Here is the text of the eulogy I was so honored to give at Sally’s memorial service on Nov. 5, 2002:
——-
Sally was a force! That’s the first thing that Sally Pritchard said at the 1999 memorial service for my mother, Sally Ryan, a fellow former Bush Lower School teacher. The expression applies aptly to them both. I’m honored to be back in Seattle for this full circle moment—the last time I was in this church, in fact, was for Barry Pritchard’s service in 1994. I’ve come home to honor one of the signature influences in my life: a great teacher, an exemplary role model, and a dear family friend.
Beginning in 1972, Sally taught at Bush for three decades, during which she was the undisputed hardest working woman at the school. In the mornings she ably taught kindergarten, where between 1978 and 1984 my two older brothers and I, all three of us eventual lifers, were fortunate enough to have her teach us to write and about fair play. Then in the afternoon, she taught middle schoolers drama—a more formalized creative play. And after school she directed plays, at an indefatigable rate of nearly one every trimester—Upper School in the fall, the Sixth Grade Shakespeare play in the winter, and the 8th grade play in the spring.
During her 30-year tenure, when I suppose she taught nearly 500 kindergartners, there were a handful of us lifers, including my oldest brother, Jeff, and also Zach Zulauf, who is here today, who were blessed to have her first in kindergarten and eventually as a director all the way through graduation. From the time when I first met her and thought of her as the tall woman in red, to the days when I finally towered over her, she was a gentle, patient and amiable guiding light, ably directing me in seven plays over the years.
Can you imagine the fortitude, patience and world weary sense of humor any adult would require to not just survive but deftly pull off some of the epic productions Sally staged? The most sprawling of these extravaganzas included casts upward of 80 sometimes chaotic kids drawn from the 6th through 12th grades—South Pacific, Annie, Oliver. Somehow the shows always came together at the last minute.
These were her gifts to us—formative childhood experiences that would shape us and bring magic and joy to our lives, brightening the perpetually gray Seattle skies with the hopeful glow of theatrical creativity. Damn Yankees, which I saw four times as an awestruck 4th grader in 1988—it had a revolving set!—and which first gave me the acting bug, became such a treasured memory for me that I was reluctant to see it on Broadway some years later. I didn’t want anything to take the bloom off the rose of that memory. Bebe Neuwirth and Victor Garber couldn’t hold a candle to the talents at Bush, I concluded.
I had the great fortune to get to know Sally’s family as well. Sweet, beautiful and gentle Molly had all of her mother’s magic touch as she directed me as Mercutio in Romeo & Juliet when she stepped in for Sally my senior year. And Barry once went out of his way to kindly reassure me when I suffered a professional blow during my days as a kid actor around town here in Seattle. I hope that they are together with Sally again in some celestial theater in the sky.
Sally told me shortly before I graduated from Bush that someone once asked her: if she could give up one of her three positions at the school, which would it be? She said she couldn’t choose. Of the scores of plays she directed, she did not have a favorite. That is, after all, the way of a kindergarten teacher. They don’t play favorites, they’re beacons of fair play.
There was a saying in our house: “Sally, she’s the greatest.” She was our second Sally, an extension of our family—a surrogate mother who helped shepherd me into adulthood. It means me the world to me to be here today to tell you all of how fortunate I was to have not one but two forceful Sallys in my life.
July 25, 2023 /
Here is the text of the eulogy I was so honored to give at Sally’s memorial service on Nov. 5, 2002:
——-
Sally was a force! That’s the first thing that Sally Pritchard said at the 1999 memorial service for my mother, Sally Ryan, a fellow former Bush Lower School teacher. The expression applies aptly to them both. I’m honored to be back in Seattle for this full circle moment—the last time I was in this church, in fact, was for Barry Pritchard’s service in 1994. I’ve come home to honor one of the signature influences in my life: a great teacher, an exemplary role model, and a dear family friend.
Beginning in 1972, Sally taught at Bush for three decades, during which she was the undisputed hardest working woman at the school. In the mornings she ably taught kindergarten, where between 1978 and 1984 my two older brothers and I, all three of us eventual lifers, were fortunate enough to have her teach us to write and about fair play. Then in the afternoon, she taught middle schoolers drama—a more formalized creative play. And after school she directed plays, at an indefatigable rate of nearly one every trimester—Upper School in the fall, the Sixth Grade Shakespeare play in the winter, and the 8th grade play in the spring.
During her 30-year tenure, when I suppose she taught nearly 500 kindergartners, there were a handful of us lifers, including my oldest brother, Jeff, and also Zach Zulauf, who is here today, who were blessed to have her first in kindergarten and eventually as a director all the way through graduation. From the time when I first met her and thought of her as the tall woman in red, to the days when I finally towered over her, she was a gentle, patient and amiable guiding light, ably directing me in seven plays over the years.
Can you imagine the fortitude, patience and world weary sense of humor any adult would require to not just survive but deftly pull off some of the epic productions Sally staged? The most sprawling of these extravaganzas included casts upward of 80 sometimes chaotic kids drawn from the 6th through 12th grades—South Pacific, Annie, Oliver. Somehow the shows always came together at the last minute.
These were her gifts to us—formative childhood experiences that would shape us and bring magic and joy to our lives, brightening the perpetually gray Seattle skies with the hopeful glow of theatrical creativity. Damn Yankees, which I saw four times as an awestruck 4th grader in 1988—it had a revolving set!—and which first gave me the acting bug, became such a treasured memory for me that I was reluctant to see it on Broadway some years later. I didn’t want anything to take the bloom off the rose of that memory. Bebe Neuwirth and Victor Garber couldn’t hold a candle to the talents at Bush, I concluded.
I had the great fortune to get to know Sally’s family as well. Sweet, beautiful and gentle Molly had all of her mother’s magic touch as she directed me as Mercutio in Romeo & Juliet when she stepped in for Sally my senior year. And Barry once went out of his way to kindly reassure me when I suffered a professional blow during my days as a kid actor around town here in Seattle. I hope that they are together with Sally again in some celestial theater in the sky.
Sally told me shortly before I graduated from Bush that someone once asked her: if she could give up one of her three positions at the school, which would it be? She said she couldn’t choose. Of the scores of plays she directed, she did not have a favorite. That is, after all, the way of a kindergarten teacher. They don’t play favorites, they’re beacons of fair play.
There was a saying in our house: “Sally, she’s the greatest.” She was our second Sally, an extension of our family—a surrogate mother who helped shepherd me into adulthood. It means me the world to me to be here today to tell you all of how fortunate I was to have not one but two forceful Sallys in my life.
August 14, 2023 /
I have lovely memories of Sally from my time teaching at Bush (1973-78). She and her family were so warm.