Marilyn

“So I’m a pain in the ass, huh?”

Those words were my introduction to Marilyn. It was spring 2005. Rushville and Industry had voted to consolidate and the two districts were holding joint teacher meetings to help everyone adjust prior to our first year as a new district. This meeting happened to be in the middle of preparation for the spring musical, and Marilyn-the-music-director was addressing Diana-the-director.

I didn’t know what to think about those two. I also didn’t have any idea of the beast that is our spring musical. Now I know, and we are all a pain in the ass at some point during production but it’s worth it. Fast forward to the first day of school the following fall; Marilyn invited me to join the spring musical gang when the time came. I never looked back.

I’ve always suspected that, at least initially, I seemed like a good bouncer. Eager to settle in and fit in at my new school, I wanted to be involved in some way. So, I started as a bouncer and worked my way up. In the process, I found some of my favorite people in the world–Marilyn and Diana, a pit-worth of amazingly talented musicians, my tech-theater guru, students who became friends. People I treasure to this day, many years later.

Marilyn’s invitation changed me for the better, and hundreds of students can say the same of their interactions with her. She taught kids who couldn’t read music to sing like stars and wide receivers to dance with bottles on their heads. She could play the piano standing up, which came in handy when she needed to scream or sing or sing-scream as she was playing. She could guilt kids into cooperating by threatening to quit playing for the show; that threat came at least once each year. Anyone–student or adult–who worked a musical with Marilyn knew she had absolute control over her voice. In one sentence, she could cover many octaves, a trick that was both effective and entertaining. Marilyn could work magic.

Convincing students was only the first stanza of her song. She could sing like none other–a smooth, perfect, sometimes-haunting voice that fit with madrigal singers, a rock and roll band, and everything in between. Her musical gifts were God-given and she shared those gifts with so many people in so many ways.

Music was Marilyn’s art form, but she was more than musically gifted. She was a storyteller, spinning tales about any situation. Marilyn was a master of artistic license, but man could she tell a story. The prize in a great story was her tendency to crack herself up; if a chortle-snort burst out, it was a memorable story. There were many and those stories live on. If we stay true to Marilyn’s tack, the stories will be a little more outrageous with each retelling. May we all chortle-snort with glee in the memories.

Her hypnotic, dreamy voice is the soundtrack for many of us today, and probably for days to come. Her antics play inside our eyelids, a loop of faces, eye rolls, flailing arms (she had very expressive arms!), and dancing. Our hearts break with our own loss, but also for her family–her runner-girl daughter, cowboy son, and their families–and for love lost too soon. If you’ve seen Steel Magnolias, you remember the cemetery scene. The tough-as-nails M’Lynn has finally broken down, sobbing, filled with rage, and screams that she wants to punch something. Clairee presents Ouiser as a punching option, and M’Lynn laughs, then covers her mouth in shock. The laughter felt inappropriate, but Truvy says, “Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion.”

We all knew Marilyn in different ways, but our love feels the same today. Our hearts are broken today as we remember our most entertaining, teensy-bit-crazy-in-the-best-way, beautiful, talented friend. Her rich blue eyes have closed, her heart has stopped, but we carry her with us. We can assume she’s already up there leading a choir and adding in some moves, demonstrating and improvising until something works. Down here, we have to deal with missing her, with our sadness. That’s no small task. We will remember, though. We will share our stories and pray that laughter breaks through tears. And, in our best Mrs. Fezziwig voices, proclaim “Drinkies!” for Marilyn.

Rest well, my friend.