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My friend Jeff died this week. Also this week, my communications business is eight years old.
These things are not unrelated.
When I thought about striking out on my own, I had no idea what I was signing up for, really. I hoped that my writing and storytelling experience, along with my ability to see issues with a journalist’s objective eye, might be useful to … well, I wasn’t really sure who.
But Jeff was. Along with his wife, my friend Cynthia (an idea person if there ever was one) and a few trusted others, he became an unofficial board member of Leanne Kleinmann Communications.
As a former senior leader in both government and nonprofits in Memphis, Jeff helped me brainstorm potential clients, and warned me away from those who wouldn’t ever be able to see the real value in my work. I trusted him implicitly and knew he always had only my best interests in mind.
He was always available for an encouraging phone call, and I never hesitated to ask him anything and to share even the most embarrassing details of my early efforts.
Forgot to include the budget page so a big grant I’d been paid to write wasn’t even considered? Jeff had a story that was even more cringeworthy, and we ended up laughing about it. How much should I charge for a particularly difficult out-of-town project that the client wanted yesterday? Jeff had seen it all, from pro bono work to long-term, high-dollar corporate retainers. He knew firsthand how terrifying it is to be totally in charge of your own livelihood and always encouraged me to value myself and charge accordingly.
We ate lunch together. We shared stories of friends and enemies and journalism; Jeff never tired of talking about my editorial past and favorite subject. We laughed. A lot.
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Eventually, I decided to lease my own tiny office downtown and invited Jeff to join me there.
Two extroverts, we had to make a deal about who talked when, and when we needed to buckle down to work. Truthfully, he wasn’t there nearly as much as I’d hoped. He was winding down his own consulting business and talking about retirement. He and Cynthia had made plans to travel and visit friends and family. My client work was keeping me on the run more and more.
He left his “luxury Ikea desk” (his words for his budget-priced model, pictured above) and crummy borrowed desk chair in my office. I think I always hoped he’d decide to come back to work on one more project.
The pandemic was hard on us extroverts, and on Jeff especially, as his frustration with national politics and increasingly serious health issues made it hard to joke around as we once had. He still always asked about my business, though, and I know he never stopped wanting the best for me.
I hope he knew how grateful I was for his kindness, his wit and wisdom, and his unwavering belief that I could do anything I wanted to.
When I was at my worst, he saw only my best.
Writing Telling My Age has opened a fascinating and exciting new chapter for me, as I learn to think about my own aging differently and find inspiration and guidance from all kinds of people who have gone before me.
But aging also brings loss, terrible loss. Not just of the obvious things — perfect eyesight, naturally red hair, a knee that will allow half marathons — but of the more important things, too.
Like friends like Jeff.
The last time I saw him was just after Thanksgiving. Cynthia had made their house as festive as always and Jeff’s light, while dimmed, was still among us. That ended earlier this week, with his wife and daughters at his side.
I will miss him forever.
So touching, so real, so sad, so beautiful.
I have never seen this picture of Jeff and I absolutely love it. It may be my new favorite.
A beautiful tribute, Leanne. Thank you. I feel so lucky to have known him.