SRQ Daily Columnist Diana Hamilton, after living 35 years in Sarasota, labels herself a pragmatic optimist with radical humorist tendencies and a new found resistance to ice cream

My mom was smart and funny—and the age I am now when she passed in 1993. Her offbeat wit could turn a room of cancer-pulverized strangers—snap—into newfound friends laughing together at a chemo cocktail party. Of all the remembrance cards sent, I saved only one—a small handwritten note from her paperboy, “Sorry about Mizz McCarrell. She was always kind.”

In August, glancing through the Sunday obits, I noticed a tiny photo, a younger smooth-faced version of a woman I knew from the streets—literally.  A Sarasota native and accomplished artist, Kim Yerkes, ate her meals at the Sally, was a regular at the Rez. She sometimes camped on her sailboat, and at other times, too wasted to row, she curled up where she could. A few times I voluntarily funded her 30-day bus pass, but most often she had something for me: a cat food coupon, or 1/2 price off on some amusement advertised in the Boat Trader. Everywhere she went, Kim—always in a dress, her hair in pigtails—pulled a wire handcart stuffed with arts materials on top of which perched a tiny ancient dog. Twice I found her passed out on the street. Kim woke smiling, pleased to see me, always the same bright self her sister described in her obit, “a kind and free spirit who threw caution to the wind to live the life she loved.” 

And then this past Sunday we said goodbye to Tana Sandefur, a woman I had met only once at the party she threw five years ago for her husband John’s memorial. The whole town was there, everyone talking and hugging, telling stories and Tana so gracious, allowing all whatever space they needed to speak of their love and respect and sorrow at her loss. For my small part, I wanted Tana to know my gratitude for what a fine gentleman John Sandefur had been to me no matter our differences over the ever-contentious issue of Sarasota’s future. “Oh,” she said, “We love your letters to the editor. He thought the world of you. Keep writing and if you ever need anything—call me.” 

Tana’s memorial at the Ringling Museum Visitor Center, a building the Sandefur generosity helped to fund, was not dissimilar from Kim’s at the Resurrection House, or my Mom’s in 1993. Friends and family spoke of their love and sorrow. “Amazing Grace” was sung, we prayed and ate together. And these three women shared another most precious commonality. They were always kind—a core trait that neither cancer, nor homelessness, nor the daily ache of a half empty bed could defeat. Is there any excuse for any of us to do, or be less? Well, it’s not too late to learn.

I never called Tana Sandefur, but wish I had, if only to thank her for those five minutes five years ago. So, thank you, Tana. Whenever I start to lose confidence or become confused in my purpose, I remember to do as a great and kind lady once told me: I keep writing.

SRQ Daily Columnist Diana Hamilton, after living 35 years in Sarasota, labels herself a pragmatic optimist with radical humorist tendencies and a new found resistance to ice cream