On March 3, 2026, Gene Farrington, father, grandfather, great-grandfather, brother, uncle, mentor, teacher, author, playwright, postmodernist, and best friend to at least nineteen separate people, fucking died. He was 94 years old, but has given and received more love than could tally a hundred lifetimes.

Born in Hankinson, North Dakota in 1931 and victim of many dirt-floored hovels with his seven siblings, Gene soldiered through Depression Era small towns such as Jasper, Minnesota and Monona, Iowa until he actually soldiered as a Marine in the Korean War. Gene's childhood and youthful years in the Midwest were powerful inspiration for his fictionalized memoir, Aperture. He survived it all, Jesus and the saints be praised, because none of us would be here without him.

Gene achieved his Ph.D in English Literature at UC Santa Barbara, and then went on to improve many Californian cities with his mere presence and various passion projects, like writing his first novel, The Breath of Kings, reviewed as "inexcusably crude and rude," and "too preoccupied with sex and bloodshed." Burbank, Altadena, and San Diego miss him dearly.

Not content with sunshine and beauty, Gene moved to the humid swamp known as Maryland, regional inspiration for his novel The Blue Heron. He went on to save Maryland from itself with his penchant for entertaining, soiree-throwing, and exuberant zest for life. Gene was an exquisite cook, host, houseguest, and travel companion. A quadruple threat of joyousness.

Gene became a professor of playwriting and English literature at College of Notre Dame of Maryland, an all-womens’ Catholic school in Baltimore, where he educated thousands. He loved Jane Austen and Shakespeare but hated musicals. Or, so he says. You’ve never seen anyone dance to Godspell until you’ve seen Gene dance to Godspell.

Gene was proudly gay in an era when it was not safe to be gay. He was a daily inspiration to all he met, to be their true selves loudly, unapologetically, and joyously.

His dream, upon shuffling the mortal coil, was to be cremated and spread across an Iowa cornfield to sustain the next generation of gay college basketball players. Gene, I'm sorry, we're not going to do that. Seems illegal. Instead, we're going to live every day like you did, carry you with us always, and hope, upon shuffling our own mortal coils, everyone we've ever known comes forth to say we were their best friend, too. Your love, abundant and radiant in all directions, was sustaining.

In remembrance of Gene, please be yourself loudly, unapologetically, and joyously, donate to your favorite LGBTQIA+ charity, go to the theater, and eat a slice of coconut cream pie. If you do not like coconut, pumpkin will suffice. If you do not like pumpkin, well, I'm sorry, my darling. There's just no saving you.

Gene is survived by fellow dirt-floor-suffering siblings David, Bob, Jim, and Anna, daughter Mary, grandchildren Brendan, Maggie, Andrew, and Jacky, and great-grandson James.

We love you, Gene. Thank you for everything.