I started this as a Facebook post, but it got too long. It's a blog post, I guess. Too much to say... The man leaves too big a void.
Jay was the mayor of my theatre community. We all have big shoes to fill. I hope we can honor his legacy by drawing even closer together. I'm inspired by seeing things in the newspaper from artistic directors in Harrisburg talking about how when one of us succeeds, we all do. That good will truly does bond this community of artists together. Jay Miffoluf was an enormous part of that; the linchpin, really. We've lost not one (community theatre stalwart Mark Arner), not two (Jay), but three (I can't believe I had to go back and rewrite this sentence, but Jim Woland, one of our area's finest scenic designers, and a teacher, artist, advocate, and all around great man, is also gone today) of our most devoted, dedicated, passionate theatre people this week. I just want to get all the theatre folks in central PA together in one big room so we can just sort of be together and share hugs and stories. And tears.
I am so sad he is gone, but I am also filled with awe at the way he lived. He was one of a kind.
The first time I was in a show with Jay (OSH Christmas Carol '04) he drove me nuts all through rehearsal. He was sarcastic and griping. Those who knew him all knew that side, too. Once the show opened, this cantankerous guy suddenly mellowed and was constantly bringing us gifts, notes, cookies, kugel, food, pick-me-ups, aphorisms, silly songs, stories, a genuine ear, and an open heart. I thought maybe the sharper side of Jay was actually some kind of stage fright, or stage awe, perhaps. He always held the stage in high esteem, and he never, ever, in all the time I knew him, acted like acting was easy. Silly sometimes, it sure is, but never something to be taken for granted. For him it remained daunting, sacred. He respected the stage with total sincerity. I always admired that about him and aspire to be that devoted.
I've been teaching all day and should be grading finals now, but I can't. I think it's weird that I have this need to eulogize people when they pass on, but I think it's simply that I am my mother's son, and I process much of my feelings in writing. It's what she taught me to do. It's what she does, too. I share things like this because every one of the people in my Facebook "friends list" is a real person who's meant something real to me. My god, we are all going to be gone one day. It's a lot of grief. It always sucks.
Jay was one of those people who'd be the first to champion everyone else's success, and the last to ever really accept praise directed his own way. He marketed the shows he was in, too, but I would bet it came more from a desire to share the work of his castmates. I imagined him looking at all of us down here, all of us sad we couldn't say our goodbye, him mumbling something about how he wouldn't have wanted all that fuss and attention anyway. Shambling off.
My mother in law said to me today that sudden death is easiest for the person who dies, but worse for all of us left here. I hope it was easy for my friend. He'd been through many struggles with his physical health. He was Philly tough about it, though, and just kept on working, kept on commuting hours a day just to do another show in another theatre or see someone he knew on a stage.
I tried to buck myself up all day for my students. Then they'd leave the room and I'd think about Jay and Lori and get choked up.
I kept having songs in my head all day, too. "Anatevka" from Fiddler on the Roof. That's the song when the ensemble of that show basically wanders away into the void. I know that show was a favorite of Jay's. "Oh, Death" by my friend Joe Gualtier as Lost Companion, which has become a loop in my mind every time someone I know dies. Also, weirdly, Steve Martin's banjo riff about how no one on the banjo ever sings, "Oh death, and grief, and sorrow, and murder." That one felt morbid to me, and may just be some inner emotional backlash against too many folks dear to those of us who make theatre in this little part of the world passing on lately, but... I felt a little better realizing that Jay might have loved that routine, even if a "young whippersnapper" like Steve Martin made it up. It has a vaudevillian's zest about it, and so did Jay. Jay was fond of the "old man" quips. He was in his fifties going on his nineties sometimes, and he liked it that way. He was somehow out of his era and somehow also ahead of us all.
Some close friends came over tonight basically so we could talk about Jay and be together. We all agreed that a favorite memory was his wholly rescripted (he had directorial permission to do so), wildly invented classic radio DJ character "The Big Whopper" for our Classic Rock Cabaret. He went to Theatre Harrisburg and got a crazy costume (colorful jacket, wild bow tie, the works) just for the show, if I remember correctly. He was a hoot and a half in the show, and he had just as much fun bopping around quietly backstage thinking up new material.
He was my neighbor.
He was my daughter's first Santa.
He was a curmudgeonly teddy bear. He even played one of those, too, in a Popcorn Hat show, I kid you not.
He could be huge. He could be quiet. He was Whitmanesque.
He was a guy who'd call you up if he thought some offhand comment he'd made had hurt your feelings. He'd take you out to lunch and he'd just talk to you about life and stuff. There was no agenda other than enjoying being human.
I had to keep Hamlet (albeit an edited Hamlet) in my wheelhouse for two years straight. Having that unfortunate young man romping around in my heart and head for that long involved spending far too much time staring the silent, sad monster we call death square in the face. Part of Hamlet's madness (feigned or no) stems from being too close to death. When people close to me die, I feel like death has come back for more, more loss, more gut punches. At those moments, I feel a kinship with Troy in Fences, ready to fight the monster if need be, looking for my baseball bat. I thought of my friend Ian today, too. Jay played King Hamlet to his Prince Hamlet in a full length production a few years back. Both were astonishing, as was the whole show. So many lines from that seem appropriate. Ian nailed it on his Facebook. "He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again." Accompanying the quote was a picture of the two of them, the young prince haunted, scared, and in awe of his father's noble ghost. Perfect. And again, for the umpteenth time today, the tears welled and choked me.
Jay leaves behind him a wife who he adored with every fiber of his being. Lori is one of my favorite people in the world. I just want to give this dear person, someone I admire and am proud to call a friend, a hug.
Hmm. Sometimes the words still aren't adequate. I'll just have to keep grieving. At least I won't be alone. Jay leaves behind him a village he helped build, brick by brick. We will miss him more dearly than words can say.
I tried to buck myself up all day for my students. Then they'd leave the room and I'd think about Jay and Lori and get choked up.
I kept having songs in my head all day, too. "Anatevka" from Fiddler on the Roof. That's the song when the ensemble of that show basically wanders away into the void. I know that show was a favorite of Jay's. "Oh, Death" by my friend Joe Gualtier as Lost Companion, which has become a loop in my mind every time someone I know dies. Also, weirdly, Steve Martin's banjo riff about how no one on the banjo ever sings, "Oh death, and grief, and sorrow, and murder." That one felt morbid to me, and may just be some inner emotional backlash against too many folks dear to those of us who make theatre in this little part of the world passing on lately, but... I felt a little better realizing that Jay might have loved that routine, even if a "young whippersnapper" like Steve Martin made it up. It has a vaudevillian's zest about it, and so did Jay. Jay was fond of the "old man" quips. He was in his fifties going on his nineties sometimes, and he liked it that way. He was somehow out of his era and somehow also ahead of us all.
Some close friends came over tonight basically so we could talk about Jay and be together. We all agreed that a favorite memory was his wholly rescripted (he had directorial permission to do so), wildly invented classic radio DJ character "The Big Whopper" for our Classic Rock Cabaret. He went to Theatre Harrisburg and got a crazy costume (colorful jacket, wild bow tie, the works) just for the show, if I remember correctly. He was a hoot and a half in the show, and he had just as much fun bopping around quietly backstage thinking up new material.
He was my neighbor.
He was my daughter's first Santa.
He was a curmudgeonly teddy bear. He even played one of those, too, in a Popcorn Hat show, I kid you not.
He could be huge. He could be quiet. He was Whitmanesque.
He was a guy who'd call you up if he thought some offhand comment he'd made had hurt your feelings. He'd take you out to lunch and he'd just talk to you about life and stuff. There was no agenda other than enjoying being human.
I had to keep Hamlet (albeit an edited Hamlet) in my wheelhouse for two years straight. Having that unfortunate young man romping around in my heart and head for that long involved spending far too much time staring the silent, sad monster we call death square in the face. Part of Hamlet's madness (feigned or no) stems from being too close to death. When people close to me die, I feel like death has come back for more, more loss, more gut punches. At those moments, I feel a kinship with Troy in Fences, ready to fight the monster if need be, looking for my baseball bat. I thought of my friend Ian today, too. Jay played King Hamlet to his Prince Hamlet in a full length production a few years back. Both were astonishing, as was the whole show. So many lines from that seem appropriate. Ian nailed it on his Facebook. "He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again." Accompanying the quote was a picture of the two of them, the young prince haunted, scared, and in awe of his father's noble ghost. Perfect. And again, for the umpteenth time today, the tears welled and choked me.
Jay leaves behind him a wife who he adored with every fiber of his being. Lori is one of my favorite people in the world. I just want to give this dear person, someone I admire and am proud to call a friend, a hug.
Hmm. Sometimes the words still aren't adequate. I'll just have to keep grieving. At least I won't be alone. Jay leaves behind him a village he helped build, brick by brick. We will miss him more dearly than words can say.
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