I thought I’d meet Darrell Sifford in person one day. He’d already become a twice a
week fixture in my life with his columns in the Philadelphia Inquirer. Every Wednesday
and Sunday, were special days to sit with hot coffee and scour the Family section for his
words. It felt like meeting a wise friend every time I read one of his articles. With a
career that spanned from 1976 to 1992, I came to know, not only the people he
interviewed, but Darrell and his family as well.
His wife Marilyn said it best. “Darrell was a master at discovering the stories of people, of
recognizing the extraordinary in the ordinary and at presenting it in ways that provided a
mirror through which a reader could review and reflect on their own experiences. Through his
column, his speaking and his personal contact with people, he made a difference- over and
over- in the lives of those he reached.”
I have several of his best columns ear marked in the book The 100 Best Columns of
Darrell Sifford. I have both volumes and I still treasure and refer to them.
One column that still resonates for me today was “Just: A Loaded Word.”
“I had agreed to speak at a family forum meeting that was being held in an auditorium at
Temple University. And the advance literature had identified me as the editor of my
newspaper’s family department. I arrived for the speech and the first order of business
was to tell the chairperson that, “Hey, I’m not the editor of the department; I m a
columnist in the department.”
The man nodded his understanding, mounted the platform and, in introducing me,
said, “ Mr. Sifford tells met that he is not the editor for the department, but just a
columnist.”
He began his speech that day with, “No, damn it, I’m not just a communist in the
department; I am a columnist in the department.”
How many times had I introduced myself as just a mom , just a writer, or just a
business owner? No more self-deprecation after reading that article! As Darrell said,
“Have you ever heard anyone say, “Oh I’m just an astronaut?” Of course not! I
eliminated the word just from my vocabulary.
One of my very favorite columns was Kindergarten For Grownups. Darrell had
received a call from Betsi Smith, who taught kindergarten in the Abington Friends Lower
School in Jenkintown, PA. She invited him to her first Kindergarten for Grown ups class.
“She enrolled ten in different fields of education. to come to play, share and generally
nurture the 5-year-old who lives, though often hides, in all of us.” He invited his friend,
and cardiologist, Bob Katz, join the group.
The instructions stated: Wear comfortable clothing and bring along your favorite
mug for hot cocoa, a show and tell item or a story you cherish, your blankie and a pillow,
and your willing child spirit.
The day included, painting with bright colors. Darrell made a picture book with
mommy, daddy, a car, truck a cat and a dog. Applause filled the room! His friend, Bobby
created an abstract drawing on the chalkboard of a piano keyboard. Big (adult) Bobby
takes jazz piano lessons. Notes were floating up and out of the drawing. He got lots of
applause for his project. ‘For a few hours, life was glorious, like it used to be-
uncomplicated, cheerful and fun.’
After reading that story, I was ready to go find my lunchbox and sign up for the next
class. Where had I stuffed my five-year-old? She could use a day, or even a week, of
kindergarten. I began to take note of simple pleasures like watching mini-marshmallows
floating in my hot cocoa…in my favorite mug, of course.
In Confronting Mid-life Darrell interviewed rabbi, Harold Kushner, of Temple Israel near
Boston. He is the author of When All You’ve Ever Wanted Isn’t Enough. They discussed
finding lasting contentment in life. “In the long run, what matters most is that we left a
thumbprint on the world through somebody we touched, not as a chief executive officer
but as another human being.”
After reading that story, I made a conscious effort to do random acts of kindness daily.
I brewed a second cup of coffee to ponder my thumbprint.
It’s impossible to list all of the thumbprints he left on my life. I know March 6, 1992 was
a very sad day for many people when Darrell drowned scuba diving in Ambergris Cay off
the coast of Belize. I grieved like I’d lost a friend, whom I’d never met.
On Feb 16th, 1992, he’d written Anticipating a Fantasy, about taking a long
vacation. “I’ve had a fantasy of living on an island, remote, out of the mainstream of
tourism; a place where I could live the way island people live, eat their food, drink their
rum and stomp my feet to their music, sail their boats.”
The last line read, “I’d send you a postcard, but I’m not sure there’s any place to mail it.”
There are so many columns that I tucked away in my brain. I think of Darrell often and
his sons, Jay and Grant, and his wife Marilyn.
Darrell touched my life from afar. Through the pages of the Philadelphia Inquirer, I felt
his thumbprint. He made me laugh, cry, fume and ponder. Well done, Darrell. Well done,
my friend.
I’d send you a personal letter, but I don’t know if there’s a mailbox in Heaven.
Your friend,
Anne Bardsley
I thought I’d meet Darrell Sifford in person one day. He’d already become a twice a
week fixture in my life with his columns in the Philadelphia Inquirer. Every Wednesday
and Sunday, were special days to sit with hot coffee and scour the Family section for his
words. It felt like meeting a wise friend every time I read one of his articles. With a
career that spanned from 1976 to 1992, I came to know, not only the people he
interviewed, but Darrell and his family as well.
“Darrell was a master at discovering the stories of people, of recognizing the
extraordinary in the ordinary and at presenting it in ways that provided a mirror through
which a readerr could review and reflect on their own experiences. Through his column,
his speaking and his personal contact with people, he made a difference- over and over-
in the lives of those he reached.” His wife, Marilyn, said it best.
I have several of his best columns ear marked in the book The 100 Best Columns of
Darrell Sifford. I have both volumes and I still treasure and refer to them.
One column that still resonates for me today was “Just: A Loaded Word.”
“I had agreed to speak at a family forum meeting that was being held in an auditorium at
Temple University. And the advance literature had identified me as the editor of my
newspaper’s family department. I arrived for the speech and the first order of business
was to tell the chairperson that, “Hey, I’m not the editor of the department; I m a
columnist in the department.”
The man nodded his understanding, mounted the platform and, in introducing me,
said, “ Mr. Sifford tells met that he is not the editor for the department, but just a
columnist.”
He began his speech that day with, “No, damn it, I’m not just a communist in the
department; I am a columnist in the department.”
How maany times had I introduced myself as just a mom , just a writer, or just a
business owner? No more self-deprecation after reading that article! As Darrell said,
“Have you ever heard anyone say, “Oh I’m just an astronaut?” Of course not! I
eliminated the word just from my vocabulary.
One of my very favorite columns was Kindergarten For Grownups. Darrell had
received a call from Betsi Smith, who taught kindergarten in the AbingtonFriendsLower
School in Jenkintown. She invited him to her first Kindergarten for Grown ups class.
“She enrolled ten in different fields of education. to come to play, share and generally
nurture the 5-year-old who lives, though often hides, in all of us.” He invited his friend,
and cardiologist, Bob Katz, join the group.
The instructions stated: Wear comfortable clothing and bring along your favorite
mug for hot cocoa, a show and tell item or a story you cherish, your blankie and a pillow,
and your willing child spirit.
The day included, painting with bright colors. Darrell made a picture book with
mommy, daddy, a car, truck a cat and a dog. Applause filled the room! His friend, Bobby
created an abstract drawing on the chalkboard of a piano keyboard. Big (adult) Bobby
takes jazz piano lessons. Notes were floating up and out of the drawing. He got lots of
applause for his project. ‘For a few hours, life was glorious, like it used to be-
uncomplicated, cheerful and fun.’
After reading that story, I was ready to go find my lunchbox and sign up for the next
class. Where had I stuffed my five-year-old? She could use a day, or even a week, of
kindergarten. I began to take note of simple pleasures like watching mini-marshmallows
floating in my hot cocoa…in my favorite mug, of course.
In Confronting Mid-life Darrell interviewed rabbi, Harold Kushner, of Temple Israel near
Boston. He is the author of When All You’ve Ever Wanted Isn’t Enough. They discussed
finding lasting contentment in life. “In the long run, what matters most is that we left a
thumbprint on the world through somebody we touched, not as a chief executive officer
but as another human being.”
After reading that story, I made a conscious effort to do random acts of kindness daily.
I brewed a second cup of coffee to ponder my thumbprint.
It’s impossible to list all of the thumbprints he left on my life. I know March 6, 1992 was
a very sad day for many people when Darrell drowned scuba diving in Ambergris Cay off
the coast of Belize. I grieved like I’d lost a friend, whom I’d never met.
On Feb 16th, 1992, he’d written Anticipating a Fantasy, about taking a long
vacation. “I’ve had a fantasy of living on an island, remote, out of the mainstream of
tourism; a place where I could live the way island people live, eat their food, drink their
rum and stomp my feet to their music, sail their boats.”
The last line read, “I’d send you a postcard, but I’m not sure there’s any place to mail it.”
There are so many columns that I tucked away in my brain. I think of Darrell often and
his sons, Jay and Grant, and his wife Marilyn.
Darrell touched my life from afar. Through the pages of the Philadelphia Inquirer, I felt
his thumbprint. He made me laugh, cry, fume and ponder. Well done, Darrell. Well done,
my friend. I’d send you a personal letter, but I don’t know if there’s a mailbox in Heaven.
Your friend,
Anne Bardsley
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