I first met Phil Rothman in 1978.  He was dating a college friend of mine at the time.  I called her because I had just gone through a major burglary, only eight months after going through a rape.  I was beside myself, and needed support.  She asked Phil to come over and talk to me, and he kindly agreed.

Phil didn't know me; he didn't have to be there.  Yet he sat there talking to me, listening, helping me get through the terrible pain that I was feeling.  That was the best of Phil:  the healer that was within him, that reached out to others in pain and helped them to find the road to healing.

After Phil and my friend broke up, I ran into him again at Larry's.  We started talking, and became fast friends who also dated on occasion.  In addition to that, I worked with/for him several times over the years.

Anyone who knew Phil knows that organization was not his strong suit.  No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't keep things organized, and frequently ended up drowning in piles of paperwork he just stared at woefully.  Numerous times, he'd hire me to help him out of the morass and get him organized (which, of course, never lasted long, but at least he had some space for a time).

One time, when he was moving from his place overlooking the Glen Echo Ravine and in with Carol, we spent a week or two going through all his piles and piles of "stuff".  He would stop and almost lovingly look at each old memento and reminisce about the person, place or event it represented.  He had a lot of stories, and loved to tell them.  I'm sure we could have cleaned out that place in much less time, but Phil needed the connection with his past, and it was much more enjoyable to hear his stories than to just be efficient and be done with it.

Phil did have a wicked little boy side to him, and exhibiting that side always brought that sparkle in his eye and a wicked little grin on his face.  One time, I instigated some petty thievery.  As we drove through a Wendy's drive-through, we saw a bunch of those nice milk crates that restaurants and grocery stores have, and which make excellent storage/furniture/whatever.  I really wanted some of those, and instigated Phil to help me with my illegal activity.  With the car running at the drive-through, we both jumped out of the car, grabbed several crates, threw them in the car, jumped back in and drove off at a fast pace.  We were giggling about our little adventure for quite some time.  And I still have those crates.

Phil was always very generous with his time, his heart, his help, and even with things.  When you move, you tend to decide it isn't worth it to carry all your baggage with you, and tend to toss out what you can no longer use.  With Phil moving several times in the time I knew him, I was a happy beneficiary of Phil's generosity.  I have the mirror that went with his childhood dresser, a chair, a second mirror, and some other odds and ends.  And when Phil and Carol's back problems no longer allowed them to sleep in his beloved waterbed, my husband and I were the grateful recipients of that wonderful bed, which we still sleep in every night.

One night back when Phil and I were still dating, we had gone to hear Jeannette Williams, one of his favorite singers, at Oldfield's.  When we returned to his place on North Fourth Street, we saw a group of people surrounding a dog that had been hit by a car.  I rushed over, Phil following, and tried to find out what was going on.  He had been hit, and the driver had not stopped.  He was still alive, and there was a collar around his neck with a phone number.  I had one of the people standing there go call, but there was no answer.  I was about to ask Phil to drive me and the dog to the emergency vet when I realized the dog would never make it that far.  So I petted and talked gently to him as his life slipped away swiftly.  Phil and I went inside, both shaken by the incident.  He had a stethoscope, for some reason, and we listened to each other's heartbeats for a long time, as though we both needed the reassurance of vibrant life after witnessing death.

When my husband and I were getting married, I was upset to learn that Phil would not be able to be there with us at the ceremony.  Carol's dad was sick, and they had to go to Florida.  I got up one day, went out to get the mail, and there was a funny card and a little package from Phil.  The package contained candles of several different colors.  We actually needed candles for the altar at the ceremony, so two of Phil's candles were lit on the altar during our wedding, as though he was there in spirit.

One of the last things Phil did for us was last June (2004).  We had some horrible neighbors that I had rescued a kitten from, and I was very worried that, since I had a booth at ComFest and we would be gone all weekend, the neighbors would break in or create some sort of problems.  I asked Phil and a couple of other friends to "house-sit" for a few hours to throw the neighbors off the track should they have evil-doing in mind.  Phil graciously agreed to help, although he could only stay a couple of hours.  We made the TV and VCR his, and he decided to watch "Bowling for Columbine" again, as he was very excited about seeing "Fahrenheit 911" the next week.

Phil loved his movies.  I can't remember most of the ones we saw together, but there were quite a few.  He appreciated good film, foreign films, and of course, anything by his all-time favorite, Woody Allen.  I'll never forget when he lived on 4th Street the giant poster of Woody Allen he had hanging up in the bathroom.

I had known Phil was bipolar for most of the time I knew him.  He was a private person, and I don't know how many people he made aware of his illness.  But I knew about it, and watched him go through phases of getting frustrated with his meds, going off them, becoming manic, and going back on the meds again.  I saw him in manic phases three times that I recall.  The first was after he got back from a Robert Assagliani (sp?) workshop in Italy, which was 100% drug free, so he could not take his meds there.  I barely knew Phil at this time, and although it was clear he was a bit hyper, he was funny, charming, and not at all negative.

The second time was after his dear friend Wally's death.  He took that very hard, especially, probably, because it was Phil who found Wally's body in their apartment.  He went off the meds, and while I worried about it, he assured me he just needed to do this right now, and he would go back on them.  Again, he was manic, but he was charming and funny and full of life and fun.  And true to his promise, when he felt like it was time, he went back on his medications.

The last time was about three or four years ago, and this time the difficult side of the manic phase was clear.  His sister Marilyn was ill, and he had been staying at a friend's house and pet sitting.  He had to fly to New York to be with his sister, and asked me to take over the responsibilities.  I was willing, but he was not sounding like himself on the phone, and somehow during a conversation of trying to work out details, we ended up screaming and yelling and slamming down receivers.  As soon as I got off the phone, I realized he was in a manic phase, and it was not good. ...   Many people were [very upset with Phil]  during this manic phase, and I know that, when he came out of  it, he was very depressed that he had lost some friends because of it.

I don't think he ever did get out of that last depression phase that followed.  He just could not seem to do so.  And health problems plaguing him didn't help, I'm sure.

Like most bipolars, he hated taking the medications.  And he tried everything he could to lessen or get off them entirely -- exercise, diet, vitamins.  But nothing truly worked.

Phil was truly a complex man, with a giving heart, a vibrant soul, and a love of fun and adventure.  I will miss him deeply.

Ginger-lyn Summer