One Sad Day

It's that worst day again, Ingrid. Three years since you died. I've been avoiding writing this all day.

Even this long out, it's hard to accept that you're gone. I still think, "Oh, I'll just ask Ingrid." And then snap back to reality and remember that I can't do that.

I think acceptance is a very slow process, Ingrid, that happens to a lot of small corners and nooks in the mind. And since you occupy a lot of those spaces I'm not exactly aching for acceptance, I guess.

I still just miss you.

Where's the Beef?

Captain Beefheart died today. Ingrid would have been touched by that. She loved Captain Beefheart and all that sort of stuff in high school (and beyond...) and might have called me to make sure I knew that he'd passed away.

I would have teased her, she would have laughed, I would have laughed. It would have been another of the million moments in our friendship; inconsequential on its face, but part of a tapestry of silly and serious things that spanned the years and bolstered our shared past.

I wish I could call her to tell her.

Happy Birthday to You

All right, pal, today is your birthday and I'm still here.

I hope that wherever you are, it's the best place ever. That a giant cake that keeps changing flavors and getting better and better is alight with candles and that you're blowing them out and laughing, then starting all over again. That you've got a cat on your lap and every good person you ever met all around you. And that a shiny new bike that fits you perfectly is right next to you with a huge bow on it while all your favorite music plays and plays.

I miss you so much, Ingrid, and it never goes away. I hope that you can feel it, in a good way, and that you know there are a whole lot of people here thinking of you.

I can't help but think of your mom and how she might feel today. She must miss her girl with all her being. I know I do.

Happy birthday, pal. I don't know how to stop missing you.

Happy Anniversary, Ingrid

Today is the 33rd anniversary of the day we came out to each other, Ingrid. I used to call you on this day and we'd reminisce. I wish I could call you today.

Thank you for helping to make my life and for letting me help to make yours.

The whole thing still amazes me all these years later. Two kids, such bravery, so young. Thank you, thank you.

I miss you so.

Cows Well Done

Maybe it's finally happening, that mystical place where the warm memory overwhelms the sharp pain. At least today it is, watching the Cows With Guns video. If you don't think of Ingrid then and laugh, you're probably not breathing.

I hope you heard me laughing for you, Ingrid.

Looking Away

Today is the second anniversary of Ingrid's death. I remember her as though she were here with me right now.

Remember that funny look she'd use when she was simultaneously confused and incredulous? A little bug-eyed, with her mouth turned in a squiggle? I'm not very good at describing it, but if you knew her, you'll know what I mean.

Well, that's the look I see on her face right now. The look I think of as "classic Ingrid," the look I'd never seen on anyone else's face and still never have.

I miss your funny looks, Ingrid. I miss you. I still want you back. I always will.

Rest well.

Dreading Time

The anniversary of Ingrid's death is coming up again, and I still can't believe it. How can it be two years? How can it be at all?

Come back, Ingrid. Come back. I still miss you so much.

Just yesterday I thought of something from our youth and thought, I'll call Ingrid and ask her if she remembers. But of course I can't do that.

Once again I am reminded: Life is not fair. Not even a little bit.

Damn it to hell.

Making Do

I am sitting here, trying to wake up after a very late night of flat-out work, staring at the TV. And who comes on but Ute Lemper, yet another singer Ingrid tried to persuade me to like. And I'm watching it, and listening, because I know that Ingrid would have.

God, I wish you were here to watch it, too, Ingrid. I'd listen to any kind of music for any length of time, just to have the chance to see you once more, just to see you enjoying something you loved. But Ute Lemper will have to do.

Sigh.

Moving On, Not

Now that I've decided to move back to the US, at least part-time, I find that I'm more tortured than ever about not making it back in time to see Ingrid one last time. None of us could have known how fast things would be, how fragile she really was. But that doesn't make it any easier.

I'm sorry, Ingrid. I didn't know that 17 days would be too many.

You Need to Know

Lately I've been working Ingrid into my conversations more often, I notice. Last week at the OutGames, talking to a graphic design prof from New York who had once been in the film business; today with the woman who is redesigning my business cards... I'll take any tangential opportunity, it seems, to make sure people know who Ingrid was because now they don't have the chance to know for themselves.

Here's my broken record for the day, Ingrid: I miss you, I love you, I cannot let you go.

Listen up, world: Ingrid was amazing.

Ode an die Freude

I listen to Ode to Joy all the time now, Ingrid, just because it reminds me of you. I remember how you hated your middle name, and I've come to love it.

Joy.

Yeah, that was you, pal.

Happy Birthday, Ingrid

Happy 50th birthday, Ingrid.

I want to be on the phone with you right now, making some very bad joke about how old you are, about how you're in your fifties, for crying out loud, while I am still a young and supple 40something.

And, of course, as always, I want to remind you that you will always be older than I. Damn, but I still want that to be very, very true.

Instead, this is the year we catch up to each other, the year we are both 48.

I hope that you are fat and happy on cake, Ingrid, and that your only worry is which of your thousand favorite bike rides to take. Because in heaven, you get to have more than one favorite.

Happy birthday. I miss you.

A Million Other Things

You know, Ingrid, you have a powerful influence. And not one I always like, pal... Suddenly I'm totally into a girl band from France? France? Seriously?

Don't think I can't hear you laughing as usual. And don't think I can't hear Edith Piaf singing in the background, after three decades of claiming not to like her just so I could tease you about it. You and I could hold a joke between us forever.

With your voracious musical lust, you'd have known about the girl band years ago. By now you'd have already championed, obsessed over, vaguely lost interest in, and archived all their music, knowing there'd be just the right moment one day to use it for a video or commercial or gig or party or God knows what. And when you did, it would be just right. Touching or hilarious or ironic or a million other things. Like you.

Because you were just what you needed to be, pal.

A Day, A Year, A Life

Today is the first anniversary of Ingrid's death. Maybe, like a lot of new things, it takes some getting used to. Because I'm not used to it yet no matter how much acceptance I want to cultivate.

Ingrid... who can think of her and fail to smile, to hear her laughter, to remember her warmth? Surely she was one of the funniest people on the planet. She could make you hoot and holler at the stupidest stuff, things no one else could raise a chuckle for. For crying out loud, I don't even have to remember her older than 17 or so to smile. I'm still laughing about the S&Ms and the gorilla socks and the nights making out under the stars and a thousand other juvenile, teenage things. And that was just the girl. The woman was even more amazing. Was there anyone more committed to laughter and love?

How can it be one year that she is gone? How can it even be one day, damn it? How? Bring her back, make it untrue, stop screwing around, God. This is how it feels today. And this is how it feels every day, in the little corners where you keep the things you know aren't true.

So it's a mixed bag, at best. Acceptance, grief, humor, love. In the end, maybe that's what gets us through the night and the day and the one year and all the rest. I hope so, because I miss you, Ingrid Joy Wilhite, with a fierceness and rage that I cannot shake. And I feel you with a warmth and love that I cannot deny.

I miss you, Ingrid. I miss you. I miss you.

--Caren Crockett

OK, Accordian Girl, You Finally Win

Oh, Ingrid, the things you've made me do... every accordian player I see on the street gets my pocket change. But today, today things rose to a new level.

I stopped by the grocery store, and outside was a young-ish accordian player--though these days I swear everyone looks younger and younger. You would have loved him, Ingrid. He was playing the Summer section of Vivaldi's Four Seasons, and God help me he was fantastic. I dropped in a couple of euros, listened until he switched to Autumn, and went to shop.

When I left the store, I dropped in substantially more money. It's cold out and he was playing for no one, beaming with joy. He was just so good, and I felt you so clearly at that moment, Ingrid. He switched to Bach then, and I knew you would have loved it. I stayed through some Beethoven, then thanked him and turned to leave.

And he stopped me, and in a thick Russian accent thanked me profusely and handed me his homemade CD. Maxim Sadovnikov smiled at me, so happy to have someone stop to listen, and I could hear you, Ingrid, laughing at me. With love.

A Place to Rest

Ingrid's hand-carved box.

Ingrid's flowers.

Ingrid's view.

Ingrid's ashes were interred on Friday, Nov. 7, 2008, in Dry Creek Cemetery in the foothills above the Boise Basin, as she had wished. Her beautiful hand-carved box was wrapped in her favorite purple silk scarf.

It's a lovely place, very old and well landscaped with a terrific view. A contemplative place, where the seasons are very apparent.

Good rest, Ingrid Wilhite. You earned it every day of your beautiful, too-short life. We all miss you more than we can say or dream.

(Photos courtesy of Denise Dupree.)

For Ingrid's Memorial Service, 11/7/2008

Since Ingrid died, I have been struggling to make sense of her loss. I’ve cried, I’ve prayed, I’ve ranted, I’ve reached out, and I’ve withdrawn. And now, it’s time to accept.

There is no way to fully describe what Ingrid Wilhite meant to me. I know that I would not be who I am today, for good and for ill, if I hadn’t known her. And I know that she was among the very most meaningful and important people in my life. And lastly, I know that what she sparked in me, all those many years ago, burns as brightly now as it did when we met. That love, that connection, that lasting and redeeming friendship—these will be with me always, even though she is not.

I feel her effect on me every time I laugh at something inappropriate and devastatingly funny, every time I make the difficult decision to avoid something that isn’t good for me, every time I try to be more cool that I really am, and every time I joyfully accept love.

I love you, Ingrid Joy Wilhite, and I always will. I hope that I grow up to be half the human being you were.

-Caren Crockett
(With gratitude to Sauni Symonds and Lori Jensen.)

The Photos Not Taken

Dearest Ingrid:

Not a day goes by that I don't think of you. Not a day goes by that I don't think to call you about something.

I was shooting the dyke march Saturday and I remembered all the photos of you with your pals at those marches. I kept looking for your face in the crowd. I kept thinking of how we might cut the footage. I kept thinking...Ingrid...where did you get to my pal?

And today I saw a bumper sticker that said: "Accordions are illegal. It's the law." And I laughed thinking I could share that with you.

I miss you, Ingrid.

Yer pal, Margo

Team Ingrid Crosses the Finish Line

Team Ingrid, looking all stylish and walk-ish, at the Brain Tumor Foundation Walk-a-thon.

And they've got the feet to prove it.

Happy Birthday, Ingrid

Today would have been Ingrid's 49th birthday. I'm sure that she would have gorged on cake, probably taken a bike ride, partied with her friends in the Bay Area, and laughed with me when I told her (as I did every year) that no matter what she would always be older than I.

I wish that were still true.

Happy birthday, Ingrid. I miss you.