Long story example

My personal writing project in 2020 was to tell the stories of people who have significantly influenced my life.

I met Janet when she was publishing her own newsletter for pig collectors, a piece called Pig Tales & Hogwash. It was printed on pink paper. She hired me as a correspondent.

I should mention I was 11.

She paid me $25 for my first story. I took a picture with the check before going to the bank. Looking back, she acted like paying a fifth-grader she’d never met to write for her newsletter was a perfectly normal thing to do. And as a result, I conducted myself as though it was. I took my work seriously, conducting interviews and writing stories and poems for her publication.

Janet went out of her way to support my interest in writing, publishing everything I sent her, praising my work and showering me with kindness. She connected me with her author friend Judy Baer, encouraging me to attend one of Judy’s writer workshops in my hometown when I was in sixth grade. Judy sent me some of her books — signed, much to my delight — and we wrote letters back and forth several times. Through Janet, I picked up a second writing gig for another pig collector’s newsletter in Iowa. (Who even knew there was one?)

I met Janet in person in 1994. She was working at Concordia College in Moorhead, Minnesota; I was 12, passing through town on a family vacation to Wisconsin. In the pictures taken that day, our smiles are wide.

Janet and I wrote letters like pen pals. She once sent me a big tin ­— with a pig on it —­ filled with carefully wrapped pigs from her collection. When I was in sixth grade, she sent me a T-shirt with a glow-in-the-dark Louie the Lightning Bug on it. I still wear it. Years later, she sent me a copy of the book she wrote about Cormorant Lake.

Janet is part of the reason I was lucky enough to know what I wanted to be when I grew up. I headed to college with a clear focus on the degree and career I wanted to pursue. Not every 18-year-old is so lucky. A friend told me recently she envied my direction at the time.

In my 20s, I enjoyed telling prospective employers that I had begun my professional writing career 10 years prior. Today in my 30s, I still enjoy sharing copies of my published work from all those years ago. I don’t collect pigs anymore, but I still write – for a living and a hobby.

Things happen in life that at the time seem normal, like it’s just the way things are. Especially when you’re a kid. Writing about Janet now makes me realize how special she was. She gave me an opportunity most kids never have. She helped build the first few steps of many that I climbed into high school, college and my professional career — and for that I am grateful.

The letter arrived in September 1994. I was big into pen pals in the early 90s, a time void of the internet, texting and other channels convenient for communicating with people not in the same room as you.

I already had several pen pals but kept collecting more. Who doesn’t love getting mail? I had submitted my name to a Catholic kids’ magazine that published the mailing addresses of kids who wanted other kids to write to them. Back then, nobody was worried about junk mail or child predators.

So I was pleased to see this envelope addressed to me, with a return address I did not recognize in Las Vegas, Nevada, and my name printed on top of a pale pencil-colored rainbow.

Katie found my name in the magazine. She was a Catholic kid looking for a pen pal, too, and at the time, was the oldest of four, home-schooled and into dressing up.

Katie and I wrote to each other a handful of times over the next year and a half, talking about music, school and our families. In April 1996, I received a letter from her with some surprising news: my pen pal was moving from Las Vegas, Nevada, to … Rugby, North Dakota. My hometown.

Sure enough, Katie showed up the fall of our freshman year with her skinny legs, strange jeans with pockets on the front and not the back (??!!), and her big smile.

We’ve experienced a lot of life together: trying out for volleyball, finding prom dates, getting our first cars. Celebrating New Year’s Eve in the Rugby armory and finding out that Y2K was nothing to worry about after all. Meeting each other’s college roommates and wondering if we were going to get arrested for downloading music from Napster. The birth of her first son. Our roots are forever intertwined.

She was in my wedding, across the altar from a man who would eventually become her husband. I was in her wedding, too. Mine didn’t stick, but hers did. She’s since had three more children, all of whom get inexplicably excited to see me and I can’t help but smile and wonder what funny things she tells them about me that generate that kind of reaction.

Her big smile hasn’t changed. Neither has her enthusiasm for learning new things and for the people in her life. With each passing year, our appreciation for each other seems to grow. The times we meet for coffee are never long enough because there’s so much to discuss. Sometimes I bring a list. I can tell her anything – and I do – without feeling an ounce of judgment. She fundamentally gets me and there’s no better feeling.

There are a lot of words that describe Donna. She is observant, confident and articulate. She is positive and welcoming, with a great sense of humor. She’s an excellent listener. Tell her something once and she’ll remember it forever. She hears what you say, but also she reads between the lines and takes note of your body language, drawing more meaning out of your words than you maybe knew existed.

She’s thoughtful, too. She acknowledges my birthday every year with a card, and it always arrives on the actual date, not a day early and never a day late. She is polite and assertive, and is an excellent sounding board in any situation where a person might need guidance. I’ve changed jobs twice since graduating college; my conversations with her about those opportunities were a critical part of my decision-making process. Her ability to quickly wrap her arms around an issue and ask the right questions to help you determine the best course of action is unmatched.

I could use many more words to describe her, but instead I’ll jump to the one at the top of my list: extraordinary.

Her status as an extraordinary teacher was evident on day one. It was clear that everything she did in the classroom was the result of much forethought and preparation. She was — and is — poised and professional, and her demeanor somehow set an expectation, a high standard, for her students. It was almost an instinctive response to want to do my best in her class.

In the classroom and out, she is an extraordinary person.

I met Donna when I was 18, just a few days after I moved out of my parents' house and into Greg Butler Hall at the University of Mary. I was assigned to assist Donna as a work study. Most days, there were sheets of yellow legal paper on her desk for me, filled with messages in her distinct handwriting needing to be typed. 

In her office, I transcribed audio recordings, entered scores in her grade book and handled a number of other tasks. Once in a while, she brought back a cake donut from the teacher’s lounge and cut it in half to share. At the time, I remember wondering if it was because she couldn’t possibly eat the whole thing. I know now it was because she would never eat in front of me without offering to share. There still might be some truth to my first idea, though.

On a difficult day during my somewhat stormy first year of college, Donna introduced me to the idea of compartmentalizing my thoughts. Her summary of my options was compassionate but firm: I could either choose to let these distracting thoughts and feelings take over my day, or I could put them on the back burner, fulfill my responsibilities and deal with the issue later. Her opinion of which option I should choose wasn’t hard to figure out. The practice of moving disruptive thoughts into a sort of waiting room in my mind is something I’ve leaned on a lot over the years. Thinking back to my classes and daily work study interactions with Donna, I can see I learned this skill from a compartmentalization pro. She came to work every day with the same positive, professional attitude, no matter what was going on in her life.

It wasn’t long before I was trusted with a key to her office to ensure I could work even when she wasn’t there. In time, I earned the privilege of correcting papers and even critiquing papers her students had written. I remember my surprise at her invitation to write my comments directly in the margin of those papers, not on a sticky note she could choose to remove. The trust she placed in me helped develop my confidence and sense of responsibility.

My story about Donna isn’t full of grand gestures or serendipitous encounters. Rather, it is filled with many heartfelt moments, kind considerations and all the ways her devotion and extraordinary heart have impacted me. She has been a role model of mine for many years, setting examples of how to serve others by being a good listener and how to get through difficult times with patience and poise. Her influence continues to shape my relationships, my career and even my self-worth.

“OAK-leeeee!”

“Fweet-fweet-fweet!”

I remember hearing Roger whistle for his little dog, Oakley, on the other side of the backyard fence that separated us.

I met Roger in October 2010 when I looked at the house for sale next door to his. Two months later, we were neighbors.

Roger and I often backed out of our driveways at the same time in the morning. We covered the space between our houses with a smile and a wave. It was a treat to see him; that little interaction helped me start my day with a smile.

Roger showed me how to change the headlamp on my car. He loaned me his gardening wagon when my nephews were staying at my house for the weekend and I was trying to keep them occupied.

Once in a while, he came over for a beer on my deck, bringing his own in a little cooler because he was particular about the brand. Oakley came along too, and my cats eyed him through the sliding glass door.

He once helped my house sitter dig in the freezer to find the extra key after she had locked herself out. She told me his fingernails were painted pink; the neighbor girls had hosted him at their driveway salon.

Roger was friends with the entire neighborhood. He was a regular face around the bonfires in the neighbors’ driveways on the weekends. He attended neighbor kids’ first communion celebrations and birthday parties. One spring when the river was predicted to flood, we built a sandbag dike around our houses together and helped the neighbors sandbag theirs.

He had a big grin. A genuine one. He kept his red Chevy pickup spotless and shining. He wore a Green Bay Packers sweatshirt on Saturdays. His yard always looked nicer than mine. He was caring. He went to animated kids’ movies with his teenage daughter. He exuded happiness.

And then one day, the neighbor across the street knocked on my door – and knocked the smile right off my face.

Roger had been driving home from work on Highway 83 that afternoon when someone pulled out in front of him. He was in his van, the one that had his name written in a script font on the driver’s door above the handle, the one I saw him in when he waved at me in the space between the house and the evergreen tree. He died that day, right there on the highway.

I have experienced many losses, attended many funerals. But something about Roger’s death changed me. I think it was what Cindra Kamphoff would call a crucible moment, one that helped shape my life.

I couldn’t let go of the fact I had never told Roger how happy it made me when we backed out of our garages at the same time. I never told him how much I thought of him, how much I respected him, that he was an important person in my life and not just a neighbor.

The regret I felt turned into a lesson I carry with me to this day. I started saying nice things to people instead of just thinking them. I started noticing people around me who needed a boost and encouraging them. I made sure people in my life knew I cared about them, even when it felt uncomfortable.

Six years have passed and it’s still there. I still feel different. I say the nice thing. I go out of my way to do little things. I am compelled to empathize, to praise, to support, to listen. It’s a gift from Roger.