High (St.) Mark’s for Kim Ricketts

I have hosted hundreds if not more than a thousand events for crowds of all sizes. I have conducted interviews with power-mongers and A-listers. I have addressed the most uncomfortable personal truths in public and exposed the most egregious lies on air. And yet, I have never gotten nervous before speaking in public, certainly not as I did Wednesday prior to delivering a eulogy for my friend Kim Ricketts at her memorial at a packed St. Mark’s Cathedral. It was not the size of the crowd that intimidated — heck, I’ve spoken to houses of 2,500+ and the larger, the easier — and it was not the venue, despite the PA system’s reverb and my Semitic fears of spontaneous immolation. No, what got to me was the onus of honoring my colleague properly and sincerely while maintaining my customary irreverence and representing her as she was, not as some sanitized remembrance of her. It did not help that, twice, the Notes system on my iPad decided to delete large chunks of my speech in the hour or so before its delivery. Nevertheless, with some minor reserve of calm and the major assist of TLoML’s literal hand-holding, I took the stage, following opening remarks by Kim’s brother and sister, and delivered one of my finest talks ever. I received applause which, I believe, is a tad unexpected in such context and was barraged with kind words and compliments after the ceremony. Truth be told, I felt quite proud, a sentiment I rarely allow myself. Certainly, I am thankful for it.

Below, a transcript of my presentation.

Hi. My name is Warren Etheredge and I am NOT an alcoholic. Like Kim, I am a spirited drinker. In large part, I think this explains how and why we collaborated on countless events over a dozen years. I think we both see life, when properly navigated, as a series of contiguous cocktail parties with great food, good conversations and, ideally, no boring people. In fact, if Kim were here right now, I imagine she’d sidle over to me and whisper something like: oh, ferchrissakes, this is beautiful but can we open some wine and lighten up?  And (noting the cathedral wall behind us)… mauve? Really? Mauve?

Kim and I shared a tremendous capacity for criticism and many wrongly attribute this to sass, snark or cynicism when, more rightly, it is simply the flip side of idealism, a reflection of a shared faith in the redemptive power of literature. Kim believed we would be better as a whole if we just read more, ate better and canned more fruit. Honestly, I never understood the whole canning thing. Kim loved nothing more than the Good Book — that being the one she was enjoying at the moment.

Above all, Kim was driven by the notion that books can change the world… if only people read them. We were both appalled by the statistic that the average American household buys only ONE book per year… and just think of how all of us gathered here today skew that number. So Kim devised a multitude of public events to bring books and their authors to the people. To select guests, we would flip through publishers’ catalogues like kids trading baseball cards — “got it, got it, need it, want it, got it” — but instead we’d exchange insider baseball phrases like “hack”, “pervert,” “illiterate,” “Booker prize winner”… (and that was all the same author). I was honored to host Words & Wine and The Good Life series. Though they made no fiscal sense whatsoever — trust me — Kim was determined to introduce folks to greater ideas and lesser celebrated writers such as Ethan Canin, Dacher Keltner and Andre Dubus III. In short, Kim did more for literature and literacy than Nancy Pearl on a life-long Ritalin bender.

Of course, if you’re going to change the world or make some omelets, you are going to crack some eggheads. I remember early in our friendship when Kim completed my mantra: if you’re not pissing somebody off, you’re not doing it right. Consequently, I’d argue that Kim has never been recognized as she should, as a savior of bookstores by regenerating the passion of their patrons. Kim was unorthodox, at worst, and revolutionary, always. She reinvented systems from the outside, having learned that those running the inside just don’t get it.

I have always spoken extemporaneously. It’s sort of a trademark and I had hoped to do so again today. However, so desperate to honor Kim properly, I decided to craft a speech instead. Fittingly, about an hour ago,  I inadvertently erased my notes – twice! -and had to recreate it from scratchy memory. Forgive me. I know if Kim were here, she would have laughed, brought me another Tom Collins and reminded me not to sweat it. She’d say, “It’s no big deal, Warren. You’re just opening for Tom Douglas.”

It is tempting for journalists and obituary writers to remember Kim as an incredible behind-the-scenes force. However, I will forever see Kim as the headliner, a trusted colleague, a dear friend, one helluva woman, a role model, my only mentor.

I can think of no better way to pay tribute to Kim than to keep reading — I’ve picked up James Wood’s How Fiction Worksfor a reassuring sense of order — and to keep drinking.  I’ve brought my flask for a very necessary appreciation of life’s madness.  To Kim.