Remembering Sam A. Mowry (1959-2024)

My friend, Sam Mowry, died on July 20. If you'll indulge me for a few minutes, I'd like to talk to you a bit about Sam, who he was, how he came into my life, and how he changed it.

Of course, everyone you know changes your life. When you open your heart and connect with someone, you change; sometimes in little ways, sometimes in enormous ways. I feel this about the people involved in EXOPLANETARY. But Sam Mowry had a way of involving himself in people's lives, and really showing you that he loved you. All of my memories of Sam are happy ones, and every story I have about him involves his indefatigable kindness. To me and everyone else.

It was just as we were finishing up the first season of EXO that I met Sam. I was summoned! There's really no other way to say it. A few actors and radio theater people were asked to come to the place I am now: Sam's studio. You've seen it in many of our pictures on social media, with those theatrical red curtains and Sam's old radios. Sometimes you walk into a room and you feel right at home, and that was the case here. We read through a few scenes of an adaptation of The Island of Dr. Moreau and I made some aggressive snarling noises as a Beast Man. Afterwards, Sam and I got to talking about radio theater, old movies, and it was that sort of bonding you do with someone who becomes one of your best friends. Maybe you don't know it when you start talking, but you know it when the conversation was over.

I was summoned again not long afterward on a sunny afternoon for a visit under Sam's famous Casbah, a sort of covered patio where many a salon for theater people and other friends had been held. It was there that Sam encouraged me to start recording EXO in his studio. 

You could have knocked me over with a feather. The studio provided my show with something it hadn't truly had before: a home. Sam and his wife, Cindy McGean, took me and my actors in so warmly, and it's the greatest gift I can ever imagine.

It was one I was eager to return. For the remainder of our time together, I helped him with every production of his company, the Willamette Radio Workshop. I even got to perform with him a few times.

Sam was a friend, but he was also a mentor. I have always been a reluctant leader; I just don't see myself in that role. As I grew up, I also had some examples of leadership that didn't exactly leave me eager to be in charge. Unfortunately, to do what I've needed to do to make EXO happen, I needed to find that part of me and get it in gear, to varying degrees of success. What Sam taught me was how to be a positive presence in people's lives, how to deal with obstacles, how to foster a sense of fun and community, and, really, how to be the best version of myself.

We shared deeply about our hopes and dreams for creating shows and spaces for performing. It wasn't unusual for him to bring up some empty restaurant space or office building or some other edifice and muse that it would be the perfect place to start a theater. As one of Portland's foremost and most beloved theater people, Sam was constantly looking for new ways to put on a show, even as poor heath made it more and more difficult.

Sam loved everything to do with radio. Something we both had in common was sleepless nights when we were young, searching the AM bands for what they now call "OTR." Old Time Radio. Fibber McGee and Molly. Vic and Sade. The Jack Benny Program. And, of course, Orson Welles. Because of Sam's voice, he drew a lot of comparisons to the Great Man. When Willamette Radio Workshop performed the War of the Worlds, he took Orson's parts. Who else could? But Sam also did an impressive Sydney Greenstreet, which was wickedly funny. Sam really loved the magical feeling of a device pulling voices out of the air, picking them up from faraway cities. He was, at heart, a romantic. 

Having Sam in my life meant