Walking around the Buddhist temple in Hong Kong the other day, I was struck by the sense of loss of people I have known who are no longer with us. Many of the people who came to mind— an Orff colleague, a college friend, a former neighbor, a school alum parent, all who died within the last year—were not folks I saw on a regular basis. Maybe once a year at most and some, once or twice in the past 20 years. But still I always felt warmed and comforted knowing they were still alive and walking on the same planet. And so I unexpectedly felt myself missing them knowing that I couldn’t write or call or visit them anymore.

Of course, loss of loved ones is the price of membership dues when we join the human race. And especially as my peer group has hit the late 70’s and into the 80’s, it comes as no surprise. But yet it always is a surprise. And a difficult one at that.

Facebook is the new obituary pages and I was stunned to read of the passing of Mary Goetze. Mary was a nationally renowned children’s choir director, educator, composer and arranger, truly tops in her field. I first met her around 1990 when we were teaching parallel courses in Hamline University in St. Paul, Minnesota. We immediately clicked, appreciating each other’s expertise and enjoying each other’s wit and humor. It was Mary who invited me (and convinced me to accept her invitation) to be part of the Macmillan McGraw-Hill textbook-writing team of their Share the Music series. Every six weeks for over a year, we met in Manhattan with some 12 other authors and in-between the productive meetings were fun dinners out. One of my odd statistics is that I’ve never been flat-out drunk, but I do remember ordering a cocktail that was larger than I expected and while talking and laughing with Mary thought, “Ooh. I’m feeling a bit tipsy here!”

Mary combined the highest level of rigor with great wit and warmth when working with both children and adults. She could lecture on the physiology of vocal cords and the nuances of phonemes and equally enjoy humorous exchanges with whoever she taught. One of my favorites was her making her Australian debut with a lecture about the importance of “singing on the loo” referring to the vocal sound. One cheeky participant raised her hand and said, “Can you repeat that bit about singing on the loo again?” When she realized that loo is “toilet” in Australia, she joined in the laughter!

Her musicianship was impeccable and her children’s choir performances stunning. While at the top of her game with the Western Vienna-boys choir-style of vocal production, she got interested in other cultural expressions (and credited me a bit for this step into “World Music.”) and began a second chapter in her career working with gathering material and recording singers from diverse cultures and styles. Mary also was a person with a big heart and cared for both abandoned kittens and big issues of social justice.

After the Macmillan project, we continued to meet at various Orff Conferences (included Australia!) until she retired and we lost touch. She was on my Christmas card electronic mailing list and I was so happily surprised when she wrote to me after reading this year’s missive.

It felt so wonderful to re-establish contact, inspiring how she was continuing to do her marvellous work in various formats post-retirement and moving to read her kind words about my work. I wrote back and ended with:

“Let’s keep in touch! And maybe someday (gasp!) see each other again!”

And now that door of possibility is closed. I still don’t know precisely what happened to her— she certainly sounded healthy, vibrant, alive and well a mere three months ago. I’m taking some time today to let that sadness sink in. 

Mary’s life was contrary to the mainstream horror going on yet more forcefully today, refusing in her gentle way the shallow, the noisy, the unjust babbling of so much of our contemporary culture through her deep commitment to caring, choirs and kittens. Combatting the ugliness by cultivating her own beautiful garden. And so — imagining the “pretty maids in a row” as children in the girl’s chorus—this seems a fitting farewell rhyme for my dear friend and colleague, Mary Goetze.

Mary, Mary, quite contrary

How does your garden grow?

With silver bells and cockleshells,

And pretty maids all in a row.