Thank you to whomever posted this very sad news. I was a friend of Sarah's from LAHS. We lived on the same school bus route in Los Altos Hills. She was always carrying her violin. And wow, she got into Yale! So brilliant. I am so glad she had such a loving family and fulfilled life. I wish it could have been a hell of a lot longer.
I learned this morning that Sarah has died. I’m devastated.
Sarah and I met in second grade at Purissima School, and were best friends from third to eighth grades. Our bond was deep and unselfconscious. We play-acted together in a variety of roles in what we called “games.” We invented a disease called Dydidi. “Dydidi victims” became debilitated by too much hard laughter. (Jeepers, in today’s world, I think we could all use an occasional attack of Dydidi.) We took violin lessons from Joe Jackson’s mom, and belonged to the Los Altos “Honor Orchestra,” which may have been initiated in about 1964, and may have run for about 4 years. Purissima grads may remember Sarah’s prowess in the Bent Arm Hang; she always won the blue ribbon at the Junior Olympics. She was also the undisputed queen of hopscotch. I don’t think I ever beat her. Grrr.
Sarah and I drifted apart in high school, but we kept in touch sporadically over the years. I visited her once while she was at Yale. We both lived in San Francisco for a while. She did indeed belong to the Dolphin Club and I went with her once to swim in the Bay. As I recall it, she swam (wearing two swim suits and two swim caps) while I shivered on the shore. I attended her beautiful wedding to Steve on the Mendocino County Coast.
We began to communicate again by email in 2019 and to exchange “end of year” letters. Sarah wrote in a wry, ironic voice that seemed to be coming from a more muscular, roguish person than her petite physique suggested. I always laughed out loud and admired her turns of phrase. But the magical part of being reuinited with a gradeschool soulmate is what is understood between you. Deep within my persona lies, and will always lie, a kernel of Sarah. With her passing, Sarah carried away a kernel of me.
I have been too unsettled and bereft by the news of Sarah's death to write until now. After being out of commnication since high school graduation, I had reached out to her in July to ask if she was coming to the reunion as she was a cherished friend in high school. Her response was so warm and welcoming and I was excited to reconnect. She wasn't coming because of health issues but we agreed to set up a call after the reunion. During the next months I followed her posts on facebook as she started another round of chemo and ended up in the hospital with various complications. I so admired how she posted photos and updates that authentically reflected her challenging health issues and sent comments which I hoped sent some healing energy into her room. I was waiting until she got out of the hospital to try and set up a call because i figured she needed to focus her energy on healing and family. And then, of course, I learned here of her death.
Over the last few days I created a Day of the Dead altar and placed her photograph in the center. I wrote her a long letter. I am sitting with my memories of our friendship and my grief that I will not get to talk with her again. I think we would have become friends again in the decades of our 70s.
Here is the end of the letter I wrote her:
There is one moment that I have always remembered with great clarity. It was one of those moments when time seems to stop and all your senses are fully tuned to the exquisite and almost painful beauty of the world.
You were standing in the main living space of the house, where the windows wrapped around the room and looked out on the expansive sweep of grassland that extended to the cliffs which fell away to the ocean’s edge. The wind was blowing fiercely and it rippled through the grasses which were rising and falling like waves. The sea was grey and white capped. The late afternoon light lay low and melancholy and fell into the room in slanting rays. Within the house, it was still and quiet.
And then you began to play your violin. “Scales. Just scales,” you said later. “I was just practicing scales.” But I felt I had never heard anything so beautiful. Each note silver and liquid, plaintiff and pristine. Each note absolutely exquisite in its simple eloquence. The beauty of the world revealed in the stroke of a bow across violin strings.
I wish I could share this memory with you in person and thank you for it. I wish I could hear more of how your life unfolded and who you became and were becoming.
Beata Panagopoulos
Thank you to whomever posted this very sad news. I was a friend of Sarah's from LAHS. We lived on the same school bus route in Los Altos Hills. She was always carrying her violin. And wow, she got into Yale! So brilliant. I am so glad she had such a loving family and fulfilled life. I wish it could have been a hell of a lot longer.
Alison McKenzie (Mahoney)
I learned this morning that Sarah has died. I’m devastated.
Sarah and I met in second grade at Purissima School, and were best friends from third to eighth grades. Our bond was deep and unselfconscious. We play-acted together in a variety of roles in what we called “games.” We invented a disease called Dydidi. “Dydidi victims” became debilitated by too much hard laughter. (Jeepers, in today’s world, I think we could all use an occasional attack of Dydidi.) We took violin lessons from Joe Jackson’s mom, and belonged to the Los Altos “Honor Orchestra,” which may have been initiated in about 1964, and may have run for about 4 years. Purissima grads may remember Sarah’s prowess in the Bent Arm Hang; she always won the blue ribbon at the Junior Olympics. She was also the undisputed queen of hopscotch. I don’t think I ever beat her. Grrr.
Sarah and I drifted apart in high school, but we kept in touch sporadically over the years. I visited her once while she was at Yale. We both lived in San Francisco for a while. She did indeed belong to the Dolphin Club and I went with her once to swim in the Bay. As I recall it, she swam (wearing two swim suits and two swim caps) while I shivered on the shore. I attended her beautiful wedding to Steve on the Mendocino County Coast.
We began to communicate again by email in 2019 and to exchange “end of year” letters. Sarah wrote in a wry, ironic voice that seemed to be coming from a more muscular, roguish person than her petite physique suggested. I always laughed out loud and admired her turns of phrase. But the magical part of being reuinited with a gradeschool soulmate is what is understood between you. Deep within my persona lies, and will always lie, a kernel of Sarah. With her passing, Sarah carried away a kernel of me.
Bruce McCutcheon
Sarah, sweet and bright, you join many of our new Purrissima pals now. They are blessed to have your presence.
Terri Martin (Martin)
I have been too unsettled and bereft by the news of Sarah's death to write until now. After being out of commnication since high school graduation, I had reached out to her in July to ask if she was coming to the reunion as she was a cherished friend in high school. Her response was so warm and welcoming and I was excited to reconnect. She wasn't coming because of health issues but we agreed to set up a call after the reunion. During the next months I followed her posts on facebook as she started another round of chemo and ended up in the hospital with various complications. I so admired how she posted photos and updates that authentically reflected her challenging health issues and sent comments which I hoped sent some healing energy into her room. I was waiting until she got out of the hospital to try and set up a call because i figured she needed to focus her energy on healing and family. And then, of course, I learned here of her death.
Over the last few days I created a Day of the Dead altar and placed her photograph in the center. I wrote her a long letter. I am sitting with my memories of our friendship and my grief that I will not get to talk with her again. I think we would have become friends again in the decades of our 70s.
Here is the end of the letter I wrote her:
There is one moment that I have always remembered with great clarity. It was one of those moments when time seems to stop and all your senses are fully tuned to the exquisite and almost painful beauty of the world.
You were standing in the main living space of the house, where the windows wrapped around the room and looked out on the expansive sweep of grassland that extended to the cliffs which fell away to the ocean’s edge. The wind was blowing fiercely and it rippled through the grasses which were rising and falling like waves. The sea was grey and white capped. The late afternoon light lay low and melancholy and fell into the room in slanting rays. Within the house, it was still and quiet.
And then you began to play your violin. “Scales. Just scales,” you said later. “I was just practicing scales.” But I felt I had never heard anything so beautiful. Each note silver and liquid, plaintiff and pristine. Each note absolutely exquisite in its simple eloquence. The beauty of the world revealed in the stroke of a bow across violin strings.
I wish I could share this memory with you in person and thank you for it. I wish I could hear more of how your life unfolded and who you became and were becoming.
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