A Personal Note from Tiff:
Every year of my life (except for the years I lived on the equator), September presented the early signs of Fall, my favorite season. That change in the air smells of crispness, leaves beginning to turn, and the lead-up to my birthday.
After September 19, 1978, that all changed. In the wee hours, just past midnight, my mother died, and from that point forward, the month became a dreaded painful reminder for me.
Within a week of my mother's death, I transferred to a school where all the kids had been friends since they were in the womb, and newcomers weren't rapidly embraced, particularly the girls. I was at a disadvantage from the beginning. First, my wardrobe was wrong; having grown up mostly wearing uniforms, I stuck out like a sore thumb amidst khaki skirts, polo shirts, and penny loafers. Then there was the fact that I was painfully quiet due to my overwhelming grief. I was petrified I would burst into tears at any moment, which would be blood in the water for those merciless mean girls.
There were, however, some exceptions. Thankfully, the powers in the school administration, along with my Dad, decided it would be less disruptive if I could be enrolled in the same classes I'd had in my old school before transferring. One of those classes was Drama, and although it was an upper-class course in the new school, an exception was made.
Being in a course with upperclassmen gave me a one-hour reprieve every day, and the teacher of that class, Linda Raya, tucked me under her wing. I found out many years later that the second day I was in her class when she sent me to the office to "grab something" for her, she had a little chat with the students about the fact that I'd just lost my mother, and the responsibilities of being caring and compassionate humans on this planet, and I presented an opportunity for them to practice. She asked them to be gentle with me and to show kindness and grace. One of the people in that class, John Ellisor, became one of my best friends.
I gained another kind-hearted friend from my own grade, believe it or not, out of my homeroom class, Henry Lewis. This friendship was probably born out of one damaged heart recognizing another. Still, it became one of similar perspective, humor, an unquenchable thirst for knowledge, and the love of cats.
John left this earth after a long battle with cancer on September 18, 2017. Henry's memorial service on September 17, 2018, after his sudden death, while on vacation in Jackson Hole, marked the loss of a second dear friend in less than a year. There have been numerous additions to the September angst for me over the years. Still, I'm writing all this today because these two wonderfully funny, highly intelligent, immensely kind humans who have also left their mark on my Septembers need to be honored.
Years ago, when I visited my friend Linda Kay in Sacramento in September, she suggested that I figure out how to turn my attitude toward September around, particularly about the anniversary of my mother's death. I humored her with absolutely zero intention of turning the day into a celebration of her life, as was suggested. However, with the passing of John last year, combined with Henry a few months ago, my attitude has finally begun to change and model Linda's suggestion. Thank you, dear friend, for planting that seed even though it lay dormant for so long.
In November, I went on a walkabout to California to visit with my friend Jennifer and celebrate his life through music. We sat on the beach, watched the sun drip into the ocean, and played Kool and the Gang and other music our dear friend John loved. It was through John and, in particular, a fun little game I used to play on Facebook, Music Monday, that Jennifer and I became friends. As usual, with his big giant kind heart, John played friend matchmaker, and a friendship so deep, fulfilling, and close was born. She is my "Sisterdoodle" because a kind Junior in high school saw me with his heart and flew air cover for me.
When I got the news about Henry, I dropped to my knees and began sobbing. To say his sudden death hit me hard is an understatement. Something that my husband and a few friends probably thought I was taking too hard based on their perspective that I didn't talk about Henry very often. One good friend said, "I've known you for 26 years, and I've never even heard his name." This made me reflect on the vast array of my friendships worldwide and how I hold them as little treasures in my heart and don't really talk about them to others. Make no mistake, though, just because I may not freely converse incessantly about someone does not make them less dear to me.
I often equate the people in my life in terms of items that reside in the rooms of my soul. I remember recently, the longest friendship of my lifetime, Alicia, squealed with delight when I told her she was the Crystal Chandelier in the Living Room of My Soul. I told her she was bright and beautiful, that she lit up my life, and that when my soul went dark, I knew I could reach out to her, and she would switch on to brighten up that darkness.
I've made it through the last three Septembers unscathed, and in fact, this past one there wasn't sorrow infused in the fall breeze at all. All my friends and loved ones are safe and healthy. What a blessing.
