A few days before he died, I was having an ongoing conversation with Mike Miller in my head. Having been out of touch with him for quite a long time, I was struck with an acute sense that I should write to him, and as I went about doing other things I maintained on ongoing conversation with an imaginary Mike, working out what I wanted to say. I wanted to check in on him, yes, and to know that he was okay. I also wanted to tell him about being in a new place, and to share with him how much it has got me thinking about the early days of Review, and understanding, now more than ever, what a gift it had been, not just to Kansas City, but to me personally. I wanted to express to him how grateful I feel for that time, for the collaboration that we had, for all of the ways that he empowered (and also indulged) me, for all that he gave and all that I learned from him. I wanted to thank him, and to tell him that I loved him. I am so sorry that I did not have the chance to do that. When I picture Mike, most often I envision him chuckling, the mischievous grin on his face manifesting genuine childlike glee mixed with a salty dose of sardonicism; very much Mike. I also remember him snoring, very loudly. For most of my days at Review, our office in the Hobbs building was one and the same as his domicile. We had a fairly particular routine the last couple weeks of the month as we approached deadline for that month’s issue. Mike would wake up very early in the morning, work on laying out copy I had finished editing the night before, then go to YJ’s for coffee. When I came in around 10 or 11, he would progress to making his daily phone calls to advertisers, using his cryptic, custom “tickler file” a rubberbanded bundle of a few dozen carefully ordered index cards with handwritten phone numbers and maybe a few notes. Next we would likely spend an hour or two sitting together in front of his dusty Mac, he often with two Camel Unfiltereds burning at once as we made text corrections, added cutlines to images, or argued about headlines. Later, he would go to the Snappy Store to get dinner (typically a bag of potato chips, a boxed sandwich, and a root beer), finally sinking in to one of his black or leopardprint bean bag chairs—acquired through ad trade with Temple Slug—to eat while watching CNN. Ultimately he would fall asleep and begin snoring, breathing in air thick with cigarette smoke and hair from Bobo the Cat. At some point I would grow blearyeyed from editing hard copies of tabloidsized pages printed on lettersized paper in the dark and would go home. I remember Mike’s loud crunching of those potato chips and his sawlike snoring driving me mad. But then I would think, here is this man, twice my age, living this way in order to make this crazy thing happen, driven by his own passion, curiosity and love for a specific community of people and ideas, as well, I think, as a great desire to provide a platform that would allow me and other people involved to grow. When I think back on it, it was quite a miraculous thing, and those days being part of it were some of the most fun and rewarding of my life. While he could be crabby, Mike made the process of creating Review each month an adventure, and he made it fun. Many nights when our brains were fried from working, as well is in the blissful few days after the paper had gone to press and we had a short reprieve, we would go to Harry’s Westport, or to the Grille on Broadway, where, it seemed, we had unlimited credit from ad trades, though I am not sure we could have possibly run enough ads to earn all of the credit we took advantage of. As well as creating space to brainstorm, plot, or, most often, just have a release, these nights, I know, were also Mike’s ways of showing care, of making sure that I and we were being taken care of. They were often wonderfully indulgent—perhaps irresponsibly so— but were absolutely essential to making the whole thing work at that particular time.
When I think back on it, I am amazed at Mike’s energy, his drive, and his tenacity. No one was getting paid much, and many months no one got paid at all. Periodically, Mike would go to his sister and ask for money to keep things going. And yet he always said “yes” to people, to ideas, to more pages, to special issues. Because he saw the value in them, because he was excited by the challenge, because they meant something to me or others, because he was so invested in artists and the community. And he seemed to have infinite interest in, and curiosity about, so many far ranging things. So often, he would call me over to his computer to show me something someone had submitted or something obscure he had found somewhere online, saying, with a kidlike enthusiasm “Isn’t that so cool? I think that’s just so cool!” One more story. I remember a time, this was still back in the newsprint days, but after we had become a nonprofit and formed a board, when Mike and I (mostly I) decided it would be useful to get out of the office to have a little retreat — some time and space to reflect, assess, and do some future planning. Mike secured for the weekend the large house, with pool, of his sister and brotherinlaw out in Bonner Springs, who were going to be out of town. We drove out, spent a little time on the patio mapping out a handful of key issues we were going to talk about, then decided to go for a walk. We drove to a nearby trail he knew; parked in the parking lot. Mike was a surprisingly serious, fast walker, and we took a nice long power walk; I’m a pretty good walker, but I remember having to work to keep up with him. When we got back to the trailhead, we found that the tenfoottall chain link gate, separating us from our car, had been closed and locked. With no other option, I climbed carefully up one side, repositioned, then backed slowly down the other. Mike went next, gripping the chain link wire with force and sort of tackling his way up, and then, in one gesture, he crossed over the top and let loose of the fencing, jumping all the way down the other side. He landed on the pavement flat on his ribs, the breath knocked out of him. And with that, our productive weekend retreat became a day and a half of Mike lying on a big comfy couch, snacking, resting and watching TV. To hell with planning; this, I suspect, was exactly the weekend he wanted all along. And, I think, he was probably exactly right. Dear Mike. Thank you. I love you. Rest in peace. Kate Hackman