
Lasting Impressions
A couple of years ago, a friend asked me why I am so weird. Normally, I take pride and full responsibility for my oddness, but a memory grabbed that moment and I replied, “because of Kathy Wyatt.”
I called her Kathy.
Her siblings called her Kath.
As an adult, she preferred Katherine.
Kathy was my very first best friend. She lived up the street from me, on a block that offered several other kids to play with. But no one “got me” like Kathy.
Born in Louisiana, at six weeks old, her family moved to the Midwest. At a very young age, she established her stubborn independence—doing her own thing while dancing to different beats from various drummers. Marching was too confining.
Kathy was a creative kid. She would make all her cards for family birthdays, decorated with lively illustrations. As a grade schooler, she wrote and illustrated her own books, My Frogle, about a half-frog, half-turtle character, and Frankie the Worm, a series about an adventurous wriggler.
My own creativity as a kid included drawing and painting imaginary creatures; monsters born from my weird, distorted gray matter. She liked my art. Her curiosity unbound, she would discuss it with me; wanting to know my reasons and my characters motivations. (I was a flattered six-year-old. Especially coming from someone a few years older.)
Kathy was eye-opening. My affinity for monster’s matched hers, then blossomed when she introduced me to Famous Monsters of Filmland, a monthly magazine she subscribed to. I convinced my mom to get me a subscription. When both of us had new mag in hand, we would meet and scour the issue page by page together. She was into articles about the older monster movies, and the stories behind their production. I was into the special effects, the makeup, and the fantastic covers illustrated by Basil Gogos. We were both into the stories behind the monsters.
Kathy craved learning. Her intelligence garnered high grades, scholarships and fellowships throughout her education. Majoring in History, summa cum laude, she continued by getting her Masters in History. Her need to know and learn was contagious, even as a kid. Because of her, I would have never discovered Dark Shadows, Lon Chaney, Sr. (and Jr.), Boris Karloff, Ray Harryhausen and the art of stop animation. She introduced me to, and learned with me about the various types of vampires, beasts, demons, witches, and magic that existed in our world. Her passion to know became mine.
Kathy was a teacher. She gave me my first lesson in forgiveness. I don’t remember what the fight was over, but I do remember Kathy getting angry (her gravelly voice and long, wild hair amplifyed her temper). I remember the hurt, sadness, and loss I felt afterwards. Importantly, I remember Kathy showing up at my door to apologize. That moment touched me, a contact I still think about today. A lesson I continue to learn in application.
The summer I turned 10, my mom remarried, and we packed up a truck to move. I remember giving Kathy a hug, the new sense of loss filling my heart as we drove away. Back then, there was no digital keep-in-touch, just mail and long-distance calls. Neither one of us contacted the other.
I continued to establish my weirdness, her influence always hanging out in my mind and heart.
I moved back to the same town for high school. I made an effort to get ahold of her once, driving to her parent’s house. Talking to her mom and sister, I learned she was away at college. I left my number, but never got a call. Maybe my number lost. Maybe I could have tried again.
Kathy became Katherine. Growing taller and maintaining her long brown hair.
Eventually, she landed a job with the Nebraska Historical Society, as a Reference Assistant to the Photo Curator. A job she enjoyed immensely. Researching old photography, fulfilling image requests from publishers like The Smithsonian, and Time-Life. She was good at her job. Her passion evident by the clients she worked for.
Katherine was thrifty. She spent money on books, and maintained the clothes she owned, rather than buying new. She rarely went out, enjoying the friendship of her new reads from Barnes & Noble and old flicks on Turner Classic Movies.
I remember her as being chatty. As an adult, her friends remember her as being quiet and reserve. Comfortable with herself, her job, her solo-ness. Katherine was happy.
Many years later, thinking about my first friend, I decided to try and locate her. I jumped on the internet, knowing when I found her she would probably say something like, “it’s been way too long,” and we would just pick up things and rekindle.
Only…
One July evening, in 1997, Katherine took an evening walk around her neighborhood. Something she did often. A monster, hiding in the shadows, attacked her. Threatened her if she screamed. Katherine, who carried her keys between her fingers as habit, began lashing out at the demon’s face, trying to take out an eye, pierce its throat. The beast, stabbed her multiple times, then ran off as her life began to pour away.
She lived long enough, drifting in and out, to talk to EMT’s on the way to the hospital—about her attacker, her bloody keys, her mom the nurse—but the violence was too much.
She died.
The news devastated me. Reaching out, I found her sister, a friend from her job at NHS, a few articles,…I’ve been rediscovering my first bestie, finding as much information as possible to establish a spiritual moment of connection.
Katherine was inspiring. This quiet, private woman made several impressions on people. A professor, who has passed, claimed she was her best student. At her funeral, people she had worked with, helped in finding the perfect images for their publications, admired her so much to travel across country to attend. A simple, but meaningful memorial remained on the wall at the historical society until recently.
But her final imprint, her last living mark to make, both physical and purposeful, I find heroic.
The demon tried attacking other girls that evening, then was finally captured later the same night. With several injuries to its face, authorities were able to match its unholy blood to those on Katherine’s keys. The monster remains chained, with no chance of freedom. The scars on its face a lasting impression of guilt.
So, Kathy, my first best friend, an important initial influence to my weirdness, my unfathomable creativity, my love for all things fantastical and imaginary, I place this page to honor you. I plan to take a percentage of my earnings with Chakra Demons to pledge in your name to the job you loved with the Nebraska Historical Society Fund.
Plus, because I do blame you for my self-appreciated oddness, dedicate the Demons series to you. If you are embarrassed and have issues with all this attention—please, pay me a visit.
It’s been way too long.
Special thanks to Lisa Takemura, Susan Sequenzia, Anne Armijo, Martha Vestecka Miller and Cindy Drake.