The day after Professor Cavanaugh asked me to be the property mistress for the fall 1969 production of The Caucasian Chalk Circle, he called me into his office.

I knew nothing about the plot line or magnitude of the assignment he’d given me. In my head, however, I made up that props sounded like a low level job for a senior Theatre Arts major. More embarrassingly, I complained to a few of my theatre friends about how unappreciated I felt.

 Mr. Cavanaugh was new to our department, and I wasn’t having it.

“Jane, it has come to my attention,” he said, “that you are unhappy with the position I’ve asked you to take. Is that true?”

I was astonished and, looking back, impressed that he would confront me so directly. I sheepishly admitted that it was.

Mr. Cavanaugh taught me something that I wouldn’t find in any college textbook. This new professor treated me like an adult. He trusted that I could handle an honest conversation and a hard-to-hear truth.

“Please come to me if you’re unhappy with something I’ve said or done,” he said, ending the conversation.

I soon discovered the enormity of his assignment: creating, collecting, and managing over one hundred props—including a river made from three yards of blue silk and a Bunraku puppet that I built and costumed.

He also asked me to design the logo for the production—a task I relished.

What I initially viewed as a slight was, in fact, an extraordinary vote of confidence. 

During my senior year, Mr. Cavanaugh set in motion the creation of the Mount Holyoke College Summer Theatre (MHCST). He selected me to not only be a lead set designer, but also to create its logo. By now, the end of my senior year, I felt privileged to work with him in any capacity.

I presented this design which was used throughout the 30+ years of the MHCST’s existence. My professor’s sincere appreciation for my design, I knew, could be trusted. My logo went on every poster, t-shirt, banner and program. 

The bonds of our relationship were so deep that Jim traveled to see my work as the stagecraft teacher and set designer at Westhill High School in Stamford, CT a couple of years after I graduated. The production he attended was The Odd Couple.

Jim’s assessment was not gushing and complimentary this time, but instructive and helpful. He treated me as a professional and told me a truth I needed to hear.

I knew that Oscar Madison was a notorious slob and wanted to show the apartment he lived in with Felix Unger as extremely messy. I had my student crew crumple up newspapers and toss them across the floor.

What Jim proposed was that the mess be organic—an overflowing heap of newspapers by Oscar’s armchair and a pile of soiled dishes and mugs on a side table—not the aftermath of a tornado which was the look I’d achieved.

The high school director had not been as astute, and I learned a valuable lesson. Being true to the character, Oscar, shows up in the details, not a broad exaggeration. Jim’s precise feedback clarified this.

Throughout the years, Jim responded to my blog posts and newsletters with support and praise. Because he’d been candid and honest from the start of our relationship, I trusted him. His opinion mattered.

Many of us from the earliest summer theatre days gathered in New York City when he came to visit his son and to see shows on Broadway. We traveled to see him as he relocated around the country—Georgia, Texas, Virginia.

During our last reunion near his home in Roanoke, we had a celebratory dinner in his honor. At 92, Jim knew—and we knew—that our time together was precious. One by one, we toasted him and spoke about the impact he’d had on our lives. 

When it was my turn I said, “Jim, you changed my life. You believed in me and challenged me. I’m still proud of the work we did together. Thank you.”

Ever modest, he smiled and replied, “I had good clay.”

Jim passed away last month at 94, peacefully. Both of his children called to let me know of his death.

I can’t think of a more complete and satisfying relationship in my life. More than fifty years after I graduated, I was still learning from him.

Rest in peace, dearest Jim.