Of Love and Friendship

Tom Clift on bass. Photo courtesy of Steven Young Photography

This is a cautionary tale.

It is a story of love, and trust, and friendship, and sad lessons. And time. Because we always think there will be enough time….

Sometime in the late 90’s, I stumbled upon a chat room for depressed people. Don’t remember how and doesn’t matter. My first reaction upon finding it was laughter.

Seriously? Y’all sit at your computers and talk to each other about how sad you are?

My second thought was: Boy howdy, this is my tribe.

So I joined. Nearly every night for months, I would log on and chat away with perfectly imperfect strangers who turned out to be some of the funniest, most intelligent people I have ever encountered. And yes, most of them were or had been clinically depressed. At that time, my life… my soul… was fairly balanced. But while I had learned strategies to keep the darkness away, I had not yet followed my journey into therapy, so I never knew when suddenly I might be spiraling down, trying to hang onto hope. These people, with their love and compassion and kindness, lifted me. Nightly.

One of the individuals who was frequently in the chat room used the handle botTom. (My handle was Savannah, the suicidal sister in Pat Conroy’s The Prince of Tides.) Among those chatting, botTom stood out for three reasons: He was kind. He was funny (in a gentle, clever way). He was articulate. (God, I love a man who can spell and punctuate correctly.) And he was incredibly smart.

It happened one evening that folks in the room were discussing the winter weather, and I mentioned that I was blessed to be enjoying the sun in Southern California. BotTom sent me a private message: “You’re not in Georgia? Are you visiting? Or…?” It took me a sec. Then I realized….

“No,” I told him. “Born and raised in and can’t escape CA.”

Turns out the same was true for him. We decided to meet for lunch and get to know one another. He had described himself perfectly, so when I saw him outside the restaurant, I felt immediately at ease.

“Tom?” I said.

He held the door open for me as he said, “Is your first name Savannah, then?”

I am still tempted to tell people that’s what the “S” stands for….

We talked for two hours—about how we both grew up in Orange County, about how we came upon our blessed tribe of fellow depressives, about love found and love lost, and about cats—specifically, the two Siamese cat children that remained after Tom’s girlfriend moved out.

Somewhere toward the end of that two hours, we established that Tom was a musician. I absolutely love that he was so low key about this. It would be another year or so before he happened to mention that he had toured with The New Christy Minstrels and had played with this or that well-known person or band in the L.A./Orange County areas of SoCal.

Tom’s music, my writing, were almost never a focus of our conversations. We met up or called infrequently to check in on each other, and our exchanged “How are you doing?” was intentional and meaningful. He knew I was living with adult children and grandchildren and working fulltime and trying to write my second book. I knew that he was grabbing gigs wherever he could get them while working a low-paying day job and struggling to afford rent in Orange County.

Life is hard, and depression is a sly companion, slipping in while you’re busy keeping your eyes on all the chainsaws you’re juggling. We kept tabs on each other’s mental health, and after we became Facebook friends, if he saw something there or on my blog that indicated I was struggling, he would message or call. Those two Siamese cats—his sweetest and truest companions—lived to the age of 20. When each one passed, I checked in often, as Tom was so heartbroken in losing them, I thought we might lose him.

Over the years, I saw Tom perform a couple of times, once on a magical night at the L.A. County Fair. He was doing the gig solo, just Tom and his guitar. I’d forgotten to bring a jacket, so by the time I’d finished my Australian potato and a margarita, I was shivering and my fingernails were blue. (This detail having been recorded in a personal journal.) But I loved hearing him sing. He sat with me on his breaks, and we laughed together about “fair people.” I confessed that I was absolutely one of them.

In 2017, Tom’s sister Jill, his last remaining sibling, passed away. As will happen, her passing put my friend in mind of his own mortality. At his request, we met at a restaurant with two of his friends to discuss his last wishes. At that meeting, Tom asked me to be the executor of his will. Of course I agreed immediately, feeling honored that he trusted me in such a capacity. I urged him to have a proper will drawn up, naming me as such. We went on to discuss such things as the disposition of his remains and who would get his guitars. “If I still have any by then,” he said. And we laughed.

Because of course he was expecting to live a long time.

Fast forward to 2025. In January, Tom and I exchanged exasperated messages via Facebook. After the pandemic lockdown, we had taken to meeting up for cultural experiences, touring the Mission Inn in Riverside, visiting the art museum, and indulging in other pleasant outings. But when my old dog was dying in 2024, I had to curtail those meetups for a while. Then Tom’s phone became unreliable, and he was not receiving my messages. Somehow, finally, his phone was sorted, and I was free, and we started trying to make a plan to see each other.

“Trying” being the operative word in that previous sentence.

On March 29, Tom tried to call me while I was driving up to the mountains and had no cell reception. When I arrived at my destination, I received the following text message from him:

          My gabby thing is dying and so

          am I wo n

          the be long

"My gabby thing." His phone? Was he joking? Or unable to bring to mind the word "phone"? Was he trying to tell me he was dying? I didn't want to believe it was true.

I tried calling him, but he didn’t pick up. When I began my drive home, I tried calling again. No answer. I tried several more times that evening. No response. I know now that he had been hospitalized that day. That he had been suffering from advanced gall bladder cancer for months. That he had been sent home that same night and placed on hospice care. But I didn’t know it then.

My phone rang the next morning at 5:30a.m. while I was walking the dogs. It was Tom, so I immediately picked up. “I can’t reach my water,” he said, his words slurring. “Can you come?”

Every once in a great while in our lives—maybe only once or twice—we are called upon to do big things, tasks that require special sacrifice or uncharacteristic spontaneity. This was one of those times for me. I wish with all my heart I could write that I took the dogs home, got dressed, and drove the hour to Tom’s apartment—a place I had never been before—and given him his water. Instead, my very rational brain took over and began a series of questions. To my “Are you sick?” he responded “A little bit.” He wouldn’t tell me how, and finally told me a nurse would be coming any time, and he didn’t want to talk anymore. I made him promise that he would have the nurse call me as soon as she arrived so I could determine what was going on and whether I needed to cancel plans and go to him.

No one ever called. Tom died a few hours later. This, I learned from a post on his Facebook page.

The days and weeks following his death have been complicated and sad and frustrating as hell.

He never made a will, as far as we can tell. At least, one has not been found. One of his nieces, because she is next-of-kin, has been tasked with taking care of everything—his apartment, his belongings, his finances… his guitars—all while she is grieving his loss.

As we all are, all of those who knew him and loved him. I am meeting his friends and bandmates for the very first time, and they are amazing and wonderful people… and Tom told no one, until the very last hours of his life, that he was dying.

So grief is mixed with guilt, and I push back against it, because guilt, other than making us ‘do better next time’ or apologize when we need to, is a worthless emotion. I will struggle, though, until I see Tom on the other side, with this:

You had one job, Murphy. The dying man just needed you to drop what you were doing and come to him, something he had never asked or expected of you before, and you failed him.

It's fine. Of course it’s fine. He has crossed over, and he no longer feels any pain and he is joyfully singing with his friends who went before.

But….

My friend, we always believe that there will be enough time. None of us, however—no matter who we are—have a guarantee that there will be.

 

Friendship Circle

 

My new desk buddy

I started to say that it all began with Friendship Circle, but it didn’t. Not quite. Well, sort of.

It began when I moved to my current residence in a senior community. Ella, my neighbor, was quick to introduce herself. Having served on the city council and in various volunteer positions in her community, she was cordial and welcoming and diplomatic. Ella invited me to join her for a luncheon hosted by the Friendship Circle group here in the park. I realized too late that this was a potluck, but Ella assured me that as her guest, I wasn’t required to bring anything—actually, no one is required—and that I could consider doing so if I chose to attend again in the future, which I did.

Two of the first people I met that day were Ursula and Bob Thomas. I don’t believe I’ve ever met two kinder people in my life. Maybe. But…. Bob and Ursula are extraordinary people, warm, kind, intelligent, empathetic—and each one has a great sense of humor. While I did not continue being involved with Friendship Circle after the first few months, I have continued my friendship with the Thomases.

Bob and Ursula like to walk early in the morning, as I do, so there are times when we will see each other at 5:30a.m. (yes, it’s still dark), and we’ll stand in the road and have a chat for ten minutes or so. It was during one of these morning chats that they mentioned their daughter, Shanon, had written a picture book for children. The book, complete with cover design and illustrations, was ready for publication, but Shanon wasn’t sure which route in publishing she wanted to pursue. I offered to help her decide, and I encouraged her parents to give her my number.

When Shanon called, I knew right away we were kindred spirits. Like her parents, she is warm and kind and empathetic. She is also very generous; her sole purpose in making her book available to the public is to encourage young readers to be kind, to look for opportunities to show empathy. The book, Clara’s Scarf, is lovely and sweet (and is available on Amazon).

Fast forward several months, and there I am, looking for an illustrator for my Dragon Singer Series. The search was not going well (that may be a profound understatement), and it occurred to me to talk to Shanon about the illustrator she used for Clara’s Scarf.

And that’s how I met (via email) Allie Myers. I know I keep saying this, but it’s like Allie is reading my mind. When I explain roughly what I want on a cover, she asks, “But what are the kids’ personalities like?” And bingo—she produces a sketch that somehow depicts everything I was feeling when I wrote the scene.

I have been grateful for Allie’s amazing artistry, and for my connection to Shanon, and my continuing friendship with Ursula and Bob. (What amazing parents they must have been to produce such a talented and wonderful kid!!) Then last week Shanon happened to be in town, and Ursula called to see if the two of them could stop by. When they did, Shanon gifted me with the sweet little white dragon pictured at the top of this post. He’s my new desk companion. Friendship! What an inspiration!

May the circle be unbroken, and may it continue to expand as those within it reach out a hand to others.

In memoriam: Dennis Shore

Back in the mid-1970’s when I was still a child…. Okay, when I was still child-like—I sang in church a lot. So much so, in fact, that, in order to increase the repertoire of songs in my song list, I needed to find someone who could play guitar for me. You may already know that I play… a little. But as I have always said, my instrument is my voice. I know enough chords to get me through quite a few tunes, but there were songs I just didn’t have the expertise to play. Which is how I ended up with Rick Linstrom playing lead and Dennis Shore playing bass for me. Or “Mr. Dennis,” I should say.

Rick was a dear friend from my high school days. We had Biology together in summer school, and the guy made me laugh every. single. day. (Not an easy thing for anyone to do in my days of serious depression.) Eventually we both attended Calvary Chapel of Riverside—oops, I mean, Harvest Christian Fellowship (before it was the mega church it is today), which is where I did most of my singing (in addition to weddings, funerals, and the occasional potluck or baby shower). Rick is a seriously good axeman, and he brought along Dennis, whom I had known of in high school but didn’t know well.

We decided immediately that Dennis would need some augmentation to his name, since my husband’s name was Dennis, and things would just get too confusing. So I added the “Mr.” Seemed humorous at the time, but as I got to know him over the months that followed, the name fit him perfectly. He was a big man who deserved—but never demanded or even expected—big respect.

He was a gentleman all the time. The kind that opens doors for others, says please and thank you, rinses his own dishes when he’s finished eating, even if he’s hanging out at a friend’s house. Without saying a word, he would always carry my guitar along with his. Always. He read the paper, knew what was happening in the world and could talk about it. And he loved pizza. He showed up to practice one afternoon carrying a pizza. If you’re envisioning a big man with a baby face and apple cheeks carrying a pizza box, you’ve got everything right except the object in his hand. He was carrying a round pizza pan—because he’d made the pizza at home, just needed to throw it in my oven for a while to cook it. Seriously. Dennis Shore was a Renaissance Man before anyone knew it was cool to be such a person.

He was jovial and sweet and caring. Rick was all those things, too, and both guys brought a certain light into my life that was warm and luminescent and healing.

My husband hated that I sang with them. I don’t think the guys ever knew, but my old man disapproved of our time together practicing, of the songs we rehearsed (and sometimes performed, when we could get a gig)—hell, he disapproved of my use of the term “gig” to describe being scheduled to “share music” at church. It added to the tension in our already tension-filled marriage, and eventually the band broke up.

After that my husband and I moved away, and after that, we broke up, too. Rick and his wife also divorced, so life took all of us in separate directions. For decades.

At some point, I found Rick again, and was happy to know he’d gotten remarried and was still playing music. But I didn’t reconnect with Mr. Dennis until a year ago. I saw a comment he made on Rick’s Facebook page, and I couldn’t believe it was him, after all those years. I messaged him. He messaged back. Some weeks later, we met for lunch. My oh my, what a reunion!

I would’ve recognized the big man anywhere—still with the baby face and the apple cheeks. Still with the smile while holding the door for others as he came into the restaurant. I was thrilled to hear he’d met someone and married. He spent most of lunch talking about how much he loved his wife and how blessed he felt to have her in his life. His path up until recent years had been difficult and treacherous at times. ‘But now I’m settled,’ he told me. ‘My focus is on my family.’ His dad had multiple health issues at the time, and Dennis was making regular trips out of state to care for him. He continued doing so until his father passed away.

Not long after his father passed, Dennis did as well. To say I was shocked is an understatement. He’d told me about some health issues his wife had been having, and he asked me to keep her in my prayers. He never said a thing about himself. He died suddenly several weeks ago. That lunch—the first time I’d seen him in nearly 40 years—was the last time I ever saw him. We’d talked about meeting again, but we never made it happen.

Life holds no guarantees, my friends. Dennis was a year younger than me. He seemed fine when I saw him. I am grateful—oh, so very grateful—for that gift that was given me—the chance to tell him how much his friendship back in those difficult days meant to me. I had never properly thanked him for showing up, making me laugh, bringing pizza, picking up after himself, and being a beacon of light in my storm-tossed sea. That day at lunch I got to say all of those things. We hugged good-bye, and the last thing he said to me was “Let’s do this again soon.” I wish we had.

L to R, Rick, me, and Mr. Dennis Shore