The Chronicle and Jewish Federation staff experienced a loss last week. Marsha Cott passed away.
For those in the Jewish community who knew her, it was likely because she was the first person who greeted you when you walked into the Jewish Federation offices.
Her official job title — “receptionist and engagement administrative associate” — didn’t really matter, because everybody knew that Marsha did a bit of everything, and did it well. Chuck Green, Federation’s community security director, gave her the nickname of “The General,” joking that she was the one who ran things.
Beyond her Federation work, Marsha was also The Chronicle’s unofficial third staff member. She was instrumental in working out the kinks of The Chronicle’s transition from private ownership to Federation in 2020. She would help with countless administrative aspects of The Chronicle; thoroughly proofreading every Chronicle before we sent it to publishing and offering moral support every time I was feeling down, overwhelmed or upset.
But her work, as wonderfully as she did it, is not what she should be remembered for.
I don’t know if I ever told her explicitly, but Marsha was one of my best friends. There were a lot of differences between us — Marsha was a strong, outspoken woman in her 70s from rural Missouri, and I am an anxious guy in my 20s from a suburban Jewish community — but we got along and understood each other. There were days in the office when I found that I’d spent an hour or more standing at the front desk, talking and laughing with her. We talked about almost everything you can imagine — school, work, music, cars, politics, history, religion, fashion, technology, travel and so much more.
I am a strong proponent of the idea that everybody has good stories to tell, even if they don’t think they do. Marsha, however, had better stories than most. For example, I can’t think of another person who, as a petite woman, decided to get a semi-truck driver’s license just to prove that she could. She saw Neil Diamond (her all-time favorite musician) at least a million times, and her automotive history was illustrious, to say the least (her first car was a Pontiac G.T.O., and she would drive a race-prepared C2 Corvette in city parades).
Marsha loved and often reminisced about her late parents and grandmother, and often told stories about her father’s time in the U.S.A.F. flying B-29s and how he built their house in Edgerton, Missouri. She deeply missed her late brother, Eric, and would always brag about how magnificent he was both as an athlete and as an older brother.
Above all, she adored her son, John, and her granddaughters, Natalie and Erica. She even loved her granddog, Lemmy. Near the end of her life, she reconnected with her longtime friend, Mike, and there was always a happy glint in her eye when she mentioned him.
I hope I’ve given you a glimpse into how great and loving Marsha was. We all miss having her as a friend and colleague. May her memory be a blessing, may she rest in peace, and may everyone know that she was one of the best.
