Notes On A Life

On the occasion of what would have been our 30th anniversary (7/19/17), I’ve reconstructed (from some scrawled-out notes) the remarks I gave at Mariana’s memorial in March, 2017, held at Skrine Chops in Forest Park, IL.




I can’t decide if this is a really great reason or a really crappy reason for a party. A little of each, I suppose.

Let me get the cliches out of the way first: Death is part of Life. This is something that slowly dawned on me over the course of 400 Lion King shows, staring at the back of Bob Sutter’s head. The Circle Of Life is not just a song; a few weeks before Mariana died, our great-nephew was born. Welcome, Leo Kahn Bortman; you will pick up where others leave off.

Mariana was very private, very proud, and, like a lioness, fiercely protective of her family. Very selfless, too; she wouldn’t even tell people her preferred pronunciation of her name! I heard Ma-ri-AN-na, Ma-ri-AHN-na, Mah-ri-AHN-na, you name it. She really and truly didn’t care. Not surprisingly, I took a kind of wimpy approach, with  a lazy third syllable: Ma-ri-EN-na. Her selflessness continued right up to the end: she wasn’t completely comfortable hearing all of the wonderful cards and letters that were sent during those final days, but I read them all to her.

We met in early 1986, right after the Bears won the Super Bowl. I hired her, actually: she was auditioning for a couple of shows for which I was the Music Director. One of the shows was “Baby”, and she was trying for the part of a gym teacher who’s trying to get pregnant. In her (not required) attempt to spin a basketball on her finger, it careened across the room, and she went chasing after it, giggling all the way. She pretty much had me there. She was great in the show, and sang like an angel. I remember that there was one particular song that had one particular note she sang, and it melted my heart each and every time she sang it.

Hanging out early in our courtship, she asked about my parents. I told her that my Dad had died in a plane crash when I was 16, thinking (in my 28 year-old male immaturity), “That’s going to floor her, and she’ll be putty in my hands.” Instead, she said, “That’s really interesting that we have that in common: my mom died in an accident, too. When I was 12, my parents and I drove to Las Vegas from LA, and my mom told me to sit in the front because I usually had to sit in the back. A drunk driver was being chased by the cops, and he rear-ended us. My mom was killed, and my dad and I walked away from the crash basically uninjured.” Now, you can read whatever you want into that amazing story; stuff about fate and whether Mariana was meant to be on this earth or not, but my immediate reaction (again, the 28 year-old male) was something like, “Okay, that blows my story out of the water. Mariana for the win.”  

We moved in together in Brooklyn after Mariana had stayed on to do more shows at the theater (it was in Cohoes; a weird little town outside of Albany). She had reclaimed her old job a Sarabeth’s Kitchen: an upscale breakfast/lunch place in the Upper East and Upper West Sides. Coming home after her shifts, Mariana would regale me with tales of celebrities and actors that she’d waited on: Yoko Ono, Jackie Kennedy Onassis, Bill Murray, Dustin Hoffman, Warren Beatty, John McEnroe, etc. She thought some of them were really nice: Paul Newman, Joanne Woodward, Norman Fell. Others, not so much: Peter Boyle, Peter Max.

Our relationship developed to the point where I thought it was time to introduce her to my family, most of whom were in Chicago. I took the occasion of my Grandma Goldie’s 90th birthday to come in. For weeks leading up to it, Mariana wanted to know who would be there and and what details I could provide about them. It was like she was using the same discipline she’d use to learn a role. When we got to my sister’s house ahead of most everyone else, she looked out the living room window at my approaching relatives, saying “That must be Uncle Stanley”, or “Is that Aunt Carol?” Her prep work payed off handsomely, as everyone took an instant and permanent liking to Mariana, even though she was a shiksah.

We got married. She got pregnant. During her first pregnancy, Mariana’s old college buddy David Greenspan contacted her to see if she wanted to do some scene work. It seemed that Joe Papp was interested in possibly having David do some directing at the Public Theater and wanted to see some of his work presented. David chose to stage a scene from Shakespeare’s “Richard III”, and, thinking a bit outside the box, cast  Mariana as Richard. Papp loved it, and loved her, saying, “I just had a marvelous idea: Denzel Washington is playing Richard in the park this summer. How would you like to be his understudy?” Mariana thanked him, but pointed out that she was four months pregnant, and that the timing would be a bit dicey. But, talk about your non-traditional casting: How would you like to see a blonde, pregnant Richard III?

As this pregnancy came to its wonderful conclusion, the Fetus Who Would Be Called Charlie was taking his sweet time in making his appearance (a characteristic that has remained unchanged). Mariana was in  labor for a couple of days, and then pushed for four and a half hours in trying to get that damned Charlie to come out. The midwife knew a little something about birthing babies (she’d been at it for about 25 years) and said that she’d never had anyone push for that long. Growing concerned, she called in a doctor. He was apprised of the situation and asked Mariana if she was able to go on, to which she of course said yes. The doctor said “Four and a half hours? What are you, a Marine or something?”  She was allowed to go on for a bit longer, and the midwife warned us that Charlie (or Molly….we didn’t know the gender) might not look so good after being squished in the birth canal for so long. The midwife and I were yelling into Mariana’s crotch: “Come on out of there, Charlie or Molly!” Charlie emerged shortly thereafter, looking nonchalant, un-squished and beautiful enough to have his picture slapped onto a jar of Gerber’s.

In 1993, now with TWO baby boys (hello, Luke), I had the bright idea to move back home (MY home, anyway) to Chicago. Mariana had spent most of her life very close to either the Pacific or Atlantic oceans, and I tried to sell Chicago by showing her  Lake Michigan. “Look! You can’t even see across it.” She wasn’t impressed. “It doesn’t smell the same.” Nevertheless, she was agreeable to the relocation, and we arrived in Oak Park on 10/5/93. I could tell that she had fully adopted her new home when she gave up her Fangirl crush on Yankee hunk Dave Winfield and transferred it to Cub hunk Andre Dawson.

Oak Park was a great place to raise our family, and we made a lot of incredible friends. At Percy Julian Middle School, we discovered an after school theater program called CAST that Charlie and Luke enjoyed. Mariana started as a volunteer there, but soon ended up as their year-round Costume Designer. It rekindled her passion for theater, and her skills as a seamstress and great eye for fabric and color (along with a fierce work ethic) made her the perfect person for the job. She loved how CAST attracted kids who didn’t really fit in elsewhere, and how their confidence and maturity would blossom while there. Although greatly discerning and appreciative of the talented kids (of whom there were many), Mariana really liked the fact that any kid who wanted to be in a CAST show was assured of being put into one; everyone made the cut. She would also occasionally wear her own costumes, taking on roles that called for a Token Adult. As the Costumer, she literally touched hundreds of kids (but not in a creepy Dennis Hastert way), and we were overwhelmed by all of the loving notes that we got from ex-CAST members. 

In May of 2016, her CAST boss Bill McGlynn decided to put on a show that would feature many of the adults from the program (with no middle schoolers involved). He chose “A Trip To Bountiful” and talked Mariana into taking on the daunting lead role. She threw herself into the project, and, as anyone who saw her can attest, did a phenomenal job. It’s really amazing, because she hadn’t done anything this substantial on stage for about 30 years, and it was also the onset of her health issues from which she wouldn’t recover. She would come home and tell me about what was going on inside her body while onstage doing a role that would kick the ass of a healthy person. It made me think of the OB Dr. from 1990: “What are you? A Marine?”

As she got sicker, Mariana slept more and more. We were lying in bed one night, and she hadn’t said a word for several hours. I was channel-surfing, and landed on the James Corden show; he was interviewing Anna Kendrick, who was talking through her nose at 100 miles per hour. I thought that Mariana was asleep, but apparently not: she said (in full voice), “She’s gonna need to shut her mouth.”

She always told me that her favorite song was “Stella By Starlight”. Interesting choice: it’s somewhat obscure (to non-jazzers), harmonically dense and melodically meandering. Interesting choice. Our favorite version was recorded by Miles Davis a few hours before I was born in 1958. Listen to it and think of Mariana.

Luke, thanks for being part of this journey every single day. You’re going to have a lot of great jobs ahead of you, but none more important than the one you did in tending to Mom. Charlie, I know first-hand how hard it is when your Mom is dying and you live 1,000 miles away. Thanks for all the back and forth you did. She was so proud of you guys and loved being your Mom more than anything else in the world.

One the last last things that she said about her situation was, “You know, my whole body is breaking down, but my heart didn’t get the memo. I feel it thumping away like nothing is wrong. It’s like I have the heart of an elephant.” That heart is what gave Mariana ten years after her first diagnosis. We’re glad for the extra gift that her heart provided us.

If I told you that Mariana was fairly pain-free towards the end, then I may have fibbed a little. But she stubbornly resisted painkillers (marijuana was her very good friend, however) and didn’t want people making a fuss.

On Friday, 2/24/17, she was still breathing (slowly, but with regularity) when I drifted off to sleep in the other bed. When I woke up early Saturday morning, she was not. But her face showed peace and calm, and, I’ve got to say: a sense of wonder that was contained in an angelic Mona Lisa smile.

Thanks to all of you, especially those who traveled a distance to be here. I will miss Mariana.

Let’s all hoist a bourbon. It was her favorite. Make mine a double, please. 



Here is a link to a slide show of some great Mariana photos:



11 thoughts on “Notes On A Life”

  1. Jeremy,
    You have been on my
    Mind for months. I am so glad you shared these remarks as I wanted to hear them st the time of Marianna’s passing. She was special and so was your marriage. Sharing these stories is a wonderful way to honor your nearly thirty years together. Congratulations on sticking it through thick and thin and loving one another til death did you part. How rare is that? love Melissa

    • Thanks, Kelly. You’re a wonderful person, too….even if your powers of judgment appear to be somewhat impaired.

  2. Jeremy…I know that the world has lost a great person from all that I read and see about her… I wish I would have seen her act because I missed that it seems… She we live in all of us for many more years to come…

  3. Jeremy, what a lovely and amazing woman you shared your life with. So gratifying to know about Marianna from her loves voice. To you and your children and the huge community whose lives she enriched, cheers.

  4. I didn’t know, and I’m so sorry, Jeremy. I only knew Mariana from brief hellos at the door or on the phone, and one longer chat while we were waiting for my teacher to arrive. I was struck then by how open and easy she was, and how very much she cared about you.

    What beautiful stories you’ve told.

  5. We went to High school and UCI together, then lost track. I always knew she was someone special. Thanks for all this, and the slide show.

    • Thanks for reaching out, Brent. Mariana had some fond memories of her high school friends, and of those at UCI, too. I’ve gotten to know Paul Barber pretty well.

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