A Standing Ovation for a Grand Dame

In the late forties, our future mother was studying at Case Western Reserve in Cleveland, Ohio. Back home in New Brighton, PA, my future father, Spike, had just received a ‘Dear John’ letter from his high school sweetheart. Marilyn had fallen for an upper classman and in the process, had broken the poor boy’s heart.

Spike decided to take his brand new Chevy to Cleveland and salvage his shattered romance. So off he went, like a knight in shining armor. But, on the outskirts of Cleveland, his car stalled on on a railroad track. And to his chagrin, a train was barreling down toward him. He got out and tried desperately to push his car off the tracks, but it was no use. His new Chevy was demolished in the blink of an eye.

He hitch-hiked to Case Western, but in the end, he came home with a heavy heart.

In the ensuing months Marilyn’s parents, her two sisters and all their friends somehow convinced Miss Marilyn that Spike was the only one for her.

She finally came to her senses and the two were married.

The couple settled in the charming borough of Beaver, PA, on the banks of the magnificent Ohio River. The picturesque town ‒ nestling up to verdant foothills of the Alleghenies ‒ had been incorporated in 1802. Spike and Marilyn purchased a lovely Dutch Colonial house on 5th Street and set up shop across from Bouquet Park.

One day Marilyn was strolling in the woods high above the little town when she happened upon an old hollow tree. She peered inside, and to her astonishment, found three wolf pups staring up at her. The pups were motherless and crying, so Miss Marilyn rescued them and took them home to meet Spike. The couple raised the cute little wolf pups, naming them Dave, Ross and Bob . . . but they were wild animals, and destroyed all the furniture, stained the carpets, wet their beds and howled at the Allegheny moon.

It was very hard for Spike and Marilyn to cope with wolves in their lives, but they did. They loved them with all their hearts and devoted themselves to their well-being. Mom read to them and educated them in the ways of life and showed them the teachings of Jesus through her actions. She taught them manners and what it was to be kind and compassionate. Eventually the pups grew up to be good, furry gentlemen who loved their family and friends, and could actually speak fairly good English. But unfortunately, every once and a while the young men reverted to their wolven ways, usually under the the light of the full moon.

Mom’s kitchen was a hub of activity, most of it having absolutely nothing to do with culinary arts. She would put on her welder’s helmet and asbestos gloves, grab the acetylene torch and incinerate every morsel in sight. This was not a kitchen… it was a crematorium! She should have served her charred meals in urns.

But I give her an ‘A’ for effort. I mean, what self respecting American Princess would even venture into a kitchen in the first place.

Christmas time at the Duncan home was a magical celebration. On Christmas Eve, after we boys reluctantly went to bed with sugarplums in our heads, Mom and Dad and the neighbors drank spiked eggnogs and setup the Lionel trains. Then Dad placed the big tree on top. And while they decorated old tannenbaum, Mom played the baby grand piano and sang the most splendid carols. The girl could sing! I remember Mother and I looking out my frosty bedroom window at the twinkling stars above. And Mom would always pick out the Star of Bethlehem, and I could hear the pitter-patter of reindeer on the roof. But there was a real Santa Claus . . . and it was Spike. He was a grand elf who was so charitable to less fortunate people, a good Christian who walked the walk and left the talking to others.

In 1963 the young family moved from Beaver, PA to faraway Dallas, Texas, where we learned the language and adjusted to the strange customs. It was the year the president was assassinated… but I assure you, the Duncans had nothing to do with it! Mom and Dad made the move seem like a big adventure, and it was. She got me the best percussion instructor in Dallas, Mitch Peters, of the Dallas Symphony Orchestra. She insisted that we all make the most of our lives ‒ and we did ‒ with a slight Texas drawl.

Mother got her Master’s degree in speech therapy and pathology in 1969, and I joined the Army. It was a glorious day when I finally returned to Dallas, and no one knew I was coming. I took a cab from Love Field to their new house at 4008 McFarland Blvd, right down the street from the Highland Park Presbyterian Church. I paid the cabby, grabbed my duffel bag and in full uniform, ventured around to the back of the house. I opened the gate and approached the back door. I looked through the screen and to my delight, I found Mom at the kitchen stove – and it smelled delightful. Evidently she had traded her acetylene torch for an honest-to-goodness cook book. She had her back toward me, so I quietly snuck through the breakfast nook and entered the kitchen. I threw my arms around her and gave her a big hug. She thought I was Spike and chuckled. Then she turned around and found her long lost son, in one piece, and broke into tears. It was a mother-son reunion — one of the most poignant moments of my life.

A few years later I met my wife Jayebird in Albuquerque. We were married in Roosevelt Park, and Miss Marilyn was the the only family member in attendance. Of course she was going to come! In return, Jaye and I gave her a grandson named Tait.

Life went on and Miss Marilyn was always there for us. She was a rock; and it was an honor to be her son. I always enjoyed her company and she appreciated the fact that I could make her laugh, and her laugh was joyful. And that’s how I’ll remember her.

Now she’s somewhere divine, somewhere high above the Allegheny moon. I just hope wolves are allowed in heaven!

I knew a famous drummer named Jimmy Zitano, affectionately known as JZ. One night he and his fabulous jazz band were performing in the warehouse district. JZ had just played a fantastic drum solo and was given a standing ovation. Suddenly he dropped dead behind his drums. What a wonderful way to go: leaving this world with a rousing ovation by adoring fans!

Miss Marilyn led an exemplary life and was an extraordinary woman. I think that she deserves a standing ovation. So at this time, I would ask all of you to stand up and applaud the most amazing woman that I’ve ever known! My Mother.

We love you Miss Marilyn!

This was my eulogy to my mother, Marilyn Duncan Smith, recited at the Wildwood Chapel in Restland Memorial Park, North Dallas, 18 November 2021. Her ashes were interred with my father, the late, great MP “Spike” Duncan, Jr.