Last week, we lost Gavin Howley, an early participant in Writers for Recovery and a close personal friend. Since then, I’ve heard from a number of the people who knew and loved Gavin, both online and by phone. They all shared how much they loved him, and talked about his impact on their lives. So I thought I’d add my own to the pot, because I loved him too, and because he’s a guy worth remembering.

I met Gavin in July 2014, at the first Writers for Recovery workshop at the old Turning Point on Bank Street in Burlington. Even six years later, I have fond memories of that group and the amazing people who were part of it: Stan Worthley, Caitlin and Sarah Ferland, John and Jack Gower, Leslie Bonnette, Patti Garvey, and a bunch of great other folks. That first group literally went on for years, with and without those folks and including many more. It had a huge impact on my life, and for that I am most grateful.

I’m not sure how Gavin found out about WFR, or why he showed up. I recall him saying “my therapist made me,” but it could be that I am making that up. In any case, he put his stamp on the workshop right away. Later, I would find out he was a great musician. (If you haven’t seen his version of Alison, check it out above, before the copyright team at YouTube finds it and takes it down.) But before I heard his music, I read his words. From his harrowing (and surprisingly funny) early piece “Why I Really Went to Jail,” I learned two important things that I would carry throughout my time with WFR.

First, I discovered what could happen when a writer was brave enough to tell the truth without holding back. When Gavin read the piece out loud, we were all just stunned. And it wasn’t only us. I posted the piece on the WFR blog, and for the following six years, it has been the single most read post we’ve ever published. I told Gavin that once, and he mumbled something snarky, probably about not deserving it, but he did deserve it. Because the piece is unreal, as you can see for yourself.

Second, I learned that not everyone who struggles with substances and mental health issues looks like they struggle. Ever-casual in slacks and a dress shirt, Gavin was warm, friendly, funny, and cool. But when he started reading that first piece, I realized there was so much more below the surface, including courage and deep-seated pain.

I liked Gavin from the get-go, and after he asked me to give him a ride home to South Burlington one night, we became friends. I told him I’d be glad to give him a ride if he was willing to stop by Trader Joe’s with me on the way. He agreed, and soon we were wandering the aisles, chatting and cracking jokes like old friends. If I recall correctly, he grabbed some kind of wacky combo juice, Pomegranate-Hemp or something equally odd, which became the first of one of many of our long-running jokes.

Over the years, we grew closer. I’d drive up to Burlington for some errands and meet him for a 5 Guys burger or some Gaku Ramen and an afternoon or evening of wandering Church Street, poking around in the shops and looking for a suitable and fairly-priced pair of pants, which Gavin had an idea might be at LLBean. (As far as I know, he never did find them.) Then I’d give him a lift back to SoBu, as he always referred to his home town, and we’d agree to do it again.

Sometime after Gavin’s dad Jim died in 2017, Gavin, his mom Kathleen, and his sister Laura came to Montpelier to spread some of the ashes at Hubbard Park, which Jim loved. We had a nice lunch on the back porch at Deb’s and my house. And Gavin came along with me for Deb’s standup comedy debut at the Vermont Comedy Club, where he got to meet some of my other friends. Now, of course, I am regretting that I didn’t see him more in person. But that was only part of our relationship.

I’m not really much of a texter; I do it for convenience and minimally. But in the past few years, I texted with Gavin almost daily. While our in-person talks often focused on serious topics—how Gavin was doing in his recovery, how his work was going, his difficulty being social and getting himself out in the world, the texts were 99% humor. To know Gavin was to know his wit, which while often self-effacing, turned its sights like a Death Star laser beam on the hypocrisy and inanity of American life in general and Burlington (and SoBu) life in particular.

On any given day, we might riff on the fact that the SoBu Public Library is in a shopping mall, dissect the grammar missteps of the junk email Gavin got from Nataliya, the stunning Russian sexpot who was dying to meet “Real American Man,” or mock the overblown guitar stylings of blues guitar god Joe Bonamassa (or, as we referred to him, Joe Massive Boner or just BM). In fact, we developed a whole sideline story that Gavin’s uncle, a jazz pianist who in real life despised the Boner, was actually the president of the BM fan club. And there was more, in an endless stream of humor aimed at everything from corporate-speak to “clean” food, “unboxing” videos to our level of manliness, or lack therof.

But nothing, absolutely nothing, topped the amount of time we spent ragging on YETI, the manufacturer of the coolers you need a bank loan or a trust fund to afford. It all started one evening in LLBean, where I had gone to buy some fly fishing gear and Gavin had made another unsuccessful soiree to the pants rack. As we were leaving, we paused at the YETI display, where $300 coolers were there for the asking.

“Jesus,” I said. “I can’t believe anyone could be stupid enough to pay that much for a fucking cooler.”

And that’s when we realized an LLBean staffer was lurking behind us.

“That’s because they’re THE BEST,” he said, trying and failing to tamp down his irritation. Then he stalked away.

“THE BEST,” Gavin mused, and then we both started laughing. That was all it took. In text and in person, any time a product of any kind was mentioned, YETI and THE BEST came along for the ride. It might start innocently enough, with a text by Gavin asking if I knew where he could get THE BEST sandwich or something, and we would be off for a stream of bad jokes, worse puns, and general hilarity no one would care about but us. But here’s the thing: underneath it all, Gavin was hurting.

Occasionally, he would go off radar for a while, which corresponded with a relapse, and the deep anger and shame he felt about going back to that place again. Then I’d get a text, or see him in person, and he’d own all of it with complete honesty and start over. He never blamed anyone but himself, which he did without kid gloves. He’d go back to meetings, connect with a sponsor, and try again.

Just before he died, Gavin hit a year sober. I can’t remember him doing that long a stretch in the time I have known him, but it’s possible he did. While he was open in talking about his difficulty with sobriety, he pushed back on any effort to go too deep. Which was fine. I didn’t hang with him because I wanted to solve Gavin’s problems, I showed up because I loved him. He was smart, funny, cantankerous and skeptical, talented, humble, and cool, even if he didn’t believe it. I’m so sad that he made the choice to leave us. The world is now a lesser place.

Feel free to share your memories of Gavin here. Thanks for reading. Gary

"In Memory of Gavin Howley"

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