Amanda Davis

Amanda Davis died at the age of 32 in a plane crash in 2003. Her parents used their vacation time to fly her around the country on a book tour in a chartered plane piloted by her father. On March 14th, the plane crashed in North Carolina, killing all three. McSweeney's published a page with the following letter from Heidi Julavits. Even I miss Amanda now, and I'd never heard of her until today. The page has memories from a lot of people, all good and sad, which can be read here.

"Dear readers,

On the afternoon of Friday, March 14, a plane carrying Amanda Davis and her parents crashed into a mountain in North Carolina. There were no survivors.

Amanda Davis was one of the funniest, most self-effacing, chutzpah-charged, and big-hearted human beings anyone could ever hope to encounter. To meet her was always an historical event, one you would remember for the rest of your life. Amanda was essential. She was vital. She was a forceful and generous (and forcefully generous) presence. She was the magnetic core around which a lot of people swirled, and as such she was a facilitator of relationships and possibility of all sorts. Many of us were connected, through her, to a community that she created and maintained; she made life feel cozy, small, family-like, even for people who lived 3,000 miles apart. With her energetic pragmatism, she commanded the chaotic, nonsensical world to work better, and it did, or at least it seemed to, when she was around.

We all know people who possess both a whip-smart wit and a penchant for the ridiculously sentimental (in the most sappy, excellent, KNOWING way), but no one embodied these soft and edgy extremes like Amanda. Does ‘vicious sweetheart’ make sense? Her friends were her cubs. She protected them, she grubbed food for them, she cuffed them on the head when they got too whiney or pathetic. She was mother bear, psychoanalyst, nurse, real estate agent, plumber, computer technician, consumer advocate, expert on everything from used truck parts to biscuit recipes. The girl had opinions. Well-informed, researched, insightful opinions. She had advice for you, always, about whatever worried or confused you. Don’t know what kind of laptop to buy? Call Amanda. Bewildered by the ins and outs of refinancing your mortgage? Call Amanda. Need advice about your love life, your crappy short story, your sick cat, what color to paint your bathroom? Call Amanda. Have a tiny stupid problem that no one in their right mind has the time to care about? Amanda has the time (but hold on — she’ll have to get rid of that person on the other line, first). Call Amanda.

So we who knew her personally will be robbed of HER (don’t get me started on what she’s been robbed of). Those who didn’t know her personally, those who knew her only (or additionally) through her writing, are robbed of the books she’d yet to write. Amanda was an extremely gifted writer, one just managing to wrestle her many talents into a honed, inimitable voice. Her first book, Circling the Drain, was published by William Morrow in 1999, and was one of the more daring examples of short fiction in the last ten years. Her work floated somewhere between poetry and prose, untethered by narrative, but always concerned with matters of the heart. Her story, “Fat Ladies Floated in the Sky Like Balloons,” was published in McSweeney’s second issue, and exemplified everything they were looking for: it was experimental but lyrical, brave but full of soul. She was, as many have said, “the real thing.”

This was a year of change for Amanda; she’d moved to California and she was HAPPY, really happy. She was awarded an amazing teaching position at Mills College in Oakland, and loved her work there. She was a WRITER who loved to TEACH WRITING (for those who don’t know: this is a rarity), because she was so damned invested in other people’s possibilities.

She lived in a wonderful house on campus, shrouded by trees and featuring a hammock and a barbecue, both of which she put to good use. And her second book and first novel, Wonder When You’ll Miss Me, had just hit the bookstores last week. Her parents used their vacation time to fly their daughter around on her book tour in her father’s small plane (evidently, the Davis clan are genetically bred for encouragement and outlandish gestures of generous support). Her family was en route to a reading when the accident occurred. She and her parents are survived by her younger sister Joanna and her younger brother Adam.

This space will serve, for this week and maybe beyond, as a forum for people who knew and loved Amanda. As those who have been sharing stories about her these past few days have learned, Amanda is managing, STILL, to take charge of this situation in a very familiar way — a story starring her starts, and smiles reluctantly emerge, and suddenly we can see her goofing around and trying to make us laugh, even as we’re missing her so damned hard. We picture her banging her cell phone, cursing out the crappy reception she’s getting and her new plan and vowing to switch services AGAIN. And here’s just one of the many tragedies resulting from this — the one-way manner in which we’re going to have to talk to her from now on, SHE of the boundless advice and wise words, since she can’t call us anymore from where she is. But we know she’d want to hear from us.

— Heidi Julavits"

Here are links that McSweeny's posted to some of her work:

FAT LADIES FLOATED IN THE SKY LIKE BALLOONS

Louisiana Loses Its Cricket Hum

Wonder When You'll Miss Me

Being Prepared - I Miss You Already

"I miss you already." - Barbra Streisand in The Guilt Trip

I'm certain a million people have said this line before Barbra Streisand said it to me via Seth Rogen yesterday, but something about the way she said it, or maybe the way she shares my mom's name, hit a little harder than I expected.

It wasn't that they were parting ways at the airport or that she was saying she already missed her son, who was actually still standing in front of her, and it wasn't the tears she was trying not to let go. It was the way she said goodbye then turned around - all strength - and took control of her life, and then the way her son looked on as she did so, sadly, but fondly. It's something I will never, ever be able to do.

The movie shows a mother who has to let go of her son and recognize that he's an adult, so that she can take a new step in her life. It implies that her love for her son was holding her back, which is sad, but probably does not deserve the response I gave it. The loss I felt was more akin to the son dying and the mother doing what she needs to keep herself alive and happy, and in Seth, I saw a son saying goodbye to his mother forever. Which is why I will never be able to give a strong goodbye.

Perhaps, I should tell you here, that the movie is a happy one, I promise, despite my depiction. The problem is, I live in a constant state of "I miss you already," and I don't think I'm alone in this. In the words of thee Little Edie Beale, "It's difficult to keep the line between the past and the present." The quote has many possible meanings, but the one I see most clearly and most often is that it's hard to not use the past as preparation for the present. When the past is filled with worst case scenarios that were too likely, it's hard to not have expectations, and personally, I tend to give my full effort to keeping those worsts from happening again.

Of course, I know it's impossible to keep things from happening, so the next best thing is to be prepared for the worst case by imagining it's happening every time anything happens. Phone calls are notifications of car accidents, fires, and heart attacks. Visits at work are because whatever news is about to be delivered, is too difficult for over the phone - usually someone has cancer, or a drug overdose, or heart failure. Even the thought of a simple hug goodbye leaves my throat burning because I have to make it a forever goodbye - because, well, just in case.

You see, death, even when it's a gift, is the worst case, simply because it's the last thing to happen to a life, and the last thing is always the saddest. Say what you will about souls, but I think we can all agree that if they exist, they are different than the bodies that we know - they would be a new thing, at best - and the old is still lost.

Now, for the point of this post. Three of my closest friends have lost their moms much earlier than seems right for the America we live in, and one of them lost two of her best friends much earlier than seems right for anywhere in the world. One of them called me earlier this week, one is marking an anniversary today and next week, and just this morning one said she misses her mom. This post is for them, because I want them to know that I miss them already.

I miss you already in the same way you miss your mothers and friends, right now. I miss you like you'll miss them tomorrow, and later this week, and right now, again. I can't bring them back, I can't make your relationships with them better or worse so it would be easier for you to take, I can't even put words like, "I'm proud of you" and "I love you" and "I miss you, too" in their mouths, even though I'm certain the words would be there.

All I can do is miss you already, because it means you're important to me, and even though you're sitting next to me, or across the room, or a state down, I have to start preparing for the possible moment when you're not in my life in some capacity, because the shock of that fact, would be too much to leave to the whims of fate; so I can't.

When the phone rings late at night, I will worry it's you, or your husband or your wife or some stranger calling about you. When I get two calls in a row from you, even in the middle of the afternoon, I will always be afraid to answer. When you say, "I have a confession" or "I need to tell you something," or "Can we talk" I will always be left feeling a little weak when it's just that you want to go on a road trip, meet for lunch, ask about a TV show, or talk for no reason at all - even though those are the reasons I always want you to be calling.

And when we say goodbye, for the night, for a week, or for years, know that I will be a complete fucking mess for a minute, and will do my very best to avoid that situation at all costs, which means I may miss our goodbyes altogether. Because I've been missing you all along, anyway.

I hope that you know, since I guess I'm a "Sheldon," that this seems bigger than and as close to love as I can get, at the same time. I know it's not the same as the normal love that people give, but because you know loss, I hope that you can see some value in it. And I hope that it makes you happy, even if it doesn't make you less sad - although you should also know that will always bother me, because I wish you weren't ever sad about anything.

You are good, and important and my world is better with you in it. It's just the fact of the matter. I will always miss you already.

Maddie and Zoe Sing an Anthem of Pride to Us All

There is nothing terrible about this video. It's all sugary-sweet, giggle-til-your-tummy-aches, goodness. The first minute or so is a little slow because you can't really understand anything they're saying, but at the :57 mark - I believe it's Maddie, if their dad lists them by age - totally nails it with a powerhouse, ear-drum-shattering, attempt to hit the note everyone who's heard the song has probably tried to hit. She misses it completely, but it's all heart and I love it so much. On top of that, there's the yawning, which is phenomenal, because I can't even tell you how many times I experienced this exact response as a kid in church, and she just plows through, singing 'til the end. Then, of course, there's little Zoe, who is just comfortable enough to add a little jazz hands, unwavering eye contact and nostril flares to the show, rounding out the whole performance. I give it a 10.5 out of 10.

Oddly, some of the comments on the video are about how these girls are going to hate their dad when they're old enough to realize what he's done, but I hope they're wrong, because the girls have NOTHING to be ashamed of, and how dare anyone even suggest that they might. I hope Maddie and Zoe grow up thinking their father is proud of their free-spirits, their honesty, and even more, that he is proud of them. So proud, that like any parent who's kid is in sports or theater or band, he videotaped it and shared it with his friends, who shared it with their friends, who shared it with their friends, because who doesn't need a reminder of how good it feels to be free-spirited, honest and to have someone who's proud of you?

Maddie and Zoe sing "Let It Go" from Frozen from Aaron Mendez on Vimeo.

You can also view the site here.