by Hoda Kotb
On June 1, 2012, at fifty-two years old, Diane completed the Mountains-to-Sea Trail expedition in twenty-two days, five hours, and three minutes, breaking the old record of twenty-four days, three hours, and fifty minutes set in 2011 by North Carolinian Matt Kirk, twenty-two years younger than Diane. Following a May 10 start from Clingman’s Dome in the Appalachians, Diane trekked nearly one thousand miles across North Carolina, reaching the Atlantic Ocean and Jockey’s Ridge State Park on June 1 at 9:29 A.M. EDT. She calls it the hardest expedition she’s ever completed.
“The pain was excruciating,” Diane says. “I’m really good at focusing on the task and not being distracted, but I’ve never had to dig so deep and deal with so many emotions and try to stay levelheaded for so long.”
For Diane, the golden moment came not at the finish, but two miles out. She gathered the eight people—all volunteers—who’d been with her the entire journey, who’d made her victory possible. She asked them to form a circle.
“I just wanted to gather everybody and hold hands, and I just went into prayer to thank God for the journey, and the gifts, and the gift of life, the beauty he had shown through every person who was with me,” she recalls. “We were all together and holding hands and crying; you could just hear tears hitting the concrete. There was this photographer who had been following me all the way—in-my-face kind of stuff—and I thought, You know what? If we’re gonna give him a shot, let’s give him this. That circle of love, that circle of life, that circle of overcoming everything we came through, was right there. That was really powerful. That one picture, that one shot of us all holding hands, is probably the best memory I’ll have.”
Scott flew to Raleigh to meet Diane a few hours after she finished.
“When he took me to the hotel room, it just felt so good to put my arms around him, to be in bed and feel his body next to mine. My legs were just hurting so bad, and he rubbed my legs all night. He knew what to do. That was just so comforting to me. To be in bed with my husband. That was the moment when I was like, Wow, I’m done.”
Diane describes the thousand-miler as being her one last Big Daddy accomplishment. But don’t look for a rocking chair on her front porch just yet.
“I don’t think so.” She adds jokingly, “If I’m in one it’s because I’m on medication.”
For now, as always, she’s focused on whatever is around the next rugged bend.
“I’m so much an in-the-moment person. I can think forward a day or two, maybe a week, but if you get so set on your goals, you miss the other opportunities,” she says. “And that’s what I’ve always told the kids: ‘You can have your goals but don’t miss the right turn, left turn, right turn,’ because that’s where our character and confidence and self-esteem come from.”
If you ask Diane what else she hopes her kids have learned from her and what she’d like her legacy to be, her answer is straightforward.
“Live your dream. Believe in yourself. You can do it. You just gotta try. Embrace life.”
The words line up like even steps along a mountain trail. They are positive and powerful, just like Diane.
RON CLIFFORD
In September 2001, I was assigned a Dateline NBC story for a network special highlighting the horrific aftermath of 9/11. My job was to interview Ron Clifford, just a few days after he suffered tremendous loss in the wake of the terrorist attacks. When he walked into the small room we had set up as a studio, we exchanged hellos and Ron asked me about the origin of my name. My heart dropped, knowing his had just been broken by people from the Middle East. When I replied, “Egypt,” Ron told me to stand up. I slowly stood, wondering if, in his searing pain, he was about to lash out at me. Instead, Ron threw his arms around me. He hugged me close and told me that he loved Anwar Sadat and the Egyptian culture. That was just the start of my immense respect and love for Ron Clifford. It grows each time I sit down to talk with him.
Ron Clifford grew up in southeastern Ireland in the lush city of Cork. The centuries-old Irish seaport is blessed with rivers, bays, and one of the world’s largest natural harbors. With easy access to both fresh and salt water, the Clifford family always owned speedboats and cabin cruisers. One of five children, Ron was raised with his older brother, John, his younger sister, Ruth, and two younger brothers, Gordon and Mark. Their home was constantly bustling with neighborhood friends of all ages. Mr. Clifford, a paper merchant, often took his kids camping, waterskiing, and fishing. He taught them all to crew and sail on neighbors’ sailboats. Ron clearly loved his brothers, but just a year apart in age from Ruth, he developed a particularly close relationship with his sister. They shared mutual friends and enjoyed spending time together.
“She wasn’t allowed out of the house at night without me,” Ron says. “We were both fun seekers.”
During their early teens, Ruth and Ron loved to sneak out for a joyride in their dad’s car. They’d cruise the back roads of Cork at night.
“And then at two or three o’clock in the morning, we’d push it back in the driveway. We were in it together, and we would sometimes pick up friends and take off somewhere in the car.”
Ron and Ruth had an easy relationship. They loved to laugh and talk, and she was known in the neighborhood as a compassionate girl, the one who would drop off food to a family when someone was sick.
“I was always just proud that I had a sister like her,” Ron says. “It was always fun to be with her.”
When the kids were teens and preteens, their parents separated and, after several years, divorced. Dad stayed with the children; Mom moved to Dublin to take care of her ailing mother. For a year, the sole female influence in the family was Ruth. She often mothered her brothers, and they listened.
“It wasn’t us arriving on our motorcycles to a dance.” Ron shakes his pointer finger as if it’s his sister’s. “Ruth made sure we wore ties and behaved ourselves.” He smiles. “We were kind of crude with our jokes, but you’d never do that in front of Ruth.”
In the family kitchen, Ruth was an accomplished and creative cook.
“She could take one peek in the fridge and figure out how to make a gourmet meal.”
During high school, the brothers were willing guinea pigs for Ruth’s culinary pursuits. Ron remembers his sister perfecting a dish she entered in a competition (which she won) hosted by Ireland’s fisheries board.
“Haddock à la cràme. It was spectacular!” he recalls. “We would beg her to experiment with us. She displayed it on silver platters with mandarin oranges. It was a judge’s delight.”
In 1973, in order to be with her new husband, Ron’s mom moved to the United States, taking seventeen-year-old Ruth with her. Just a year later, the already fractured family would experience acute misery. The second-youngest brother, Gordon, was killed on his way home from secondary school in Ireland.
“Gordon was sixteen and had just bought a new motorbike after working all summer,” Ron explains. “He ended up being pushed off the road by an elderly driver.” The impact was lethal. “He hit his head severely and ultimately died.”
Just twenty, Ron did his best to support his father through the anguishing decision to terminate life support for Gordon. They chose to donate his organs, a decision, they later learned, that saved two people’s lives.
For five years, Ruth and her mother lived in the U.S. and Ron and his brothers remained in Cork. But growing political unrest and the declining Irish economy forced Ron to also consider a move to the States. He decided to visit Ruth in Rochester, New York, where she lived along with their mom. After the two-month visit and with encouragement from Ruth, Ron decided to make a life in America. In 1978, at twenty-four, Ron returned to the U.S. on a visa and worked on a farm west of Rochester managing cattle and restoring barns. Nine months later, he returned to Ireland to get his relocation papers in order. In May 1980, Ron immigrated to America, returning to the farm to work and live in a home the landowner offered him. Three years later, Ron’s passion for structural design led h
im to enroll in college at the Boston Architectural Center. Before graduating, he took a job heading up the computer-aided design group for the New York City Housing Authority.
Ruth spent those same years attending college in Rochester, followed by a position with a modeling school opening new branches around the country. She then moved overseas to London to apprentice with a renowned skin care specialist, learning the art of postoperative cosmetics. By 1986, Ruth had returned to the States and, in a suburb of Boston, opened a day spa. She would eventually launch her own line of skin care products. Several years into her spa and salon business, Ruth struck up a friendship with a client named Paige Hackel. The two immediately became best friends, sharing a love for gardening, entertaining, and worldwide travel.
In 1988, Ron married his wife, Brigid, whom he’d dated for two years. They first met when Brigid picked up the phone at a Boston apartment where a party was under way, hosted by mutual friends.
“I called for directions and she answered the phone,” he says with a laugh, “and we’ve been on speaking terms ever since.”
Two years into their marriage, in 1990, Ron and Brigid started a family in New Jersey. Brigid gave birth to a daughter, Monica. Within the first hours of her life, Monica was battling for it. She’d been born with throat complications that required immediate surgery and recovery in the neonatal unit.
“I was just praying that my child wasn’t one of the children that was going to die that night,” says Ron.
The newborn spent three months in intensive care. When Monica finally came home, Brigid began the arduous process of teaching her baby how to eat and swallow. Feedings could take two hours. For years, the risk of her aspirating food and liquids was high.
“The care Brigid gave Monica was unbelievable,” Ron says, marveling. “We were always back and forth to the hospital, and we slept on her bedroom floor with her for two or three years.”
Ron says both sides of the family were remarkable in their support. Ruth frequently flew in from Boston to help and sent countless care packages for Monica as she grew up and grew stronger. After several years, Monica’s health improved and she no longer was in danger.
In September of 1994, it was Ruth’s turn to marry. She wed David McCourt, who was introduced to her by mutual friends. She sold her business and moved to New London, Connecticut, David’s hometown. Three years later, Ruth gave birth to a daughter, Juliana. Ruth selected her best friend, Paige, as Juliana’s godmother. For Juliana, she chose the middle name “Valentine,” the first name of Ron and Ruth’s father, who died suddenly several days before Ruth’s wedding. The two had shared a special bond.
“Dad called Ruth his Strawberry Blonde.” Ron chuckles. “My brothers told me in the weeks before Ruth would go back to Ireland for vacation, Dad would put this Grecian Formula in his hair”—Ron pretends to use a comb—“to look good for Ruth!”
Ruth, Ron, and the two other brothers spent their busy adult lives growing businesses and raising children. With both their father and brother deceased, everyone did their best to stay connected and to gather for vacations and holidays. Ron describes Ruth as “the glue”; she sent plane tickets to family when needed and remembered every birthday. Each autumn, Ruth would send a packet of fall leaves to John, Ron, and Mark, with a note saying it was time to reflect on their lives.
“There’s an old Irish adage that says, ‘The Irish guy nearly told his wife he loved her.’ ” Ron laughs and repeats it with a “neeeearly.” “Ruth showed us what love was and how to express love. We talked about love and the poetry of life. She had a very deep sense of love and caring.”
In the fall of 2001, Ron heard from Ruth that she’d planned yet another fun getaway with Paige and his now four-year-old niece. Their plan was to fly to California to see friends and to surprise Juliana with a visit to Disneyland.
Juliana and Ruth. August 2001. (Courtesy of Ron Clifford)
Days earlier, Ron had spoken with Ruth by phone about an important work meeting he had scheduled in New York City for Tuesday, September 11. He was at home in New Jersey; she was at home in Connecticut, getting ready for her mini vacation on the West Coast. Always the loving cheerleader, Ruth advised Ron to dress for success.
“Ruth told me to wear a bright tie. She told me to wear a bright yellow tie to this meeting,” Ron recalls.
As always, Ron heeded his sister’s advice. He bought a yellow tie and a new suit. A software executive, Ron’s goal for the breakfast meeting was to bring together two rival companies.
“I got a call around six o’clock in the morning,” Ron says, “saying the meeting was moved from the midtown Marriott to the Marriott World Trade Center. That excited me because it gave me a chance to take the ferry over from home, take a deep breath, and enjoy the lovely morning.”
It was an important day both professionally and personally. Ron wanted the meeting to go well, and quickly, so he could get back home to celebrate his daughter’s “golden birthday.” Monica was turning eleven on the eleventh of September.
At eight thirty A.M., Ron arrived at the Marriott hotel, nestled between the Twin Towers. With half an hour to spare, he walked from the hotel into the lobby of the World Trade Center. Having studied architecture in college and worked for the housing authority, Ron was always interested in absorbing the dramatic details of a structure.
“I was just walking around the lobby,” says Ron. “I was always amazed by how high the arches were and the spans these windows had gained with such a high building.”
Fifteen minutes later, as Ron casually walked back into the hotel lobby, his world was literally rocked.
“There was a boom. And I could smell what I thought was paraffin, kerosene,” Ron describes, both palms waving toward his nose. “I didn’t put it together that it was aviation fuel. I just thought it must have been a ruptured pipe in the basement or something. The building shook, and there was a haze, and people were running. There was chaos.”
Ron says no one could gauge what had happened. The lobby was thick with smoke, ash, and confusion.
“All of the sudden, out of the haze, I saw this woman who was extremely badly burned”—Ron squints—“but I couldn’t figure out why she was burned or how she was burned. She couldn’t see, and I just said, ‘C’mon, let me help you.’ ”
The injured woman was thirty-eight-year-old Jennieann Maffeo, a computer analyst with Paine Webber. She’d stumbled in from the street through the revolving doors of the hotel after being showered with burning aviation fuel as she waited for a bus.
“I remember she had a barrette in her hair and it was melted in,” Ron says, touching the top of his head, “and she had a zipper on her sweater and it was melted, too. And the tops of her shoes were burned off.”
Ron grabbed a trash can with a fresh plastic liner and filled it with water in a nearby restroom. He gently doused Jennieann’s burns. Ron’s calls for help were drowned out by the initial wave of tumult. After several minutes, a woman in a red blazer approached them (Ron would learn later she was a nurse from the Marriott), offering gauze pads and oxygen. In the frenzy of people running by, Ron managed to stop a man with a coat, asking him to please hold it in front of the severely burned and naked woman whose clothes had been burned off.
Ron tried to pass time until further help arrived. He asked Jennieann her name and her boss’s name. He wrote down the information and also her medical allergies on a notepad he had in a pocket.
“She said to me, ‘Please don’t tell my parents, they’re elderly,’ ” Ron recalls. “ ‘Please, Sacred Heart of Jesus, please don’t let me die.’ ”
Ron asked Jennieann if she was Catholic, and when she nodded, he suggested they pray together. He told her he thought she was going to be okay.
“So, we were saying the Lord’s Prayer and—I’ll remember this until the day I die—there was another explosion. And the floor jumped up and the building just shook incredibly. It was as if someone just grabbed you and shook you,” Ron says, bot
h fists clenched, shaking the air.
Ron quickly helped Jennieann to her feet and told her they had to get out of the building.
“I remember the panic in me then, thinking, This is not right.” He did not like what he was seeing or hearing from the stressed building. “Pieces of ceiling were falling down, pieces of glass; there seemed to be a wind blowing through the building.”
Another man offered to help Ron, and together, with Jennieann’s hands covered in gauze and oxygen flowing, they began walking through the lobby toward the street.
“We got up to the center of the lobby, and there was a big burly waiter, and I said to him, ‘Can you give me a big, big tablecloth?’ So he threw me a large, white tablecloth and I wrapped it around her.”
Ron and several helpers had managed to get Jennieann, burned over 90 percent of her body, out onto the street. The view from outside of the building took Ron’s breath away.
“It was gray. There was a big UPS or FedEx truck that had been incinerated, and I looked up,” Ron continues quietly, “and the building was just dripping. Pieces of iron were falling down and there were ashes everywhere.” He takes a deep breath, almost smelling the day again.
Someone alerted the small group assisting Jennieann to an ambulance across the West Side Highway. They began to move forward, despite the sensory assault of deafening noise and terrible smells.
“This fireman was coming toward us,” says Ron. “He had on a white hat, a big guy. And he said, ‘For Jesus Christ’s sake, run! Fucking run!’ ”
They moved as quickly as possible. During the frantic quest toward help, Ron repeatedly heard a sound he couldn’t place.
“Every so often you’d hear,” Ron says with both hands elevated, “sheeee-woosh.” His hands drop down in unison. He adds softly, “I had no idea what it was. All I wanted to do was to get this woman to an ambulance.”