Morristown crowd gathers in memory of homeless icon…whose reported death may be greatly exaggerated

Where’s Marianne?

For months, that’s been a burning question on the streets of Morristown, where Marianne Boulard — known by many as The Mud Lady — has lived since about 1989.

On Thursday night, her spirit was outside town hall.  Clergy addressed a clutch of people holding candles, at what had been intended as a memorial vigil.

Rumors of Marianne’s demise have burned up the internet lately. Social media fanned the flames, bots churned out bogus obits (one even got her gender wrong), and last week a popular radio station proclaimed the chatter as gospel truth. Only to change its tune hours later:

We have removed an article discussing the life of a Morristown woman because the detail about her death had not been confirmed by either official or family sources, as is our policy before announcing a death.

Oops.

Without a death certificate, there remains a possibility that reports of Marianne’s death, like those of Mark Twain before her, are greatly exaggerated.

Maybe, just maybe, this 69-year-old homeless woman finally is getting help somewhere. Help for the mental illness that transformed a stunning beauty with a husband and two sons into a roaming shadow, caked with makeup like dark chocolate frosting, sleeping under Victorian porches, and bumming food wherever she could find a café that would let her in.

And so, the organizer of Thursday’s gathering, Kristi Dimogerodakis of Verilli’s Bakery (where Marianne was a frequent flyer), had to pivot.

The memorial became a celebration. And a public service announcement.

“Let’s just remember that there are countless Mariannes. Every day there is a new Marianne. It takes nothing to smile, to be kind, to offer a meal, to treat them like they are human beings,” said Dimogerodakis.

Her Facebook posting citing three unnamed people helped drive the Marianne-is-Dead frenzy.

The Rev. Glenn King of Bethel A.M.E. Church said he hastily–and gladly– revamped his prayer for the event.

“I actually feel good about it, because I think we should celebrate people while they’re living,” King said. “Sometimes we wait, and we have regrets that we didn’t say something or do something, and the person’s laying in the coffin, and it’s too late.”

All sorts of Marianne factoids have been passing themselves off as fact. Claims that she was a Morristown High grad, for instance. And that she was once a fashion model.

Neither of those nuggets is true, according to extensive reporting by the Daily Record in the 1990s.

Marianne’s sister, whose identity was withheld, told the newspaper that Marianne grew up comfortably in Newark’s Vailsburg section, graduated in 1972 from Archbishop Walsh High School in Irvington, and eloped a year later in Maryland with a construction worker.

They had met at a West Orange bank where Marianne briefly worked as a secretary, her only job, according to the paper. The couple had two sons and rented a Verona apartment before buying a West Orange home.

It all fell apart when Marianne started hearing voices. She was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia, and did a couple of stints at Greystone Park State Psychiatric Hospital, the sister told the paper.

The marriage disintegrated. For a few years Marianne lived with family members in East Hanover. But her erratic behavior eventually became too much for them to handle. The sister said she met with Marianne from time to time, and gave her money.

Marianne’s elegant bearing attracted attention around Morristown. The first time Susan Bosworth saw her step off a train, “I thought she was the most glamorous model I had seen ever,” Bosworth recounted on Thursday.

But mental illness and the elements took their toll.

“She frightened me,” said Abby Justus, whose struggles later as a suddenly-single mom reminded her how anybody “can be a finger away from being homeless.”

Everyone in Morristown, it seemed, had a bizarre encounter or story involving Marianne. Marianne asleep in the bushes. Defecating in public. Cutting up clothing in stores. The makeup got thicker and thicker; Marianne had been a tanning freak in her youth, her sister told the Daily Record.

Churches, police and social workers tried, over and over, to help. They offered housing, clothing and services. Marianne refused most offers, sparking intense debate about personal rights and government responsibility. Under state law, individuals could be committed for treatment only if two psychiatrists deemed them a danger to themselves or others.

‘MARIANNE IS OUR FAMILY’

On Thursday night, many participants brought gift cards for Wayside Well, a Chatham program for the homeless, and warm memories of Marianne.

“I believe God sent Marianne to Morristown to be the conscience of our town. Not just a reflection of who she was, but who we are, as well,” said A.J. Oliver, a Parsippany minister and Morristown Rotarian.

“When I see Marianne, all I see is beauty,” said Javon Scott, who works at the Morristown Car Wash. “And I have the utmost respect for her…even though she’s not here with us, I’m just happy she’s alive. She definitely was a pillar of this community.”

Greg Washington of the Market Street Mission said it’s now his mission to find and visit Marianne. “She’s a blessing,” he said.

They shared something in common.

“I use to walk around like Marianne, and people used to walk by me like I was invisible. I love Marianne. People don’t understand what people go through, and they judge. But they say those who judge don’t matter, and those who matter don’t judge.”

Morristown artist Ron Ritzie called Marianne “an angel in disguise.”

Justus, who worked in a Union County rehab center for awhile, said Marianne helped teach her about compassion. “There’s a story behind every face,” she said.

“She’s part of our family. Marianne’s our family,” added Bosworth, who was inspired by Marianne to work at the Market Street Mission. ” I’m very proud of Morristown.”

Dimogerodakis said Marianne was soft-spoken, kind, and melted when she saw children at Verilli’s.

Marianne also could be wickedly funny, according to social worker Suzanne Herrmann.

She used to be a director for the Red Cross. Some nights, Marianne slept in a van there. One Friday afternoon, Herrmann returned from the ladies room to find Marianne in her office, relaxing in her chair, feet propped on her desk.

“Marianne, what are you doing?” Herrmann asked.

“I want to know what it’s like to be a pompous ass,” Marianne replied.