Dearest Dadams

Dave Adams was, as we all know, missing a tooth.

“Look,” he mumbled, poking his tongue in an out of the hole like a gopher. “It’s gone! The tooth is gone!”

As I munched on a Kit Kat in his office, a chocolaty offering from his ever-flowing candy dish, he went on to explain how it had happened. While he was sleeping, the tooth had somehow managed detach from his smile, the one beaming as he dreamed of yet another unconscious trip to land of Oz.

“I’m getting a new one,” he said to me, “A brand new tooth. And I can’t wait….this hole just feels so awkward. It feels strange.”

Suddenly, the world as we know it feels strange, as the man with the missing tooth is now missing from the newsroom. His sudden and untimely death has left a hole at the IDS, a gap in the collective smile of IU students and faculty.

So much of the career success I have had at IU has been a direct result of the wonderful guidance and support of Dave Adams. His constant encouragement helped me excel in my writing. His letter of recommendation helped me earn a scholarship that has already helped shape my career path.

Dadams has, very literally, changed my life.

About a month before his passing, I attended a fundraising dinner Dave had hosted at his home. It was there that I got to see his infamous Wizard of Oz room, tales of which had been passed around the newsroom for years.

As I marveled all of the memorabilia – the Tin man figurines, the Oz snowglobes, the Yellow Brick roadsign – he sat on the couch smiling, sipping a Coke from a straw placed in between the gap.

“Hold on,” he said suddenly, “This is my favorite part.”

He flicked off one set of lights, darkening the room, then immediately flicked on another. An illuminated rainbow burst onto the wall.

He stood directly below the rainbow, wearing the arc of colors like a hat.

“Isn’t it cool!” he said proudly, his eyes as big as the Dorothy snowglobes. “I got it on Ebay.”

He loved that room. He loved his job. And above all, he loved his students. I have no doubt that wherever Dave is now, he looking down at all of us, wearing an oversized Hawaiian shirt while smiling from a full set of teeth…somewhere over the rainbow.

We’ll miss you Dave.