A week ago today, while working on my photo-organizing project, I came across the above photo of my friend Randy. And although I knew it was taken in Randy’s home, Baltimore, Maryland, I couldn’t remember WHEN it was taken. This is the thing I’ve figured out while going through my old photos–I have pretty terrific recall for sounds (that is, WHAT was said) and spaces (that is, WHERE I was when things happened), but terrible recall for TIME. Anyway, last Friday I texted the photo to Randy and asked, “Do you know when this was taken?”

Here is the conversation that followed.

I figured out the photo was taken in 2002 after I texted another friend whom I visited on the same trip. Then all the memories came flooding back. While in Baltimore, Randy and I went to a CD store, and I bought a Tony Bennett album. Back at Randy’s townhouse, on his couch, we listened to the CD, and Randy commented that Tony “still had it.” Then when Tony strained at the end of a song, Randy said, “Well–maybe not.” At Randy’s kitchen table, we talked about Rock Hudson and other gay celebrities. In Randy’s guest room, I remember there being several gay-themed books, one about a couple who’d been together for over fifty years. I can still see the cover. Anyway, at the time I was fascinated; I was years from coming out of the closet.

I honestly don’t remember the first time I met Randy Woodfield. He and my dad were suitemates in college at Ouachita Baptist University in Arkadelphia, Arkansas. For a while after graduation, Randy taught school in Alma, not far from Van Buren where my parents grew up and where we all live now. Just over forty-five years ago, Randy drove to Van Buren and babysat my dad’s youngest sister at my grandparents’ house while my dad’s oldest sister was having her first and only child, my cousin Donnie, at the hospital. This was many years before I came along, but I share the story with you now as it’s been shared with me (a hundred times) to simply say this–Randy has always been part of my family’s furniture.

This is where my personal timeline of Randy’s life gets fuzzy, but I know that he got married and moved from Arkansas to Baltimore. He was married for around seventeen years (I think). Then about the age of fifty, after much soul-searching and therapy, Randy came out of the closet. He and his wife got divorced. At some point during the whole process, Randy drove from Balitmore to Forrest City, Arkansas, where my dad was in prison, so he could tell my dad everything in person. “I didn’t want you to hear it from someone else or in a letter,” Randy said.

I guess most of my memories of Randy are from this point forward, after dad got out of prison in 2001. Of course, there was my trip to Baltimore that I already mentioned, but every three to five years, Randy would also come to Arkansas to visit. His family lived down south, but Randy would always detour and spend a night or two with us in Van Buren. Just a block from our home is a dilapidated church sign that looks like a Victorian house. It was originally designed by a local artist (Ralph Irwin) for–get this–a bakery. What a Victorian house, a bakery, and a church have to do with each other, I’ll never know. But I’ll also never forget Randy’s comment about the sign. “Well that’s tacky.”

When my dad got home from prison–for several years–he talked constantly about the Bible. He changed his beliefs A LOT while he was away, and I guess he was eager to share. Anyway, that same night that Randy commented about the tacky church sign, Dad said something about the Bible and the way people “ought” to behave. But Randy, with his quick wit and dry sense of humor, wasn’t having any of it. “Set it free, Ron!” he proclaimed like a big-tent-revival minister. “SET. IT. FREE.”

Randy’s voice could fill a room. That was his major in college. And whereas I’m embarrassed to say I don’t know the specifics, I believe he was a tenor (or maybe a baritone) and that he had his doctorate. What I do know is that Randy’s voice was absolutely gorgeous. Once he sang to just us in our living room, and I’m sure I’ve never heard anything so stunning. Another time we drove to Pine Bluff (I think) to hear him perform at his mother’s retirement center. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house. I’d give anything if we’d recorded even a moment of it. Ugh. How do you WRITE about a voice that brings you to tears within a matter of seconds? A voice that cuts right through you?

I know that Randy had certain regrets, chances he wished he’d taken professionally. Once while we were standing in our kitchen, he said so. Being the turd I was at the time (and I’m not sure much has changed), I said, “I’ve always regretted that I wore white tube socks when I was younger.”

Randy started to laugh. “You little shit,” he said.

In my mid-twenties, I dated a guy long-distance. My first boyfriend. Again, I’m not sure about the timeline, but I know that once the two of us met Randy for drinks in DC. This was a big deal, me introducing my boyfriend to someone in my life, since I wasn’t officially out yet. At that point, I hadn’t even introduced my boyfriend to my parents. But this was Randy. Hell, he knew I was gay before I did. Anyway, Randy drove up from Baltimore to meet us. I remember he ordered a rusty nail to drink.

It’s the only time I’ve every heard ANYONE order a rusty nail.

Over the last fifteen years, I’ve met Randy in DC a number of times. I’d be in town for a dance convention, or just traveling with a friend, and if Randy could, he’d drive up. It’s funny the things you recall. Once he picked me up in Glen Echo, Maryland, and I remember he wore a necklace with rainbow-colored rings on it, his way of finally being out and proud. Another time he met me at Old Ebbitt Grill in DC. I can’t tell you what we talked about, but when we both had to go to the bathroom, I remember him admonishing me to “never trust a fart.”

The last time I saw Randy was on August 25 of this year. I was in DC for a dance conference, and–once again–he drove up. He even waited patiently for thirty minutes in the circle drive of the hotel because I was in a meeting that ran late. I blogged about it briefly here, but it doesn’t even begin to describe what a lovely evening it was–filled with laughter, reflection, and delicious food. When I thanked him profusely for coming to visit and going out to dinner, he said, “OF COURSE I would be here.” Hum. I can still feel Randy’s hug when we said goodbye. There’s nothing like a Randy hug.

Two nights ago while I was watching a television series about gay culture in the 1980s and getting ready to go to bed, my dad knocked on my door to tell me that Randy had died unexpectedly the night before in his townhouse. His ex-wife, whom Randy had remained close to, had just gotten off the phone with Mom. I guess the school where Randy taught called the police when he didn’t show up to work and they couldn’t get ahold of him.

In the last two days, I’ve learned a lot about Randy. I mean, I knew that he was a voice teacher and taught music appreciation classes at York College, but those are just the facts of his life, not the results of his life. Going back to that thing about Randy having regrets. We talked a lot about this. I know his life didn’t turn out exactly how he wanted, either professionally or personally. After his divorce, he never really had a long or meaningful relationship. I mean romantically. Someone to share himself with. Rather, it was just him and his townhouse, and as he mentioned in the text I shared earlier, he’d stopped letting people come over. I guess he held on to so many possessions that they became overwhelming. My dad saw it once and said his stairs were full of books and boxes, except a small path.

But on the results of Randy’s life. His former colleagues, students, and friends have been posting about him online by the dozen, saying how much he encouraged them, believed in them when they didn’t believe in themselves. One man said, “Often it felt like he was the only person who heard my voice.” Another said, “He was a good laugher, a quick mind, and a great audience–for your problems, for your ideas, for anything.” This was my experience with Randy. Simply put, he gave–of his time, of his talents, of his love.

Of his big ol’ heart.

Earlier tonight I searched my communications with Randy–my text messages, my Facebook messages, my emails. Randy was always sending me “required viewing,” gay-themed movies for me to watch that would pull at my heart-strings, educate my mind, and make sure I didn’t get my “card” revoked. (My homosexual card, Mom. And no, they don’t really give us cards.) Randy was the one who told me to watch Paris Is Burning, the one who told me to watch The Boys in the Band, both iconic and classic gay movies.

Here’s a couple texts I got from him a couple months ago.

That text about the photo from 2002 is the last time Randy and I officially spoke, but he did comment online within the last week that something I wrote on the blog was “profound.” This is another way Randy lifted me up. He read the blog consistently. Often, he’d message me privately to say, “I’m loving the blog!” Really, with Randy, it didn’t take much. The name of a movie, a simple encouragement. And then there were my birthdays. Before the internet and social media, Randy would send me physical cards, and once he sent one with a picture of a cactus that looked like a penis–one big prickly shaft with two small balls on either side it with thorns sticking out all over them. The inside of the card said simply, “Love hurts.”

Here are Randy’s birthday posts to me on Facebook from the last few years.

And then there’s this message, which Randy sent to me privately a day before my 37th birthday, last year.

Truly, these words are some of the most beautiful that have ever been gifted to me. How do I even begin to express my gratitude for them? How do I even begin to express my gratitude for the privilege of having known Randy, for having been the chosen recipient of his love? I say “chosen” recipient because Randy didn’t have to love me. I mean, no one HAS to love anybody else, but Randy was my dad’s friend. My dad’s closest friend, I believe. But all of us–me, my mom, and my sister–would and do independently say that Randy was our friend too. And this is simply because Randy showed interest in us and took time to cultivate relationships with us.

Clearly he did this with a lot of people.

I could write all night and not even scratch the surface of “How Randy Changed My Life for the Better.” As if it’s even possible to communicate how much brighter the sun shines and how much better the world looks because one person–one person!–adopts you into their life, welcomes you into their heart, and loves you unconditionally. There are simply no words. Naturally, I’m sad that Randy will never again message me or send me “required viewing.” I hate that we’ll never hug again. And yet I am so grateful–oh so very grateful–for all our time together. It’s made the biggest difference.

He made the biggest difference.

Randy, I love you too.