I heard of Camille J. Gage long before I met her. Active in the neighborhood, and throughout the city, in a crazy long list of things, from art to justice to events planning to progressive politics to, ideally, anything that combined all of the above. Oh, also the sacrality of water, music, hiking, yoga, and dancing. And her family. And her friends. And food! We know many people in common (Facebook says 86, but that is just scratching the surface).
I met Camille in person on the sidewalk in front of Grand Café (forever in my heart) in the summer of 2013, and we talked about my imminent theater debut, totally naked in a Fringe Festival show – written, directed and starring the niece (Natalie!!) of the people Camille and her husband Pat were dining with.
That fall, Camille invited Bob and me to co-host a fundraiser/friend raiser for our neighbor, Minneapolis Mayoral candidate Betsy Hodges. Setting up at that event, I mentioned that we’d been binge watching Deadwood, and we were maybe developing a bit of a whiskey problem, and I was having a hard time not calling everyone “cocksucker” in casual conversation. Camille smiled at me, said “You’re fun!” and we linked arms and then we were friends. Or something like that.
We hung out a fair amount (for us) over the next years; Camille and Pat rented my brother’s cabin for a week a couple summers, so we got to spend some time together in my homeland Otter Tail County. And we were able to finally host Camille and Pat for reciprocal dinner, as the dining table at the cabin is actually functional and not a long-term storage unit. Camille was always good for late-night texting, talking about what shows to watch and other important bits of news and information.
I’m still reeling over the news of Camille’s death. Turns out some people don’t post every detail of their medical situation on Facebook, weird as that sounds, so Camille was able to stage a proper Irish goodbye – to a huge number of friends, based on the comments of disbelief on Facebook. Details have been kept pretty private, but I found out that we shared the same diagnosis these past months; same, but obviously very different. I’m still alive. I just don’t know how these things happen. I know that it doesn’t make sense, and fairness and goodness don’t seem to factor into anything. You get the hand you’re dealt, and you play it. I guess the important part is who you’re playing with, and how much you enjoy the game. I will miss you, cocksucker. You’ve left a massive void in this realm. I’ll see you again. Save me a seat at the table! I’ll bring drinks.
Based on the timing of everything, it seems Camille might have shared an elevator with Kirstie Alley. What I wouldn’t give to have been a fly on that wall…