There’s a seat in the audience of the Browning Center Auditorium at Weber State University that belongs to Clytie Adams. I guess she doesn’t really own it, but in my experience it’s the one where she always sits. I'm really only in the Browning Center when Clytie is. She sits right there, about a third of the way back, near the center and the aisle. Its far enough from the stage to see the whole story unfolding under the floodlights, but close enough for her to gracefully walk backstage, through the wings, and onto center stage to introduce the year’s recital, or to take a bow with the orchestra’s conductor after performances of The Nutcracker. She enters the stage, her shoulders planted over her hips, chin up and smiling, her silver hair shimmering in the spotlight. Her arms move gracefully and her speech is sweetly measured, never rushed.
She will remind the audience that this is an evening of delight and dignity. “We do not holler at the ballet, but you may clap with all your heart!” She will add some charming story about the children who will be dancing, and she will invite the audience to adore these dancers who have worked so dutifully to prepare performances for the evening. Even now, returning in my mind to last year’s recital, I can hear the lilt in her voice. It’s preserved in my memory and tucked under my heart.
I first met Clytie Adams decades ago, when my own children enrolled in her renowned School of Ballet in Kaysville, Utah. My contribution to my children’s gene pool includes the cell structure for a human form that could cut big blocks of ice out of the frozen Snake River and lift houses off their foundations to be moved to new locations. We are big folk, we Parrish’s. My husband David’s genetic portion includes all four of his grandparents being under 5 feet tall as fully grown adults. Our kids were not built to be dancers. Nonetheless, we knew the benefits of dance lessons and performances. They learned to own their bodies, to cooperate with others, to follow instruction, and overcome nerves. Dance gave them an appreciation for classical music, for rhythm and motion and grace. We put our kids in all sorts of lessons without any expectation of them becoming professionals in that field. Clytie's school taught them to stand gracefully in the light.
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| Clytie's daughter Jennifer at Nutcracker auditions. |
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| Daughter Sarah onstage with the Little Prince |
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| Daughter Leslie and a young student. |
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| John is tucked in the back with his stage partner, Jennifer Hart. |
Besides what Clan Cytie has done for our kids, I have personally come to cherish every one of Clytie’s shows. Mid-June of every year I stand backstage with the dancers and their teachers, inhaling the magic of anticipation blended with nerves and raw youthful energy. For the last couple decades, I have been honored and entrusted to help write songs and perform them for her little dancers. I weave my way onto the apron of the stage, in front of Mike Montoya’s drum set, Mark Robinette’s keyboard and bass, and the grand piano with Kelly DeHaan at the keys. Various additional musicians of the highest caliber join us on stage. Creating music with them is beyond divine! My guitar and I know that space well. I pace my years by the six-month portions between the week I get to do the Clytie Recital in June and the week of my Christmas Concerts in the chill of winter.
Each year, following both the recital and my concerts, I receive a card in the mail with the graceful flowing handwriting I’ve come to know and love as that of Clytie Adams. She sweetly and graciously thanks me for my music. One year, after one of my Christmas concerts, she wrote:
“Does that beautiful fair-haired beauty with the liquid brown eyes belong to your John?”
She had seen my little granddaughter Sophie twirling between the rows as I sang. That same girl, now a college student, wept when two days ago I told her that Clytie had made her way back up to Heaven. It was Clytie who had brought her to her toes after her young dancer ankles became strong enough. How I loved watching her dance as I sang from the side of the stage. I’ve had a closer-than-front-row seat to watch four of our granddaughters under Clytie’s floodlights.
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| Sophie Connors and her classmates. |
Through Clytie I found the truest friends in her daughter Sarah and her musically gifted husband, Mark Robinette. My life is forever changed for good because of them. We've been through a lot together. Dave has performed marriages for their kids. Mark and Sarah marched beside us in my mothers funeral cortege. I've taught guitar to Sarah and her daughter Maura. Mark can make my songs sound better than they really are. We've crossed oceans together, and performed on worldwide stages together. They are family to us.
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| Mark and his daughter Clytie Sue at her wedding. |
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| Donning the birthday hats at my sister Libby's house. |
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| Walking to the cemetery behind my mother's horse drawn hearse. |
Two months ago, when I was at Mark’s home studio recording this year’s recital songs, I sat beside Clytie who was there visiting. She lifted her sparkling eyes up toward me and smiled, offering kindnesses that were typical of her. We sat side by side until she closed her eyes to rest. You know you have a friend when you can sit comfortably together in silence.
Just a few days ago, after Mark had told me Clytie had taken a turn for the worse, I texted Sarah:
That evening, I slung my guitar over my shoulder and entered the holy place of Clytie's lovely home. Clytie’s girls had placed her bed alongside the beautiful wall of windows in her bedroom. The light of the waning sun sifted over her form. Outside her window the earth was awakening. Newborn leaves uncurled in their innocent chartreus infancy. Flowers down on her back landing were blooming in the colors of early spring. The earth was breaking up, perhaps to welcome her in. Mark sat at her feet, and Sarah walked in behind me after teaching the class my own granddaughter Beth attends. I sat in the comfortable antique chair at the side of her bed, unzipped my guitar case and instinctively began plucking “I often go walking in meadows of clover,” a Mother’s Day tune we sang as kids. “Dear Mother, all flowers remind me of you.”
Eventually Mark found his own guitar and added harmony to songs. Between the songs the silence carried a music of its own. Each of the daughters and her beloved niece sifted in and out until finally I too left, leaving her grieving girls to share that sacred space with their mom.
The next morning Sarah sent word that her mother had joined the angels. I imagine it was a lovely entrance, graceful and joyful, with plenty of impassioned applause from the other side. I imagine her looking back on all of us, blowing us kisses and bending her newfound legs with a deep and graceful curtsy, her head lowered and then rising to her Lord. We all rejoice in the reunions sure to be taking place right now.
From this side of things, Clytie Adams, we promise not to holler, but we are clapping with all our hearts.
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| A young Clytie and students who are likely grandparents now. |
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| 2022 Utah Governors Mansion Artist Award Recipient. |
Clytie Adams was honored with the 2022 Utah Governor's Mansion Artist Award by Governor Spencer Cox. She was recognized for her positive impact on the arts in her community, particularly through her work as the founder of the Clytie Adams School of Ballet. The award was presented at a ceremony held at the Governor's Mansion. You can watch a short PBS documentary on her HERE.
Read her obituary HERE.
