday card --had I not been too preoccupied finding the most appropriate 90th-birthday-ish gift possible-- I had been kissed, hugged, pinched, patted, and squeezed by what felt like one-third of the greater New England area. Only after a few final introductions, kisses, and several hearty hand-shakes did I feel a familiar bear-hug of a squeeze from a tall figure behind me.

It was Doug. Knowing how fond I am of anything Robitussin-related, he laughed at the drink in my hand, took it from me, and led me to the back porch to meet more family.

Can I just tell you? They were awesome. Yes, Doug. Your family rocks. They were welcoming and quirky and loud and smart and wonderful and I've never been more homesick for a Davis-Bauda-LoDestro-Gimbrone-Zarcone-Howard Family Reunion.

Though much of Doug's immediate family resembles more of Icelandic poster children than Italians...they are Italian, through and through. If the plethora of food items was any indication, anyway. Two flatbeds of homemade lasagna, beer-battered sausage, glistening pans of marinated chicken, stuffed mushrooms, kielbasa, hand-tossed Caesar salads....and I would describe the dessert trays but my laptop's only got a two hour battery.

It goes without saying that spending the better part of an entire evening with the zany extended family of one of my closest friends was an singularly unique experience. One which I am confident helped to lessen the blow I received the next day.

Fifteen hours later, I learned that Gail --an incredible woman who's been a mentor and friend to me-- passed away that morning from the cancer she had been fighting since long before I met her. Don't get me wrong; It's sad beyond belief. And as expected as her passing was, its still something of a shock. But all the while I'm thinking about Gail and what I might or might not have been able to do to help her, I can't help thinking of my time with Doug's family. And my family. The old, the young, the senile, the newlyweds, the sick, the healthy, the bitchy, the babies, the toddlers, the teens, the ancestors...everyone.

Much as I'd like to believe, the world doesn't stop and start at my convenience. Nor should it. I mean really, how boring would that be? Actually, I wouldn't mind. Not really, but you know what I mean.

Generation after generation families are, were, and always will be gathering under one roof to celebrate life, weddings, graduations, anniversaries, birthdays, lost teeth, lost loved ones, new jobs, first cars, first jobs, surviving car accidents, surviving proms, swim meets... Regardless of who comes and goes, when or why. Little of this world has ever made sense to me.

So here's to Gail, my great-Uncle Robert Howard, Grandpa Cabina, Donald Cooper, Mike Carter, Aunt Kitty, Poppy, my Grandmas Lucy and Faith, Grandpa Charlie, and everyone else before them.

And a very special belated Congratulations goes out to Doug's Grandpa and Grandma (the birthday girl) who recently celebrated their 69th wedding anniversary.

And my niece Hailey for going on the potty.

And to my sister for finally getting a day off from work.

And my brother-in-law for carving the coolest-creepy jack-o-lantern.

And to my Aunt Margo and to my Godmother Diane, (aka Pina) for being two of my favorite people in the world.

And to my parents who are managing the Lodge alone for the next God-knows how long.

And to all my cousins for having so many freaking adorable children.

As for you Doug, I hope you're hungry. You're invited to Buffalo for Thanksgiving.