I just got back from Ann Arbor, and a pair of memorial services for Jim Posante. To call him a mentor is putting it lightly. The man was a walking theatrical machine – actor, director, choreographer, fight choreographer, dancer, singer, trumpet-player, scenic designer, lighting designer, prop-master, and on, and on.

In the last year, while talking about the novel, I always mention how I hated Shakespeare until senior year, when I was cast in a production of R&J. Jim was the guy who cast me in that show. He and Harlan Underhill were co-directing the play, and they put me in the role of Mercutio. It was Jim’s first Shakespeare. Mine, too. But working together on it, we were both hooked.

Jim was also very close with Mike Laverty, a good friend and classmate of mine whose life was ended far too early, just a couple years back. But then, Jim was close to everybody. Even moreso since his heart-attack two years ago, when a lot of his moodiness vanished and he re-embraced life.

When I say he was close to everybody, I mean it. One memorial was held at Greenhills School, where he taught. Looking at the crowd, the headmaster’s opening comment was, "Even beyond the grave, Jim’s got me breaking fire code."

The other memorial was held at the Michigan Theatre in Ann Arbor. The place seats 1,400, and since the ground floor was comfortably full I’d guess there were between 900 and 1,000 people there. It’s astonishing how many lives intersected with Jim and his partner Charlie. I saw people I had ceased to remember existed, and many more that I often recalled fondly but had fallen out of touch with. We all embraced and swore not to drift apart again. Again, Jim’s great talent lay in bringing people together. That, and in making them believe themselves capable of impossible things. Like me, singing. Only for Jim.

The services were funny – I mean, really funny. Not somber, but a celebration of everything Jim, from his mannerisms to his uncanny security about his appearance, no matter how outlandish it might appear to a common eye. Referring to Jim, Bart Bund said, "Here’s a man who looks like Santa and his elves combined." Many were the comments on his short stature, and of the oversize heart within.

I last saw Jim in November, when I stopped by Greenhills for a day to teach a workshop to his students. He was as cheerful and gossipy as ever, and we just hung out through most of the day between classes. He got to meet Dash, which was a treat for them both.

Jim is one of those people who can’t be gone, who isn’t gone. Because he imprinted himself so strongly upon you that his presence will loom in your life forever. Which is great. Because as long as we’re alive, so is Jim.