Around The Bayside Dave Adams Will Be Missed On The Eastern Shore
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The first time I met David Adams, he was lounging against a wall at the Waterline Gallery with a glass of wine in his hand. I felt an instant current go through me – he looked just like the beloved father I had lost at age 11.

His green eyes were beautiful. His fingers were tapered. His black turtleneck was Joseph Campbell with an attitude. His first words to me were not so kind, though.

"So you're the broad who got me fired and took my job."

I had only moved to the shore six months earlier, and had no idea what he was talking about. My relationship with the caustic and controversial columnist of the Ocean Pines Gazette, Bayside Gazette, and Coconut Times had just begun.

He challenged me to be the best writer I could be. He told me I wrote like a female Hemingway, even though he was convinced I was the Erma Bombeck of the Eastern Shore. He begged me to engineer a public feud between us, and said it would make readership go through the roof. (I declined.)

He shuddered at my use of excessive commas, and when the resemblance to my father grew too great, he held me in his arms like the gentleman he was and let me weep arrested little girl tears. Though he often infuriated me, he taught me to gentle my passions by learning my ABCs ... (Act right, Be niCe).

David died on Aug. 23, at age 48, after a brief illness. The day before his death, he told his trusted friend Paul he was "going home."

Though my grief is intense, I recognize that I am not the only one who will miss him. He named people; I became "Foxy Brown," his best friend became "HepCat," his fellow musician and spiritual advisor became "Gentleman Joe." The select few who were part of "Club Cat" know who they are.

Though he was an accomplished musician, writer, and song writer, those talents were not his true strength. Orphaned young, instead of being bitter about his fate he became a father and mentor to boys who had a troubled past with their own Dads.

Phone calls at 3 a.m. were routine from his "boys." His theory was they suffered from too much "estrogen poisoning," a condition that arose from a lack of a male role model in their lives.

My God, David, I am going to miss you. You entered my life like a shooting star, brilliant and brief and never to be forgotten.

I can hear some of your quotes in my mind:

"Dance in the kitchen, with someone you love."
"Growing tomatoes, like love, isn't rocket science. Give them what they need, and they will give you fruit."

"Women talk, talk, talk. Enough, already. Practice your ABC's, and your man will listen."

"Tony Bennett knew the secrets of a woman's heart."

"Give your man a break, he's trying, even if he's silent. He's there, isn't he?"

And at the end ... "I prayed, and God didn't answer me. I always tried to do the right thing, and things didn't turn out the way I wanted. Is He really there?"

At the very end, he answered his own plea. “God has given us free choice, and in that giving, doesn't interfere in our choices. He loves us unconditionally, and when it is time, welcomes us Home.”

Now I have a writing angel to watch over me. Like so many others with their own personal stories of how you have touched them, I miss your physical presence so much it aches.

On Sept. 8, at 10:30 a.m., there will be a requiem Mass for David at St. Andrew's Catholic Church on 145th Street in Ocean City.

Please forgive the commas ... love you, Foxy Brown.
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the above was my tribute in my newspaper column to my friend, David.