NOTES FROM GLENN MITCHELL’S MEMORIAL SERVICE

There was laughing. There was crying. It was just about perfect. Here’s what I can tell you about the event, concluded just moments ago at the Dallas Theater Center’s Kalita Humphreys Theater:

Parking was tough to find. I found a spot across Blackburn, over on Turtle Creek. Others weren’t so lucky. As I entered the theater, there was a traffic jam, and a man was haranguing the valets, telling them, “Get this out of here! Get moving.” Onlookers were amused.

Inside, the stage was set for A Christmas Carol, which was fitting, since Glenn will always be remembered for his wonderful Christmas shows. A video screen center stage showed pictures of him, overlaid with audio soundbites of Glenn’s work. Then a series of speakers took the podium, next to which stood a picture of Glenn, dressed in coat and tie.

David Marquis (scroll down) went first. Great speaker. He talked about grief being like an ocean. You can’t resist it. It washes over you. It recedes but will always return. The three things Glenn taught him: conversation is not dead; it’s important to have an inquisitive mind; and quality trumps quantity.

Linda Mitchell Bland, Glenn’s sister, went next. Her first words: “My brother was the meanest croquet player on the planet in 1961.” Much laughter. In her twangy accent, Bland recalled childhood memories and talked about how Glenn always “savored the process,” no matter what he was doing. Reading, playing croquet, whatever. Bland was funny. She read from prepared remarks, which were very well-written. She ended by wondering who Glenn would get to interview in heaven. That’s when the tears started.

Jeff Luchsinger talked about Glenn’s history at KERA. Luchsinger had to gather himself a few times. More tears all around. He told us, “You did NOT want to play Trivial Pursuit with Glenn Mitchell.” The toughest part came when he read some of the listener comments that had been posted to KERA’s web site. Lots of sniffling in the audience.

David Johnson was the perfect follow-up. He was breezy and spoke seemingly extemporaneously. His theme: “Mitch could do anything.” Johnson had a long history working with Glenn. He shared stories from same. He concluded, “Mitch taught us that if you don’t like what you’re doing, then do something else. Life is too damn short.”

Tom Blackwood, a longtime friend and member of the Brain Trust, basically delivered a roast. Exceptionally well-done. He said, “Glenn’s sense of professionalism would not allow him to be rude to a guest or caller. He saved that attention for his friends.” Lots of laughs. Blackwood told us that Glenn was cheap, he had a lousy car, he was by no means a celebrity, his glasses were cracked, he had bad fashion sense. “If Glenn Mitchell were the kind of guy who would give you the shirt off his back, would you really want it?” And: “Glenn respected you as his audience. Check that. He respected most of you. Okay, he respected some of you. [beat, then quickly] Alright, he only respected Dan in Tyler.” A huge hit.

Then came music by Josh Alan. Dude can play guitar.

Audio retrospective. Good times. Good memories.

Bob Archenhold, a longtime friend, began: “I have a little story for you. And every word of it is true.” He told us about the time Glenn helped him become a broadcaster for the night with the Rangers. And he talked about Glenn’s heart valve-replacement surgery years ago and how Glenn wanted books on tape immediately upon waking from his surgery. He had stuff he wanted to read or, rather, listen to.

Norm Hitzges used to live with Glenn. I never knew that. Norm needed help taking the stage. He’s had a hip replaced. Plus the spinal tumor. Now trouble with the foot. Result: not catlike. Norm read from prepared remarks. He asked, “Why do we have a picture up here that was taken on one of the three days on which Glenn wore a tie?” Norm is a pro. He went through his catalog of Glenn memories, shooting them at the audience like a machine gun. “Red wine. Seeing him read a book that made me go, ‘I’ll never read that.’ Cold beer. Warm beer. Whatever our houseguest had left behind that we could drink. That knowing glance we shot each other when our horse won. Late nights at Joe Miller’s Bar. A trip to the Sportatorium to see professional wrestling, after which we went to a dive called the Triple Nickel Lounge.” Norm and Glenn had a brilliant rule when they lived together: they cleaned the house for exactly one hour every Saturday morning. No more, no less. Then Norm told us Glenn was the second roommate he’d had that had died. The first went in Vietnam, and Norm wrote a poem to him. He read that same poem to us. More tears.

Bob Ray Sanders led us in prayer. But not before he cracked wise about how, during the earlier audio retrospective, they’d played a funny bit wherein Glenn begged people to pledge. He said, “Ain’t it just like KERA to work in a pledge drive to the ceremony?”

And then Sara Hickman took us home.