There's this picture that I keep in my office. I have it in front of me right now. Older man

sitting in a chair. He's mostly bald, has glasses, suspenders. His left hand is up near his chin.

He looks a little pensive, but also antsy, like he wants to get out of that chair, which knowing Jack is probably what was

happening when the picture was taken. He didn't want to just sit there. He wanted to get up

and go paint some backdrops, or build a set, or direct some actors and some screwball comedy

version of a play from the 1600s. Jack Fryman was the head of the theater department

where I went to college, and the theater was where I spent almost all of my time. I keep this

photo to remember Jack and to remember those times. I had been dealing with depression for many

years by the time I was in college, although I was still

many years away from knowing that that's what was going on, that it had a name, and that was it.

All I knew was that I had this dark weirdness, this weird darkness that was always on my

tail, always chasing me or just patiently waiting to get me and drag me down

to a place that was painful and scary.

But if I was in the theater, it couldn't get me.

If I was on stage acting or taking a class or building a set or just hanging out with my friends in that building, I was safe.

A big part of the theater being a safe space was how Jack ran things.

It was perfectly designed for a young depressed person who didn't even know he was depressed.

The theater department, back then, mounted a whole lot of plays,

and so one was kept busy. I auditioned for everything I could, and I was pretty good, so I got

cast a lot. That meant I had rehearsals nearly every night. And in addition to all that,

I needed to study for my non-theater classes.

It was a liberal arts college, so I was studying all kinds of things.

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