Tributes to Others
Tribute to Hildur Faye Wederquist Lovas
By Linda Hoeschler, December 3, 2007
Hildur Faye Wederquist Lovas was born on an Iowa farm almost 93 years ago, and died on the farm a few days ago. For the last few months her once always sharp mind began to hear her father and see her mother here in Arden Hills, Minnesota. As my sister calmed her when she was dying, ‘Mother, you can now go back to the farm and lead the horses; it’s a beautiful summer day.’
My independent and self-shaped mother was not a farm romantic. She talked of almost losing the farm to the bank in the 20’s, surviving her home’s burning to the ground, dead animals, crop failures. But she said that it was the best preparation for living anywhere: you had to cope and be hopeful, stay productive and help others. This was how she always lived her life. She remained a farm girl, of the very best kind.
Mother’s parents refused to let economic privations diminish their family’s spirits or minds. My grandmother would trade chickens to magazine and book salesmen so that the family always had plenty of reading material. Reading, in turn, became my mother’s ticket to self education. I can remember her checking out 5 to 10 books from the Tarrytown NY public library to hold her for the week. She could converse knowledgably on many subjects, but never was pompous or self promoting;
Because of the tenuous nature of the family’s farm income, Mother couldn’t afford to go to college, so she went to nursing school in Council Bluffs, where she worked her way through, as did many farm girls. Since she had the tools to give herself a liberal arts education, this more technical training gave her the skills that made her an excellent nurse and caregiver as well as a remarkable volunteer.
Mother was a successful nurse and supervisor, and several of her professional friends told me she would have become a nursing school dean. But as a 50’s mother, she didn’t work for pay once married. But she could volunteer, and did she!
Ever a farm girl in her mind, I think, and not interested in the social mobility that my father’s business career could have afforded her, she eschewed our Westchester, New York neighbors’ bridge and garden clubs. Instead she threw herself into the less socially prominent but more meaningful (to her) organizations like Neighborhood House and the Red Cross. She was a nursing and dental assistant at the former, and particularly loved caring for the elderly. She was a beautiful singer, but never bothered to learn to read music, so would drag Laura and me down to play piano for the seniors. The Red Cross, where she lovingly worked for 20 years as a case worker, honored her, a recognition she treasured.
During these years she maintained an efficient household, was a fine cook, and raised three good kids, if I do say so myself. She was a sensible, firm and affectionate mother who expected the best of her children, but never stage managed. Her closest friend was her sister, Helen Marie Nelligan, who also lived in Westchester, with whom Mother spoke daily and whose tender and nonjudgmental support was critical to her wellbeing until the day she died.
After years of disappointment, Mother decided in 1976 that her marriage had failed, so at age 61, she moved to Colorado Springs and lived with her brother, a retired farmer. She and my father maintained a civil and eventually more caring relationship. As a farm girl she had learned not to curse reversals, but to accommodate change while being true to herself. In Colorado her volunteer star rose even further as she helped develop a model program with the police department. She trained senior volunteers and outfitted them with pagers to help elderly crime victims.
During these years mother also was on call with sick relatives. She would nurse them while they recovered from an injury or were terminally ill. When I was about to complain that she was being taken advantage of, she’d remark how flattered she was to be asked to come to the rescue.
In 1990, age 75, Mother decided to move back to Iowa to nourish her roots. We thought she was crazy to move to the small town of 1250 where my great grandparents had farmed at the turn of the century. But mother truly knew best. Malvern, Iowa was largely populated by retired farmers and together they created a warm, secure support system. They watched out for each other, checked on you when you missed a community event, and delivered meals on wheels to the sick.
Mother loved Malvern and volunteered at the Council Bluffs Red Cross and manned a battered women’s shelter. You would never guess she had lived in New York—she was all into the crops and their sowers.
Because of a severe stroke and failing health our farm girl Hildur took measure of this setback and coped by moving to Minnesota in 1999. My sister Laura and her husband John lovingly cared for her for three years, until her fractures and stroke damage compelled her to move to Presbyterian Homes. She was angry for the first month, but then decided this was her home. So she was determined to thrive here, too, just as she had throughout her life.
She participated in Joy Davis’ literary class, political discussion circle, crossword puzzle group, poetry class and even exercise class—the latter being a first in her life. She tried not to be the first to always answer the lunchtime quiz question, but often felt she had to after giving others a respectful time to come up with the answer. But her most proud achievement here was her volunteer work. She read to the blind regularly and did blood pressure checks on occasion. She was also a self appointed ombudsman for assisted living residents who were in need. As my cousin, Royce, said, Hildur was a player at Presbyterian Homes.
As a nurse and caregiver, Mother knew when she was dying and told her family so. She said she didn’t want to die, but just couldn’t seem to ever feel well. It also bothered her that she was getting more confused, for she had always been proud of her memory. But I think that what bothered her the most was that she could no longer volunteer to help others. Now she needed help and she didn’t like that.
So she evaluated this reversal, and ever the good farm girl, decided to die this week. It was hard going, because she had a remarkable constitution, but she was finally able to let go.
And so today I think about the loss of so many farms across this nation. I wonder how we’ll ever grow the Hildurs we need to make this a better place to live: people who grow up with failure around them but learn at an early age to cope and be hopeful, to be productive and to always help others.
Thank you Mother. Thank you friends for honoring her today.
Hildur Wederquist Lovas Obituary
December 10, 1914--November 29, 2007
Ardent Family Person and Volunteer
Hildur Wederquist Lovas, a resident of Minnesota since 1999, died peacefully on November 29, 2007 at Presbyterian Homes in Arden Hills, just short of her 93rd birthday. Throughout her life she was an independent and productive person, devoted to caring for ailing family and the elderly
She was born on a farm in Fremont County, southwest Iowa, the 6th of 7 children of Royce and Mabel Reeves Wederquist. She graduated at the top of her nursing class at Jennie Edmondson Hospital in Council Bluffs in 1938, worked at several Iowa health institutions as a registered nurse and supervisor, and pursued graduate nursing studies at Cornell University in New York City.
In 1942 she joined the Army Nursing Corps, and was commissioned as a Second Lieutenant. At Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri she met and married (1943) Lieutenant Stephen Edward Lovas, with whom she had three children.
After the war the Lovas family moved to Westchester County, north of New York City, where she lived until 1976. During this time she was an active volunteer for social service and community institutions, including Tarrytown Neighborhood House (nursing and dental assistant), Red Cross (volunteer case worker for over 20 years), and the Tarrytown public library.
In 1976 she moved to Colorado Springs where she worked with the local police department to develop and head a Senior Victims Assistance Team. This program used senior volunteers to assist elderly crime victims and became a model for other police departments throughout the US.
Hildur moved to Malvern, Iowa in 1990, near her childhood home, and worked for the Red Cross and a battered women’s shelter as a volunteer. In 1999, due to a major stroke and declining health, she moved to Minnesota to live with her younger daughter, Laura Doyle. In the fall of 2002 she became a resident of Presbyterian Homes where, until recently, she continued to volunteer as a reader to the blind, and participated in literary and political discussion activities.
She is survived by her sister, Helen Marie Nelligan, Thornwood, NY; three children: Linda Lovas Hoeschler (Jack), St. Paul; Laura Lovas Doyle (John), Raleigh, NC; and Stephen Lovas (Sonja), Pound Ridge, NY; seven grandchildren: Kristen Hoeschler O’Brien (Terry), Maj. Frederick Hoeschler (Julia), John Doyle, Stephen Doyle (Tracy), Capt. Katharine Doyle, Zachary Lovas and Tyler Lovas; two great grandchildren, Aidan Doyle and John O’Brien; and many beloved nieces and nephews. Her husband died in 1995.
Services will be Monday, December 3, 1:30 pm at Putnam Memorial Chapel, Presbyterian Homes in Arden Hills, with burial at Fort Snelling Cemetery. In lieu of flowers, contributions may be made to Presbyterian Homes Foundation, Arden Hills.
Skrowaczewski Tribute
By Linda Lovas Hoeschler, December 12, 2011
1. Jack and I moved here in mid-December 1968. Within a few weeks we attended our first Minnesota Orchestra concert. We knew then that we had moved not to musical flyover land, but to an important music center, and more particularly, an important new music center in the world.
2. Stanislaw Skrowaczewski had come to Minnesota, clearly defining himself as both a composer and conductor of our time. He came as a total musician, not a specialist—that in itself unusual in this century. Stan poked the comfortable fabric of our repertoire which was generally a polite mirror of 19th century events and values, with that occasional peek at some early 20th century works.
3. He wanted to ensure that we learned about and became familiar with the music of our age.
4. For Stan knew better than us, first hand, many of the horrors and tectonic shifts of the 20th century. These changes were reflected in our music and we were living in a new musical era. Stan helped us, little by little, to get to know our music.
5. As Mary Ann Feldman says, he exemplified couragio—courage. He never courted popularity, but did what he believed was right. He was like all the great leaders I’ve known, such as Ken and Judy Dayton, doing the right, not the easy, thing.
6. Stan introduced us to 250 new and old works that he thought we should hear. Some of these were world and American premieres of his Polish colleagues, Penderecki, Lutaslowski, and Panufnik. Oh how I loved telling my NY friends that I had already heard a work they were recommending! Throughout this process, Stan made us all, in his persistent, gracious way, more knowledgeable, more sophisticated. We became, artistically, people of our time.
7. Occasionally during his tenure we got to hear some of his works as a composer, such as the great English Horn Concerto for Tom Stacy.
8. While Stan was on the podium at the Orchestra, his example infected all the music organizations in town. I believe that Stan’s innovative and stunning programs made Dennis Russell Davies appointment at SPCO possible, even expected. And what grand times those were here, as we would ricochet back and forth between one exciting premier and another. And because Stan was so insistent that we become people of our age, he compelled us to build a new hall worthy of all great music.
9. Stan’s championing of the current, the new, fueled also by a strong Composers Forum in town (if I do say so myself!), promoted a tradition of new works throughout the Twin Cities music groups—a tradition that is embedded and has not abated.
10. Fortunately, after he retired full time from the Orchestra, Stan chose to stay here. Local composers were the beneficiaries of his counsel and support, and music organizations commissioned and/or premiered many of his new works—works which are always well crafted, intelligent, provocative, complex, intense, exciting and beautiful. And Stan felt he had to write, not just because he had things to say, but because he sees art as a powerful antidote to the chaos and violence of his times, our times. (2003 symphony)
11. In all this achievement, this prodigy who lived up to his promise, Stan remains modest and straightforward, always hoping to improve on what he has already done, looking forward to the next concert, the next new work where he can do a bit better. He deflects praise and turns the conversation to the would-be questioner.
12. Stan Skrowaczewski is one of the major reasons that this is a great arts community, bursting with vitality, expecting and welcoming the new. We are all so fortunate that we got not only a composer and conductor, but a man of couragio. Stan remains a leader in all ways, a pre-digital age humanist who has never adjusted his beliefs or actions to the poll numbers.
13. And as we all know, such people are too scarce, yet never more necessary today.
Tribute to David Slawson
NAJGA Conference, Chicago IL
By Linda Hoeschler, October 16, 2014
1. Becoming involved with David Slawson is a lot like getting married:
a-we had no idea what we were getting into
b-it was a lot more work than we realized
c-in fact, we wouldn’t have done it if we had known what we were getting into
d-but in the end, we are very glad we did it!
2. For 41 years we have lived in the city of St. Paul in a modern home designed by Minnesota’s best known architect, Ralph Rapson—fortunately sited on 1 ½ rustic acres abutting a park
3. In an attempt to soften our home’s light and lines, we introduced shoji screens and many other Japanese elements to the interior, beginning in the mid-‘70’s. My view is that if Frank Lloyd Wright’s prime inspiration for modern architecture was Japanese buildings, we should take our home back to its roots, so to speak.
4. While we were successful with the house interiors, we were less successful with our novice attempts to design a small Japanese garden. Guests liked it, but we knew it was all wrong.
5. Among the books we read to guide us was David Slawson’s “Secret Teachings.” Then, in 1994, we were accidental guests with David in Colorado where he was designing a garden for the Aspen Institute. When we saw the scrubby meadow and his dramatic plan for it, we knew we had our man!
6. David visited our home in 1995 en route Carleton College to tend its garden which he had designed. We asked David for a hillside design of deciduous and evergreen bushes spilling down the hill. But David saw a dry lake bordered by bold boulders. We thought it a great design—we just didn’t realize how big it was!
7. In May 1996 David arrived with 37 tons of boulders, not counting the smaller rocks and beach stones. (We told David we wanted to be able to see the forms under several feet of snow!)
8. David resculpted our side yard into a Northshore seascape with peninsulas—Japanese inspired but not exactly like anything we had seen in Japan.
That is David’s genius. He uses the Japanese aesthetic principles to interpret a beloved place, using local materials and eschewing any derivative elements such as crimson bridges, tori gates and the like. David frees the Japanese idiom from its home place in Japan, and applies its essence in this country.
By interpreting the North Shore of Lake Superior through a Japanese garden lens, in our case, he created a whole new and exciting landscape that defies clear definition. You smell the green tea, but you can’t identify from where the scent emanates. If a Japanese garden is an impression of a beloved place, ours is a more abstract version. Both are great art.
9. David is an artist who paints with rocks. That is an important principle to understand and embrace. We love to commission artists: furniture, art, dance and primarily music. If we don’t like a piece we’ve commissioned we can put it in the closet, give it away or not listen to it. You can’t do that with rocks—so you better know and trust your designer!
10. We love David and his rocks. But having him do the first garden, was like painting only one room. The rest of your rooms look sad and pathetic in comparison. So working with David became a necessary addiction: every year through 2009 David added a garden or fine tuned an existing one.
2009 was the last year that David painted our yards with stones: he had my husband build a tripod and ‘walk’ two basalt basins into a new courtyard garden. I should also add that when Sylvia Banks, David’s stellar companion, began to join David on his trips, she not only added her fine photography and sharp eye, but brought a level of peace to us all.
11. In 2010 David handed off our garden’s maintenance and design to the great man from Texas, John Powell. John is respectful of David’s vision, but with each visit John adds details, freshness and definition. We are blessed to have John in our lives and in our home.
12. Because of David and now John, we live in a floating world—not the twilight world of the ladies of the night (no one would take my husband for a lady!)—but in a house surrounded by beautiful ever changing gardens. Everywhere we look, both high and low, everywhere we walk, we have magnificent views, no matter the season nor the light. We’ve been so blessed.
13. Of the hundreds of artistic projects I’ve worked on, this ongoing garden project has been the most complex, the most challenging. But like my marriage of 48 years, I would still do it all over again.
14. Jack and I welcome each of you to come join us in our North Shore gardens—anytime. We will properly view the gardens from inside our home, then stroll along its dry streams, lake and hills, pausing to sit at an overlook, perch on a moon viewing stone, rest inside the machiai.
Bravo, David, and thank you.
Our Last Times with Thelma
By Jack Hoeschler, August 19, 2015
Thelma Hunter’s unexpected but peaceful death yesterday (Tuesday, August 18) causes me to reflect fondly on our last two experiences with her. The first was a few weeks ago when we all attended the Bang on the Can Marathon at Mass MoCA in the Berkshire Mountains in Massachusetts. The occasion was the August 1 premiere of an orchestral piece by Jeffrey Brooks, which Thelma had commissioned through her Thelma Hunter Fund at the American Composers Forum.
Mass MoCA is a big museum of contemporary arts located in a repurposed 19th century textile factory in North Adams, Massachusetts near Tanglewood, the Williamstown Theater, and the Clark Museum. Each year, New York City’s best known contemporary music producers (two of whom are Pulitzer Prize winners), Julia Wolfe, David Lang and Michael Gordon, bring their Bang on the Can Festival to Mass MoCA for three weeks of serious contemporary music – culminating in a 6 hour session of their best stuff – the Marathon.
Thelma was the toast of this year’s Marathon as a 90 year old supporter of contemporary music – specifically Minneapolis-based Jeff Brooks’ Capriccio on the Departure of a Beloved Brother, the highlight of the Marathon.
Frankly, people could not believe Thelma was 90 years old, but were also equally surprised that she would be such a supporter of the very newest compositions. Thelma won Minnesota another set of accolades in the process.
For herself, Thelma was amazed and delighted by the scale and variety of the artworks displayed in the Mass MoCA galleries. She was accompanied by Bonnie Marshall from the American Composers Forum who convinced Thelma to enjoy the museum tour from a wheelchair, something she found quite pleasant (and subsequently urged her friend, Hella Mears, to model on an upcoming trip to Germany).
Thelma confessed that she did not find all of the pieces on the concert bill to her taste, but she nevertheless had a wonderful time at the champagne party following the Marathon. Composers, performers and attendees swarmed around her. Thelma also told me there that her financial advisor warned her she was ‘underwater’ on her personal spending, particularly her travel. I dismissed that with a laugh and urged her to ‘go out’ spending even more in her inimitable style.
Thelma’s vitality and enthusiasm impressed and energized everyone, including Boston friends who also joined us for the new experience.
Our last meeting with Thelma was this past Monday, August 17, the evening before she died. We had a Minnesota Commissioning Club meeting at our home. Before the meeting, and in the drizzle, Thelma toured and delighted in our Japanese garden. She sat for a long time in our machiai to enjoy and absorb the different greens and the sound of falling water, commenting on its beauty and peace. Although a little unsure of her steps on the garden stones, she was clearly enjoying the whole experience.
During the meeting Thelma spoke about her Mass MoCA adventure and her ideas for future commissions. Upon adjournment we had a birthday cake to celebrate the upcoming birthdays of Thelma (91) and David Ranheim (73). Thelma joined sweetly in the multi-part singing before blowing out the candles.
I was probably the last person to speak with Thelma as I helped her to her car in the dark. I complimented her on the monogram on the door of her Benz sports car. (I knew she had purchased it after Sam’s death because she was tired of driving the automobiles left to Sam by deceased patients.) Thelma told me that her friend, Elinor Bell, had such a monogram on her car which Thelma had always liked. She said the dealer had resisted the idea until he saw how well it turned out. Thelma seemed pleased about that little bit of self-indulgence.
We are comforted that Thelma’s last night was the occasion for a warm party in her honor, since she had so wonderfully and so often entertained the rest of us at her home and at her concerts. We will all especially miss her Christmas party, a singular gathering with good food, an inventive music/poetry program, ending always with enthusiastic group caroling.
A Tribute to Stan Skrowaczewski
By Linda Lovas Hoeschler, March 28, 2017
For many years, Stan Skrowaczewski and I had a courtly, old-world relationship. Only over the past dozen years did it slowly bloom into a warm friendship—a treasured gift to me and my husband, Jack. I felt valued, trusted and even needed—what more could one hope for as a friend?!
Soon after Jack and I moved here in December 1968, we attended a concert by the newly-renamed Minnesota Orchestra. In a city that boasted many steak houses and few ethnic restaurants, we were starved for the new and different.
Fortunately, Stan offered a menu that featured the newly-created music that we had thrived on in New York and Chicago. We became Stan’s groupies as he presented thoughtful, thrilling US premieres of many composers, especially the East European moderns such as Penderecki, Lutoslawski and Panufnik. Moreover, we were moved by Stan’s own intense, complex creations. Our first exposure was his fabulous English horn concerto for Tom Stacy.
Stan’s musical offerings, augmented by new works presented by Philip Brunelle, and soon thereafter, Dennis Russell Davies, cemented our confidence that we had chosen the right place as our new and now permanent home.
Over the years we attended Stan’s occasional orchestral and chamber music compositional premieres, some written for mutual friends. We met him but certainly couldn’t count him as more than a passing acquaintance.
I only gradually got to know Stan when I took a job at the American Composers Forum in 1991. By that time Jack and I had been commissioning music for a decade and had initiated the Minnesota Commissioning Club with 5 other couples which invested in composers and ideas for new musical work.
Stan would periodically call me at the Composers Forum to inquire about his eligibility for a copying or commissioning program. I appreciated his fine European manners and easily recognized my caller, the only one who started, “Good day, Mrs. Hershler.” I, in turn, always called him, “Maestro.”
I would explain that the Forum programs were for the support of emerging to mid-career composers, and that he most likely didn’t qualify. The Maestro’s professionalism, kindness and sincere commitment to writing new works were noteworthy, even stunning. Moreover, he was not too proud to ask for a grant.
Stan was likewise invested in helping many of our young local composers. He counseled those who asked, and attended reading sessions in what became the Forum’s partnership with MnOrch, the Composers’ Institute. Stan offered honest, not hurtful appraisals—although what he didn’t say was often a more powerful critique. Stan looked for the message and the craftsmanship in these new works—hallmarks of his own writing.
During those Forum years we occasionally socialized at our homes, but particularly memorable were our lunches after Stan’s annual matinee performance with the Minnesota Orchestra. I might elicit a story about his youth or his study under Boulanger, but Stan was not a man of the past.
I always sensed Stan’s loss, not just with the war, but with the oppression under which he labored during the Russian dominance of Poland. He once told me “You can’t imagine how terrible it was under the Soviets,” but he clearly did not wish to elucidate. He didn’t anguish over the past, but continued to focus ahead.
I marveled at Stan’s untiring work ethic and his drive, almost compulsion, to craft new works, right up until his recent strokes. He was increasingly distressed by the darkness of our contemporary world, particularly after 9/11, and he wanted to capture this in music. Distressed is not too strong a term. Still, he didn’t belabor his view of our civilization’s obvious fault lines, because, I think, he was considerate of others’ feelings. His misery did not want company.
An opportunity to support Stan’s writing came with his composing a new orchestral piece which would premiere on his 80th birthday, at Orchestra Hall, October 2003. The Orchestra approached the Minnesota Commissioning Club for some funding, which we enthusiastically endorsed. Besides, two of our Club members, Fred Sewell and Thelma Hunter, had previously commissioned the Maestro to write a wonderful quartet for them and two of their musical children—and that piece had had a good life.
In the late summer of 2003 the Maestro called me and asked, ever so politely, if he might dedicate his new work, Symphony [2003] to the recently departed, Kenneth Dayton, Stan’s good friend and my former boss. Ken provided a stellar example at Dayton Hudson to always do the right thing, not the expedient. Ken and Stan were similar in their sterling ethics and behavior and, of course, we agreed to the dedication.
My friendship with Stan began to flourish in 2005 after Jack and I returned from Sweden, having experienced a high impact collision, undergoing surgery and 6 weeks of medical care. Stan not only called us when we returned home, he also continued to call every 3 or 4 months to inquire about our progress. About this time, I finally persuaded him to call me Linda and I, in turn, dropped the Maestro for Stan.
Perhaps because of our physical vulnerability, Stan’s unexpected but welcome concern touched both of us deeply. But as we healed and grew strong, his friendship didn’t flag and we began to have more personal, meaningful conversations about our activities and values. I treasured his deep concern and consistent communication.
Stan anguished as Krystyna, his beautiful wife, got sicker, but he never sought pity. Stan was a serious man and his biggest passions seemed to be his family and the writing of his next musical work. He still had many things he needed to say. Conducting around the world was expressed as an expected, but not particularly impressive job. It was what he did, in the same vein as, perhaps, I can cook a good meal.
I did a small favor for Stan and Krystyna a couple of years before her death. They had been raised Catholic and wished to be buried by a priest. I agreed to help and thought I knew the right person for them.
Father Kevin McDonough, our parish priest, readily joined Stan and me for lunch. After pleasantries and Kevin’s inquiry into the Maestro’s travel and conducting, Stan started a monologue whose trajectory was obvious: he wanted to explain the Skrowaczewskis’ lack of church attendance. Stan had barely begun his explanation when Kevin kindly put his big hand over Stan’s, silencing him.
“Maestro,” Kevin interrupted, “Some people live their religion by going to daily Mass, saying the rosary and doing Novenas. Others, like you, live your lives devoted to making this a more beautiful world.”
[Father] McDonough, Stan and Krystyna met on subsequent occasions for conversation, comfort, blessings, and yes, funeral planning. I took it as an honor that I could be part of this couple’s countdown in life, as I told Stan in our final one-way conversation at the hospital after his second major stroke.
Jack and I and Kevin McDonough attended Stan’s final conducting performance last October in Orchestra Hall. Stan showed magnificent insight and vigor leading the Bruckner 8th, performed without intermission. He was exhausted when we saw him backstage, yet still gracious as usual, concerned about our enjoyment and comfort. We suspected this was the last time we’d see him conduct, although we had recently talked about going to Japan with him in 2017 for his spring concert tour.
Father McDonough’s assessment that Stan devoted his life to making this a more beautiful world often resounds and rebounds in my mind.
Thank you, Maestro, for devoting your life to making our lives richer, and for making ours a more beautiful community, and this, a more beautiful world.
Tribute to Mary Willis Pomeroy
By Linda Lovas Hoeschler, February 10, 2018
Have you ever lost a key piece of writing on a plane? Well, I left my heartfelt, flowing tribute to Mary on the plane from MSP. Although I’ve tried to re-create a semblance of my original talk, I can assure you that you are all in luck—this version is shorter, old age memory being what it is.
I am honored to offer tribute to Mary Pomeroy this evening as we celebrate the 50 plus years of the Delegation for Friendship Among Women; 50 years only possible because Mary was the driving force behind so many of the Delegation’s trips, its vision and its continued existence. Mary is truly the creator, the mother of the Delegation, and we, as its loyal and enthusiastic participants and beneficiaries, toast Mary as the Mother of Us All. Thank you, Mary. And thank you Mary, Jill, George and the many others who worked to produce this new book, this magnificent record of some of Mary’s achievements working on behalf of the Delegation and as a model world citizen.
It is difficult to even think of the Delegation without Mary Pomeroy. It is as if she and the Delegation exchanged DNA early on so that they became one, aligned in spirit and drive. If the Delegation were an organism, Mary was its Delphic Oracle. She knew instinctively where the Delegation should go next, where in the developing world some thoughtful American women could listen, suggest, learn and perhaps inspire fledging women leaders, leaders often unacknowledged, unsupported and underfinanced.
Mary was a natural creator for the Delegation, for she had already done a great job creating herself. As a young child, she and her sister Betty, would usually go to the local library while they waited for their mother to pick them up after school. Instead of complaining that mom was undependable and forgetful, Mary saw the library as her chance to read as many books as she could—which she did. As an adult, she has always maintained a large and impressive library of books about world affairs and history—an attractive magnet for my husband, whom I call Mary’s next husband!
After raising her three children in Minnesota, Mary began to work for Mercury Travel and was involved in Republican politics. She was asked by some of her politically-involved friends to help the fledgling Delegation with its first trip planning. Mary became such a driving force, that she was asked to sign the Delegation’s Articles of Incorporation a couple of years later.
Although we had lived in Minnesota since 1968, we only heard about Mary from others interested in world travel “Surely you know Mary”. But we didn’t, until we heard again of Mary in Egypt in 1987—our archaeologist guide and others commenting, when they heard we lived in St Paul: “but of course you know Mary Pomeroy.” I sheepishly said no each time. A year later we were asked to host a dinner in our home for Jehan Sadat and were told that Mrs. Sadat had one requirement: that Mary Pomeroy be included as her guest of honor. Then I learned that Mary was serving as parliamentarian for an international women’s conference. I was truly out of it, not knowing this renowned local light!
Fortunately, this breach was soon corrected through a mutual Egyptian friend, and I was invited to go with the Delegation to Yemen, Oman and Morocco for 3 weeks in March 1990. Since then, I have been fortunate to have been on every Delegation trip but one.
Although the Delegation trips were wonderful on one level because of the opportunity to visit countries not on the beaten path (how many times have I been asked, “You’re going where? Are you trying to get yourself killed?”), these trips were phenomenal and a great privilege because of Mary Pomeroy. Why? What was Mary’s strategy, her winning edge?
1. Mary had, as I mentioned before, a great nose for the countries where interesting things were happening, particularly identifying where female leadership needed a hand and encouragement. She was always right.
2. Mary also always went, on her own nickel, to visit the countries well before a Delegation trip. She identified the women really doing great things. (By the way, the male-dominated governments usually wanted us to meet only government officials, who were often, not surprisingly, their relatives). Mary, a human bloodhound, would also sniff out the burgeoning NGO heads who were doing important things, particularly in social services, who could use an exchange of ideas and our imprimatur.
Mary gained respect for the Delegation on these pre-trips by her very presence and authority, a huge help to our group. But Mary also made true friends with many of the foreign women leaders, friendships that endured decades.
3. Mary also insisted that we Delegates follow-up on our meetings, and she set the best example for us all. On my first trip with the group to Oman, we learned about extensive congenital deafness, skeletal malformation etc due to long-standing inbreeding, particularly in rural areas. On our return home, next thing I knew Mary had me working with her and Gillette Children’s Hospital in St Paul to send a container of perfectly good but out of date rehab equipment to Muscat, Oman.
4. Follow-up, but keep looking ahead, seemed to be Mary’s mantra, always keeping her eye on the next ascending ball where she thought the Delegation should go.
I have learned a few other valuable lessons from Mary:
1. Always dress up for meeting these women leaders, no matter how small their organization, no matter how poor or poorly dressed they are. Dressing professionally shows respect for them and their work.
2. Don’t always listen to Mary ‘s advice, particularly on appropriate dress for a country. On my first trip to the Middle East Mary advised us to dress conservatively and in dark clothes. And wear no expensive jewelry. So while I dressed like a nun looking for a convent, Mary, ever glamorous, wore colorful and beautiful clothing, and sported a diamond as big as the Ritz.
3. Pack clothes in plastic and Martinizing bags to keep them looking great and wrinkle free.
4. And finally, view the poor and ‘fly-over’ countries, particularly those with troubled or even no US relations, as offering rich opportunities to learn, to help, and, certainly, to make friends. Ignore men for the most part.
Mary, obviously has never had the time or inclination to rest, either on her divan or her laurels. This remarkable icon is never self-congratulatory. By word and by example she has helped us Delegates to keep looking ahead to the next adventure, the next opportunity.
So now may I propose that we all stand and toast Mary Willis Pomeroy, the Mother of us All!
Tribute to Paul Schoenfield…Mensch
by Linda L. Hoeschler-Blyberg, September 15, 2024
Paul Schoenfield… How should we write his headline? How did he want to be described?
Paul Schoenfield, the brilliant, extraordinary pianist and musician…
Paul Schoenfield, the incomparable, inventive composer…
Paul Schoenfield, the genius mathematician…
We could each tell stories about Paul’s nonpareil gifts and numerous contributions to each of these areas…as pianist, composer, mathematician--and we will-- today and probably forever.
But how did Paul really wish us to think of him? In our 35+ years of close friendship, I believe that Paul wanted us to think of him not as some exotic being, but something more elemental, a mensch. Such a simple but powerful word, mensch, “an upstanding, respectful and caring person of integrity and responsibility.” In short, a mensch is a really good guy who helps his friends and does the right thing.
My deceased husband, Jack, used that term effectively when Paul came for advice, or when Paul considered some action that seemed off-track. “Paul, just be a mensch,” he would urge. And Paul would reply, “OK.” Or when Paul did something really smart or fine for his friends and/or family, Jack would say: “Paul, you’re such a mensch.” And Paul would beam: “You think so?”
Paul was not, shall we say, a natural mensch. He was so talented, so smart, but, like many a genius, oblivious to the general conventions most of us follow. He could appear bored, rude and ungrateful in meetings and social events. He could drive people to tears and was surprised when chided for any emotional damage he had caused.
Despite being the only child of a strong, critical, might I say “controlling” mother, Paul had an innate, and usually charming goodness, much like Rousseau’s Emile. From my armchair, I think Paul probably withdrew into his head to maintain his sanity at home.
How did we get to know Paul well, enjoy his talents, while still encouraging his menschness?
In the summer of 1987, we were asked by a mutual friend to let Paul, Lynn and Miriam stay at our home several weeks while the Schoenfields awaited permission to go to Israel. We were at our cabin. Before that summer we knew of and had heard Paul play…but hardly knew him.
Paul asked what he could do to pay us back, and we suggested he weed our flower gardens. After Paul removed most of the impatiens plants, I told Jack “We better get to know Paul because otherwise I might kill him!” My murderous urges became the basis of a great friendship. Who would’ve thunk it?
Paul’s regular home stays with us primarily happened during the Schoenfields’ several multi-year moves to Israel. Paul would return to the States for performances and other work, usually living with us for a week or two, about 4 times a year.
We kept the Sabbath with Paul, not answering the phone, taking long walks, engaging in meaningful discussions, enjoying meals (I refused to serve him tuna in a can!), then breaking for Paul’s retreat to his room to don his phylacteries and pray. We relaxed, we bonded, we got to know each other well.
I bought new cookware, plates and utensils for Paul’s kosher meals, then placed them, double wrapped, in bags marked with a Heckscher, and stored in our basement, ready for his next visit. Although raised Catholic, being a shabbas goy is, perhaps, an inherited skill of mine, since my father did similar tasks for many Orthodox families in Hoboken.
In turn, Paul asked Jack for help on negotiations and contracts, talked to me about musical ideas, practiced piano, rehearsed at our home for a recording and/or concert. Oh, to hear someone like Paul play basic Hanon exercises or “Happy Birthday” in several modes with variations. Or rehearse at our home with violinist Young Nam Kim and cellist Peter Howard in preparation for their iconic Café Music recording. Life doesn’t get richer, dear friends.
Or maybe it does, because Jack and I were also fortunate to be able to commission Paul to write half a dozen chamber works, some of which you’ll hear today such as “Carolina Reveille”. In turn, Paul wrote five pieces for us—short, remarkable gifts he tossed off, it seemed, the way ducks shed water. Not really—Paul worked intensely and critically on everything he wrote.
Of course, the term “mensch” wasn’t used all the time with Paul. Jack applied it judiciously---kind of a shorthand for “get back in line”, or “that’s a really dumb idea” or “why would you think that”. It was the kind of code word that married couples often use to reshape a conversation or actions. Paul often said that he considered Jack the ultimate mensch…so he listened.
I think that Paul transformed himself, maybe not to being a total mensch, but in adopting more mensch-like ways. It wasn’t so hard because at heart Paul was a loving, though wounded genius. He never wanted to impose his hurt on others.
All of us present today helped support Paul to become the mensch in action, well mostly, that he was at heart, always.
So let us each offer Paul final peace by declaring him a “real mensch.”
My toast, our toast, to Paul, the mensch.
On September 15th, the Consort had the honor of presenting a memorial concert for the late Paul Schoenfield, one of our era’s rarest and most beguiling composers, and a beloved colleague and friend. The video of the performance is now available by clicking above, and you can also follow along by clicking the program at right. We hope you will enjoy this extraordinary music.