Feeling: quiet
Listening to: nothing
Reading/Watching: The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants... in one sitting

About a year ago, I met a man named Jeff Troxler.

He was my voice teacher's husband, and at first I knew him only as the guy who never came to student performances, but had come to my sophomore recital.

Then he directed some opera scenes at our school last year. He intimidated me, because he knew so much about music, and performing, and he was so very exacting in what he asked of me as a singer. He worked with me on the minutest of details, and because of him, I gave one of the best performances of my life at last year's Valentine Cabaret with Menotti's Telephone Aria.

I could count on him for an honest evaluation, without harsh words or syrupy compliments, and somehow his blunt opinions always built up my confidence. He could always tell when I was only giving 95%. He asked, demanded, expected twice that every time, and because he asked, I gave it.

We worked together again at the synagogue, because he and my voice teacher recommended me to the Cantor. We met for rehearsal twice a week, my voice teacher, her husband, and myself, where we sat next to each other and he made goofy, corny jokes and gossiped like a prom queen. He was every inch a professional, always ready to sing, treating me like an equal. He changed from being the exacting director to a colleague, a funny uncle, an eccentric friend.

On Monday he had a heart attack. He was at the gym, and just keeled over. A doctor who happened to be there gave him CPR, and they needed a defribrillator to bring him back.

Today, they turned off the life support.

The world has lost a good man.

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