Now, then.

(BTW, did you know that’s the name of a real town near my parents’ house? Nowthen, Minnesota. You just can’t make this stuff up.)

The other thing I’ve been up to for the past several months is playing a detective on the internet. Since I started this blog, I’ve had three people contact me and ask me to help them find their biological birth mothers. Isn’t that the coolest thing ever? I just love-Love-LOVE doing this, and although I have yet to crack my first case, I’ve gotten close enough to know I can do it. And I absolutely can’t wait until I can actually call one of these people and let them know I found their mom. Talk about rewarding work!

So, what qualifies me to do this, you ask? Absolutely nothing. Except… over the years, I’ve become pretty dang good at “people finding.” It started when I was working on my own family tree. From there, I used my detective skills to track down over 600 classmates for my 20 year high school reunion. And while other people (sane people) would consider this a daunting and tedious task, I admit I kind of enjoyed it.

Here’s why. The truth is, deep down, I’ve always wanted to be an Angel. (And really, come on, tell me one little girl who grew up in the 70s who didn’t.)

Here’ a little snippet from a blog post I wrote in 2009, just after Farrah Fawcett died:

I remember watching the pilot episode of Charlie’s Angels with my mom in 1976. I was only 9 years old (and up way past my bed time), but from the moment I saw that show, I was completely hooked. Maybe it’s because I had already been playing detective with my cousin Kristine for about a year or so and was ripe for a new TV role model. You see, Kristine was older and cooler than me, so she always got to be “Pepper” from Police Woman. I had to be “Christie Love.” I had no idea who that was, but Kristine told me she was the only other female detective on TV at the time. So, that’s who I got to be… Christie Love. Nice name for a hooker maybe, but not a serious detective like myself.

So, onto the scene burst these three beautiful TV police detectives who were smart, sporty, and independent. They worked for themselves, had a fancy office, fancy cars, and fancy clothes. My new life plan was set. I wanted to be a detective.

Of course, by fifth grade, reality set in when my Farrah Fawcett haircut went horribly wrong. But I never really outgrew the dream of being an Angel.

During my sabbatical last year, when I was deep in the dreaming stage of my mid-life crisis, I wondered what it would take to actually get licensed as a private investigator. I mean really, how hard could it be? (I know… I’ve inherited this faulty gene from my mother.)

So, I checked into it. First, you have to be free of felony convictions.

Check.

Second, you have to be of good character, honesty, and integrity.

Check, check, check (back me up here, people).

Third, “the applicant must supply a $10,000 Surety Bond at the time of application.”

And there you go… the deal breaker. I’m not even sure what a Surety Bond is, but I’m damn sure I don’t have an extra $10,000 to go buy one.

So, for now, I’ll just keep playing a detective on the internet. And if you have any unsolved mysteries to throw my way, by all means, send them!

The very cool thing I share with country singer/songwriter/superstar Taylor Swift is… drum roll… we both grew up on a Christmas tree farm.

Taylor Swift was raised on an 11-acre Christmas tree farm in Wyomissing, Pennsylvania (near Reading). In 2008, Taylor (then age 18) appeared on the The Tonight Show with Jay Leno and shared this story about her experience:

“Yes! I did [grow up on a Christmas Tree farm], so this is a good season for me. I was too young to help with the hauling of the trees up the hills and putting them onto cars. So, it was my job to pull off the preying mantis pods off of the Christmas trees. The problem with that is if you leave them on there, people bring them into their house. I forgot to check one time and they hatched all over these people’s house. And there were hundreds of thousands of them. And they had little kids, and they couldn’t kill all of them because that’d be a bad Christmas.”

Here’s a photo of Taylor Swift’s family. God bless ‘em, they do look like tree farmers, don’t they?

Younger brother Austin, father Scott, mother Andrea, and Taylor Swift

Here’s a photo of my family. This was taken at Farm Fest last summer when my parents won “Farm Family of the Year” for Anoka County:

Anoka Farm Family of theYear, 2011

My parents, Kathy and Will Almendinger

My twin brother, Dan Almendinger, and me

As I type this, I’m lying in bed staring out the window at a beautiful, peaceful scene… acres and acres of Christmas trees, lining the banks of the Rum River. Here are some photos I took last year, after the big Thanksgiving snowfall:

Isn’t it beautiful? The thing is though, I have a short window of opportunity to enjoy the scenery before throngs of people armed with orange hand saws and shoestring relatives descend on the farm in search of the perfect Christmas tree to adorn their rumpus rooms.

Oh, how I love it.

Er, at least most of it.

The thing is… Christmas tree growers have exactly three weekends per year to earn a living. The season starts on Black Friday and ends (for the most part) the week before Christmas Eve. As you might imagine, it’s very stressful. Last year, when the metro area was hit by two big snowstorms that took place on the first two weekends, it was tough… and not just for my family, but all Minnesota tree farmers.

And, really, snow isn’t even the worst thing to hit a tree farmer. Consider the time a few years ago when a careless smoker tossed his cigarette out the window and started a fire that burned down forty acres of beautiful 6′-8′ Fraser Fir (that had taken ten years to grow, feed, and shape). Or the time two Mother’s Days ago when a late frost killed all the new growth on the trees, setting back their cutting dates by a full year. Or the back-to-back droughts of the mid-2000s that killed nearly every single seedling my family planted for two or three years in a row. Rough.

With all the stress though, I still love it. I’ve never known anything different, so I guess I wouldn’t know what a normal Christmas is for most families. For me, Christmas means a brief and shining respite with family on Thanksgiving Day before all hell breaks loose the next day. It means getting up before the sunrise, pulling on Carharts, Sorrels, and a pair of leather choppers, and arriving at the little red pay shed early enough to start the propane heater (that my uncle Chuck welded together) before the first customer arrives. It means learning how to work a hand saw better than most men, and learning how to calculate sales tax by age eleven. It means snow down your neck, pine needles in your underwear, and my mom’s homemade soup on the stove when we finally arrive home.

Well, looks like the first customers are about to arrive. I’d better get going. Taylor Swift and I have a busy schedule today.

Merry Christmas!

For now though, my NBT (next big thing) is a screenplay I’ve been working on for the past four weeks. Back in October, I signed up for an online screenwriting class at Screenwriters Online. What I didn’t realize at the time is that this class would move at such breakneck speed. What was once a tiny seed of an idea four weeks ago, is now a complete synopsis and an entire first act.

There are over 20 people in the class, which includes screenwriters from all over the U.S. There’s even one person from Hong Kong. The class is taught via text chat, so I’ve never actually seen the instructor or any of the other students. I simply pour myself a glass of wine at the appointed time, login, and “watch the credits roll,” so to speak.

The instructor who teaches this particular class is named Sangram Pradhan. The man is a movie genius. He can back up his lectures with on-the-spot examples from any movie, any time, any place. According to his bio, he is a former Executive with The Film Department and Sony Pictures. He was also a Development Executive on these films:

LAW ABIDING CITIZEN, starring Gerard Butler, Jaime Foxx
SUPERBAD, starring Michael Cera, Jonah Hill
STEP BROTHERS, starring Will Ferrell, John C. Reilly
WALK HARD, starring John C. Reilly
21 JUMP STREET-now shooting with Channing Tatum and Jonah Hill
BAD TEACHER- starring Cameron Diaz, Jason Segel

So, like me, you’re probably asking yourself, what in God’s name is she doing in this class? I have to admit, I felt like a kindergartner among grad students for the first two classes. However, by day three, I had caught my groove, and now I really love it. Unfortunately the class ends on Thursday.

So, by Thursday, I’ll probably be on to the next NBT. But for now… this week… I’m calling myself a screenwriter.

FADE TO BLACK.

Phew. There. I’ve said it.

This has been a painstaking and agonizing decision for me, on so many levels. First, Betsy and I have been friends for over 25 years. We were roommates in college, maids-of-honor in each other’s wedding, and for the past 17 years, have been like second moms for each other’s children. This will never change.

The thing is though, I’ve been going through a “growth phase” for quite a while now. Several years ago, I bought a print by Brian Andreas called Angels of Mercy. Every day, I sit in my office and stare at this little drawing and I wonder, “What if…?”

"Angels of Mercy, by Brian Andreas"

Around the same time I bought that print, I read a book by Po Bronson called What Should I Do With My Life? It talked about people who had good, stable, well-paying careers who threw caution to the wind, quit their jobs, and bravely charted new paths, this time doing something they loved.

I admired those people so much for their honesty and their bravery, but for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out how I could possibly quit my career and start over. For one thing, I was already doing what I loved. I owned my own ad agency. When I was a senior in high school, I gave a speech at my graduation commencement. The principal introduced me by saying, “Joy plans to go the University of Minnesota next spring and pursue a degree in journalism. One day, she hopes to own her own advertising agency.”

And by God, that’s exactly what I did (though it didn’t happen exactly the way I intended). After college, I wanted to be an advertising copywriter with a Minneapolis ad agency. I wanted it more than anything, and I worked relentlessly lining up informational interviews with busy, unpleasant creative directors. Unfortunately, there were no jobs to be found. In the spring of 1991, when things were looking pretty bleak, my friend Betsy called and invited me to Spicer for the summer. She enticed me with some freelance copywriting gigs, and the opportunity to spend my lunch breaks waterskiing on Green Lake. Enough said… I was in.

Betsy and Joy, Green Lake, 1991

By June, Betsy and I realized we were a great creative team. She offered me an opportunity to buy into the company as a full partner, and I took it. For the next 20 years, we would run our business together, squeezing in marriages, babies, and “Life 101″ classes along the way.

At some point though, I realized I wanted more. I wanted to be able to use my gifts of reading and writing to somehow make a difference. But for me, the thought of quitting my job was preposterous and self-indulgent. Who was I to want more when I already had so much?

I made myself miserable trying to figure out how to move on to “the next big thing” while still clinging to my “one sure thing.” When Betsy and I decided to take a creative sabbatical earlier this year, I started dabbling with the idea of doing something different. I had always wondered what it would feel like to wake up each morning and be a WRITER… a real one, who wrote for a living.

It felt good. I wrote and I read; I blogged and I journaled. However, as I wrote, it became more and more apparent to me that this is what I was meant to do. At the same time, that realization was both sad and frightening. After all, everyone knows that writers are poor, sullen, and depressed. Quitting my job and becoming a writer didn’t seem like an upwardly-mobile move for me, or my family.

I was really struggling, trying to cling to my safety net, but knowing I had to make a leap of faith. Then, I remembered something my friend Jane had told me a year earlier. She said, “Leap, and the net will appear.”

Leap, and the net will appear.

So, that’s what I’ve decided to do. I’m leaping into the great unknown… a scary, exhilarating place that offers no promises or guarantees. I have no Plan B at this time, but will leap with faith and courage, and hope that the net appears.

A few months ago, I wrote this song at a time I was really struggling for answers. I dedicate it to all the other women out there who are facing this same battle.

Leap!
By Joy Baker

She sat there
Waiting, wondering
Feeling scared
And all alone.
She was begging for some answers
To this life she’d now outgrown
Is it over? Am I finished?
Is this how the plan will end?
Can you hear me?
Are you listening?
Don’t you know how hard it’s been?

But I AM here, came the answer.
In the wind. And in the trees.
In the smiling laughing, crying
In the falling of the leaves.
In the then, and in the now.
The beginning and the end.
I am here. Always here.
And I’ve just one word to send.

CHORUS
You must leap (leap!)
Leap for all you’ve ever been
You are strongest
After weakness
You are ready to begin.
So just leap (leap!)
I’ll be with you
Always near.
Trust me, know me
Travel with me
Take the leap (leap!)
And the net will appear.

Every new beginning
Is the end of something done.
When you think you’ve lost it all
There’s still a battle to be won
So come with me
Live in peace
Hold my hand
And then we’ll soar
Higher up, to see new places
Where you haven’t gone before.

CHORUS
You must leap (leap!)
Leap for all you’ve ever been
You are strongest
After weakness
You are ready to begin.
So just leap (leap!)
I’ll be with you
Always near.
Trust me, know me
Travel with me
Take the leap (leap!)
And the net will appear.

She stood slowly. Can I do it?
I don’t know. I’m happy here..
Am I really? Is it worth it?
Living every day in fear?
I’ve come through it
Bruised and broken.
I’ve been down
And almost out.
But I’m back
And I can make it.
Take my hand!
He heard her shout.

CHORUS
Let’s go leap (leap!)
Leap for all you’ve ever been
You are strongest
After weakness
You are ready to begin.
So just leap (leap!)
I’ll be with you
Always near.
Trust me, know me
Travel with me
Take the leap (leap!)
And the net will appear.

"She knew the answers would come with time and love."

Jordan, 16 months; Riley 10 weeks

Jordan and Riley went through potty training at the same time, and all I can really remember from this time of my life is a never ending barrage of urine and feces. (Honestly, what were we thinking?) I’m surprised I managed to fall into bed each night with the child in his crib and the puppy in his kennel, and not vice versa. Thank you, God, for that.

Oh… and one other thing… I was also pregnant with son #2 at the time.

Halloween 1996 - Joy, Jordan, Riley, and Cole (in utero)

Cole was born in November, 22 months after Jordan, and took an immediate liking to the big orange fuzzy thing we called Riley. On any given evening, we’d find him snuggled up next to the dog, blanket in one hand and a fistful of fur in the other. Riley, bless his heart, just took it all in stride.

Nap time for Cole and Riley

Two weeks ago today, Jordan (now 16) said to me, “Mom! Have you seen Riley’s foot?” He had a nasty looking bump between two toes that he kept licking and chewing. It didn’t look good. I brought Riley to the vet, and he confirmed what I suspected. A tumor. The doctor didn’t know if it was benign or malignant, but stated that the only way to remove it and make sure they got all of it would be to remove the entire toe. And at Riley’s age, the anesthesia is always a concern. Dr. Dan was very kind; he knew what I was thinking, and he knew where the conversation was heading. He handed me a box of kleenex when my eyes started to well-up. Somehow, I asked the hard questions – how much longer, and what’s the process? He talked me through it, explained what would happen when Riley was put to sleep, and handed me more kleenex.

I left the vet’s office a complete wreck. Of course, I knew this day was coming. Riley’s hips have been bad for a long time. We need to lift him in and out of the car now days, and when things are really bad, he even falls down the stairs. His hearing and eyesight are failing, and his faculties certainly aren’t all there. But, he’s family… and I love him.

After the appointment, I took him to the public access on Green Lake and let him fetch the stick a few times while I tried to collect myself. He’s not much of a swimmer for a Golden Retriever. He loves the water, but something never quite clicked when he was younger. Instead of paddling when the water starts to get over his head, he just stands on his hind legs and walks. Then, when the water gets over his head again, well, he sinks. Of course, he can swim just fine if he has a stick or a duck in his mouth, but without it, he’s sunk. Literally.

Riley and Joy at Green Lake

Suffice it to say, last week was not a good week. I was really down, feeling bad for Riley. Then, last Thursday the boys asked if they could borrow the car and go to the varsity volleyball game in Albany. I said sure.

They came home with a puppy.

And I wanted to kill them.

For about thirty seconds.

Since then, this little black lab puppy they named Zoe has wormed her way into my heart. Once again, it’s a constant barrage of urine and feces, but I’d forgotten how much joy a new little life can bring into a household. She’s bouncy and curious, and sweet as can be. She’s a snuggler and curls right into my lap every chance she can get. She’s also a chow hound and eats everything in sight, including Riley’s food, the cat’s food, my laptop cord, and the living room rug.

Damn, but I love her.

Zoe, the new addition

As for Riley? Not so much. But, in his good old boy way, he tolerates her. And when he has enough energy, he even pounces a bit and tosses her around with his nose. But, I know what he’s really feeling, and that makes me sad. He’s being replaced, by a younger, cuter model, and life will soon go on without him.

Don’t be sad, Riley. No one could ever replace you. And when it’s your time, we’ll be there for you. Just let us know when you get too tired, old buddy. We love you, and we’ll be there.

Jordan, Cole, Riley, and Zoe

So, it’s odd I was having this discussion about synchronicity with this particular friend at that particular time. Here’s why.

Last week, I received a package in the mail from one of my favorite aunts. Inside was a little book called Angel Unaware, written by Dale Evans (yes, THAT Dale Evans, of Roy Rogers fame). There was also a note from my Aunt Carol (a fellow book lover) that said, “I’ve hauled this little book around with me since 1956. I’ve read it and reread it and cried every time. It’s time to pass it on and I know you will enjoy it.”

I opened the book, and on the front cover was an inscription that said “Passed on to Joy Baker with love 9/15/11.”

Angel Unaware, by Dale Evans Rogers

I smiled and leafed through to the Foreword.

This is the story of what a baby girl named Robin Elizabeth accomplished in transforming the lives of the Roy Rogers family. Our baby came into the world with an appalling handicap, as you will discover when you read her story. I believe with all my heart that God sent her on a two-year mission to our household, to strengthen us spiritually and to draw us closer together in the knowledge and love and fellowship of God. It has been said that tragedy and sorrow never leave us where they find us. In this instance, both Roy and I are grateful to God for the privilege of learning some great lessons of truth through His tiny messenger, Robin Elizabeth Rogers.

I recalled that I’d heard of this book before, but didn’t remember reading it. I continued on to the first page.

Oh, Father, it’s good to be home again. I thought sometimes that You had forgotten me, Down There. Two years Up Here doesn’t seem like much, but on earth it can be a long, long time—and it was long, and often hard, for all of us.

Wait a minute… whaaa?

When You lifed me up from the earth, just a few minutes ago, it was Sunday, and my Mommy and Daddy were crying, and everything seemed so dark and sad and confused. And all of a sudden it was bright and clear and happy, and I was in Your arms.

Wait one cotton pickin’ minute… whaaa???

Here’s the thing. In 1999, my good friend LeeAnn (the same one I was having coffee with on Friday) also lost a two year old child. Her name was Emma, and she died from brain cancer. Even more ironic, LeeAnn and Dale Evans were almost exactly the same age at the time their daughters were born.

But still, that’s not the crazy part.

After Emma died, I was really lost… and pretty mad. For the first time in my life, something that I had REALLY REALLY prayed for didn’t work out. Emma died, despite my prayers, despite all our efforts and pleas. She was only two, and her death tore me apart.

I tried to think of something I could do to take some of LeeAnn’s pain away. My friend Betsy suggested I write a book about Emma. So I did… and here’s where things get really… well… SYNCHRONOUS.

I called the book Emma’s Gift and here’s the Foreword:

This book was written in loving memory of Emma Clayton Butcher, a beautiful baby girl who was diagnosed with a highly malignant brain tumor when she was just a year old. Her brave fight lasted only a year, but among her Circle of Friends, Emma left a special gift. A renewed faith in God, in heaven, and the precious gift of friendship.

Here’s the opening paragraph:

There was a bright light. It was a beautiful light… warm and glorious. It filled the room and lifted her up, up, up. There were beautiful voices. Singing. Praising. Comforting. This place was filled with love! And finally, there was peace.

“Father!” the little angel called. “I’m home!”

**Godbumps**

This little book that my aunt had carried around with her since 1956 was almost a direct parallel to the story I wrote to honor Emma over forty years later. We even wrote from the same voice… using first person to describe events from the two year old child’s perspective. (And here, I thought I’d been so clever.)

Inscription

More Godbumps. Emma died on September 10.

Not sure what all this synchronicity is about, but you can bet I’m paying attention. You see, Emma’s Gift was the first book I ever wrote. I sent it off to a Minneapolis publisher and was close to having it published. The whole process made me think, well heck, this writing business is easy.

It turns out, the writing business is not easy. In fact, it has kicked me in the ass for the past decade. But, I’ve learned a lot… about the industry and myself. I’m not sure I’ll ever have the good fortune of having a book published, but I do know this. Writing is who I am… it’s what I love… and I have Emma to thank for getting me started.

So, Emma… if you’re listening, thanks for the gift… again. I think I’ll pop in on your mom again this week. I have a good book I think she’ll enjoy.

Emma’s Gift

This book was written in loving memory of Emma Clayton Butcher, a beautiful baby girl who was diagnosed with a highly malignant brain tumor when she was just a year old. Her brave fight lasted only a year, but among her Circle of Friends, Emma left a special gift. A renewed faith in God, in heaven, and the precious gift of friendship.

There was a bright light. It was a beautiful light… warm and glorious. It filled the room and lifted her up, up, up. There were beautiful voices. Singing. Praising. Comforting. This place was filled with love! And finally, there was peace.

“Father!” the little angel called. “I’m home!”

“Well hello my beautiful child! Come give me a big hug, I’ve missed you!”

The little angel ran to Him and was swept up in His strong and loving arms. “I’ve missed you too, Father!”

“Come sit with me now, tell me of your adventure,” He said.

The little angel sat on his lap, not sure where to begin. “Just start at the beginning,” He said gently, “And don’t leave out a thing.”

“Well,” said the little angel, “my adventure started when I was born. My
mommy named me Emma.”

“Emma…” said her Father. “That’s a beautiful name. Graceful, yet strong. Just like you, little one. Go on.”

The little angel told of being a baby. She tried to explain the feelings of love, and trust, and warmth whenever Emma’s mommy held her in her arms. She described her mommy’s smell, and her voice. She described the special love she felt whenever her mommy would sing songs to her, or rub her tiny back.

Then she described her daddy. Strong and comforting. He made her smile, and she made him laugh. He was a fun daddy, and she loved him very much.

And there were other special people. Her mommy’s friends, who also held her, talked to her, and made her feel loved. There was laughter then, and so, so, so much love.

“But then I got sick,” the little angel said. “My mommy and daddy looked sad and worried. They held me and rocked me, and they loved me like always, but now they cried instead of laughed.”

“How did that make you feel, little one?”

“It made me sad to see them so sad. But they loved me more than ever. Everyone loved me… my mommy, my daddy, and all my special friends.”

The little angel told of her adventures in the hospital. The scary doctors with their needles and tubes. They said nice things, and they smiled at her nicely, but then they would give her owies, and it made her very, very angry. But her mommy would hold her again, sing to her, and rub her back, just like she always did. It would make her stop crying, and it would remind her how lucky she was to have such a wonderful mommy.

But the owies kept coming, and now, when she looked into her mommy’s eyes, she could see such deep sadness. Sometimes it was hard to stay awake, and sometimes she just felt like going home. “Remember when you called for me Father?” asked the little angel. “You told me to come home, but I didn’t want to leave my wonderful mommy. That’s when you told me about the gift.”

Her Father nodded, and said, “Yes of course, go on. Tell me about your gift.”

“You told me to leave a gift for my mommy. Something wonderful, so that she, my daddy, and her friends could look to it and always remember me. But I was so little, and so weak. I didn’t know how to make a gift. I couldn’t cut or paste, or glue or tape. I couldn’t sing, or dance, or write. But then I remembered the greatest gift of all… your love, Father.”

The little angel stopped, and tears came to her eyes. “It’s OK little one, tell me how you gave them your gift.”

“I quit fighting you, Father. It made me sicker, but it brought them all closer to you.”

The angel cried and cried. She told Him how she missed her mommy, and her daddy, and her friends. And oh! How she loved Him! But it didn’t make her miss them any less.

“There, there little one. Don’t be sad, for you have done God’s work, and you have done a wonderful, beautiful job.”

He brought her to the edge of the clouds, and said, “Look there. See? They’re OK. Because they know someday they’ll be here with you. And listen, I can hear them praying! Like they’ve never prayed before. They know me again, and for that, I have you to thank.”

“What are they saying?” asked the little angel. “Do they miss me?”

“Of course they miss you, my dear! They pray and ask me over and over, ‘Why God? Why did you take her after such a short time?”

At this, the little angel laughed. She laughed, and laughed, and laughed. “Poor mommy and daddy,” she said. “What they should be asking is, “Why God? Why have you LEFT us here for such a LONG time?”

He laughed and swung her up in His strong and loving arms. “Now you understand little one! And someday, so will they.”

The little angel hugged her Father, and together, they entered the gates of Heaven.

Copyright 2000 Joy Baker

Ah yes… all good material for sure. However, there’s something important looming. Something heavy.

We dread it; we revere it; we hate to re-live it… but we must.

In three days, it will be the tenth anniversary of September 11th.

Everyone is being asked to remember where they were on that day. Of course, we all know where we were. I was a young mother and had just waved goodbye to my first grader as he boarded the school bus at the end of our driveway. I glanced at the time in the corner of the TV screen and hurried to get my four year old ready for daycare so I wouldn’t be late for my 9am meeting.

The first plane struck as I was trying to find some earrings to match my outfit. Such a bummer. What a tragedy. Those poor people. Now then… silver hoops or beady dangles?

I was making my bed and preparing to leave when the second plane struck. I sank onto the bed, my eyes glued to the Today Show. “Clearly, this is some kind of attack,” Matt Lauer and Katie Couric were saying. I couldn’t process it… couldn’t really understand the implications… all I knew was that this day would go down in history. I watched in horror for a good several minutes before I finally went and scooped up my four year old and hugged him tight. “Look Cole,” I said. “Look at the TV. You’ll remember this day forever.”

About ten minutes later, I dropped Cole off at daycare and somehow managed to show up on time for my 9am meeting. I stumbled through it, then left around noon, finally realizing that no one else would be coming into the office that day.

I don’t remember much else from that long Tuesday, but I do remember this. While I was tucking my little boys into bed that night, I remember being thankful that they were so blissfully ignorant to the devastating events of the day. But then, as we were finishing our night time prayers, Cole said something I’ll never forget. Very quietly, he added, “And God bless the people in the crashing towers.”

God. bless. the. people. in. the. crashing. towers.

That day was so deep… so significant… so tragic. It changed us, and it changed our nation forever. And while people are quick to remember their memories and emotions from September 11th, it’s really September 12th that holds more significance for me. That’s the day our nation woke up at war, and I started to question everything I thought I knew.

What’s Al-Qaeda? Who’s Osama Bin Laden? How could those people hate us so much? Are we bad? What’s wrong with us?

I scoured the internet, searching for answers. I read passages from the Koran, trying to wrap my head around the term “jihad.” I started reading my Bible for the first time, and craved to understand the differences between the world’s major religions. I signed up to be a Sunday School teacher, poring over my weekly lesson plans and trying hard to stay one step ahead of my well-versed third graders.

And, like most… I questioned my purpose. Life suddenly seemed so important. Was I using my God-given talents to make a difference in the world? Or was I wiling away my time, oblivious to any higher meaning?

About that time, I decided I wanted to be a writer. A real one… that actually wrote for a living. I took a writing class and suddenly felt at home… at peace… like I was finally “among my people” and doing what I was supposed to be doing with my life.

But unfortunately, my higher purpose did not pay the bills. So, ten years later… here I am. Still searching, still wondering, still hoping to get it right.

Yet, that’s what we’re all doing, aren’t we? Hoping to get it right?

We search for meaning, strive for balance, wish for happiness, and pray for peace. And at the end of the day, we just hope we’ve set a good example for our children, who aren’t nearly as blissfully ignorant as we may think.

God bless the people in the crashing towers.

Amen.

It’s been a long time. After finishing up my last post about the set of love letters I found on ebay, I got busy writing a book about my own family history. It’s a long and winding saga that took me five years to unravel, but I finally got it all down in print, just in time for our Almendinger family reunion last weekend. I also gave a two hour genealogy presentation about our colorful German ancestors, and it was a real hit. However, the thought of writing any more about my Almendinger family history right now does not jazz me in the least. So, even though I told you in my last post that I’d share some stories about White Charley and Over-the-Wall-Fred here on my blog, I’m afraid those will have to wait for another day. I’m “Almendingered-out” for the time being.

I’ve also been on an emotional roller coaster this week. I have a friend who’s struggling with addiction, and I participated in my first intervention on Tuesday. It was hard, but successful. My friend is now in treatment and hopefully on the way to recovery.

I try to journal each morning, and here’s a little snippet of something I wrote today. If you’re the praying type, please keep my friend in your prayers.

I’m afraid today.
Afraid for the life of my friend.
Happy that she’s agreed to seek treatment.
Proud of her bravery to face her addiction.
But worried.
So worried.

Hold on, my friend.
One day at a time.
I’m here. We’re here.
Waiting.
In the middle of life.
So go now.
You go, and learn how to start living again.
We’ll be waiting.

The final chapter…

I apologize… it’s been a long time since my last post about the set of love letters I purchased on ebay. (New here? Start from the beginning.) Today, I plan to wrap up all the loose ends so I can start the first installment of my own “White Charley and Over-the-Wall-Fred” saga. I decided after all the time I’ve spent digging into other people’s family histories, it was probably time to share a little of my own. I think you’ll enjoy it.

But first… a few final words about my ebay love letters. In Chapter 8, I introduced you to the Leavenworth Mansion of Syracuse, New York. This is where Dr. John Van Duyn and his first wife, Janet, lived with John’s parents (Dr. Edward and Lucy Van Duyn), and his younger sister, Constance. It was also where they raised their three children.

Back in February, I managed to track down John and Janet’s youngest daughter, Barbara. I emailed her and told her about the love letters that had been addressed to her father, and asked if she would mind answering some questions so I could wrap up my story. She very graciously agreed.

First of all, I told Barbara how much I enjoyed her mother’s book, I Married Them. It’s a fictional account of the very funny and eccentric Maclean (Van Duyn) family, as told by the newest member of the fold, John’s wife Janet (the author herself). The men were second and third-generation physicians who were brilliant surgeons, but had little time for bedside manner. Carrie (Lucy) was the matriarch of the household and my favorite of all the characters. She reminded me a lot of my own mother, and I can easily picture her with a snow brush in her hand, fending off would-be parking lot hooligans (see my previous post, “Happy Mother’s Day.”)

In Janet Dunning’s book, I Married Them, the entire cast of characters enjoyed gathering for cocktails each evening in Doctor Mac and Carrie’s (Dr. Edward and Lucy’s) boudoir. It was here where the story really started to come to life.

“The Boudoir was the most lived-in room of the Maclean mansion. It occupied the sunniest corner of the house, across the hall from the bedroom of Carrie and Mac, who used it as a combination dressing room and living room. Nobody ever sat around in any of the downstairs rooms, which were cold and forbidding, definitely unsuited to the Maclean way of life. Visitors were always brought immediately to the Boudoir, and refreshments were served here daily at five. Those refreshments might range anywhere from tea and sandwiches on a silver tray, to lukewarm highballs made from another bottle of Bourbon hidden behind Doctor Mac’s dresser, tap water from an adjoining bathroom, and mixed in a bathroom glass which was cloudy and tasted of toothpaste. No one ever complained about the highballs though, except when they were not available.”

The Boudoir also contained the most unique and important piece of furniture in the house… a chaise lounge that the Van Duyn’s lovingly referred to as their “shay-ZEE.”

“The Shazey, as a matter of fact, was so comfortable it was always in demand. Aunt Grace who was technically an outsider [she was the family's resident artist and semi-permanent boarder], and therefore had a certain perspective on the life of the family, said that if you drew a diagonal line across the Boudoir, all the people in the house would be found in the Shazey corner, like cattle keeping each other warm in a blizzard. With careful arranging, the Shazey had been known to accommodate five people, the best seats awarded to the first comers. Late arrivals had to content themselves with drawing up chairs and getting as close to it as possible.”

After finishing her mother’s book, I was curious whether Barbara Van Duyn had grown up in the mansion, and if so, what it had been like to live there.

Q. Did you grow up in the Leavenworth Mansion?

A. Yes, I lived there until I was seven. After that, we moved to Westport, Connecticut to live with my mother. She wrote the book to make money after my parents divorced. Nana was a lot of fun. She got bored easily and was the type to swing from the chandelier at every Christmas party. Often times, because we lived close to the railroad track, bums would show up on our doorstop asking for food. Once, a bum showed up during a party and shoved his way into the house, begging for a cup of coffee and something to eat. It turns out it was Nana, dressed up like a bum! Another thing I remember is the story of “old man Harold.” He was there at the house every morning by 5am. We all thought it was so wonderful that he would arrive so early every day to stoke the fire so everyone would have warm showers and heat by the time we woke up. As it turns out, he had found a little place to live within the mansion… a hole in the wall with his own little cot. No one even knew he was there! I also remember the lions along the front walk. I used to play on the left lion and would put food in a crack in its base, just in case he came alive.

Q. Why was your father, John Van Duyn, living and practicing in Duluth, Minnesota in 1949? How did he end up here?

A. My father was trying to find a situation to pay alimony to my mother. He had a practice in Syracuse with his father, but after the divorce, he needed to make more money, rather than trying to build up a practice. So, by 1949 he had decided to switch to plastic surgery, and was working for a clinic in Duluth.

Q. Did you know Ruth Ives? Did she and your father ever end up getting married?

A. We loved Ruthie Ives, and we wanted our father to marry her. She was so sweet! As it turns out, my father ended up marrying another woman he met while living in Duluth. They had another child together… a girl named Patti. She was in my life long ago, but we lived so far apart and our lives were so different that we never stayed connected.

Q. I noticed that Paramount bought the rights to your mother’s book, I Married Them. Was it ever made into a movie?

A. No. Paramount paid $500 for the movie rights, but it never went anywhere. Apparently the Irish servants in the community didn’t like how the character Cleary was depicted in the book, so my mother was disappointed and didn’t write anything more until the 1970s. Then, she wrote a series of books for young people about the ancient Greeks and Egyptians.

Q. Are your parents still alive?

A. No. My father died in 1986, and my mother died in 2003.

After a bit more research, I was able to determine that Ruth Ives died at the age of 57, while living in Maine. I’m not sure that she ever married, because she’s listed under her maiden name in the Social Security Death Index. At any rate, I do know that she had a loving brother named Edward (“Sandy”) Ives who lived in Bangor, Maine. Like Ruth, he was a talented musician and a college instructor. He especially loved the folklore and songs of Maine’s north woods, and eventually this became his lifelong work. In 1971, Sandy founded the Northeast Archives of Folklore and Oral History (now known as the Maine Folklife Center) where he served as its director for 22 years.

At the beginning of this story, my goal was to track down the people mentioned in these ebay love letters and return them to their rightful owners. I have now done that, and the letters have been mailed to John Van Duyn’s daughter, Barbara. My secondary goal was to find a mystery that would result in a happy ending. Unfortunately this story doesn’t have the happy ending I had originally hoped for, but you may be interested to hear that I have since tracked down Barbara’s half-sister, Patti, who still lives in Minnesota, and perhaps they can get together and make their own happy ending.

Here’s hoping.

It’s been a long time since my last post. The truth is, I’ve been working on a book I hope to finish by the time our Almendinger Family Reunion rolls around this August. It’s our family history – the story of White Charley, my paternal great-grandfather, who was a German immigrant, a U.S. Infantry soldier who served during the Indian Wars, a blacksmith during the corruption-filled days of early Minneapolis, and finally, a pioneer in the deep woods of northern Minnesota. It’s a story of tragedy and triumph that took me on all kinds of crazy adventures, and I plan to share the story here on my blog… right after I wrap up my Love Letters story this week.

But first… on this special day… I wanted to share a bit about my mom.

Joy and Kathy, Quebec 2010

I think it was my Aunt Carol who coined the nickname Goonball, and it’s what my cousin Lisa has called her ever since she was old enough to talk. It’s entirely appropriate.

My mom does not like rules. In fact, she hates limitations or boundaries of any kind. Those of us who know her well shudder from fright whenever we hear her say, “How hard can it be?” I’m sure it will be a fitting epithet for her headstone one day: “Here lies Kathy. Apparently it was harder than she thought.”

If my mother hadn’t been such a good legal secretary back in the day, I’m sure she would have been doing stand-up comedy instead. She is a gifted storyteller who loves to “work the crowd.” She knows how to make people laugh, and considers it her duty to do so. In fact, when riding an elevator, I’m sure it would kill her to stay silent for the entire time it takes to reach her floor. She would consider it a personal defeat if she didn’t have everyone laughing by the time the doors opened.

This is her gift… her sense of humor… and she uses it to her advantage whenever possible.

In 1988, my parents celebrated their 25th wedding anniversary. My twin brother and I were college seniors at the time, with no means to throw them any kind of fancy party. They knew this, and instead, made their own plans. They rented a hotel room in downtown Minneapolis and invited us to join them for dinner at Murray’s Steakhouse – “home of the silver butterknife steak.” If you’ve never been to Murray’s, it’s an upscale Minneapolis landmark – a swanky place with lots of red velvet and waitresses who look like they started sometime during the Nixon administration. And man, do they serve a mean steak.

We enjoyed an amazing, luxurious dinner and were treated like royalty by the attentive wait staff. It was a perfect, magical evening. After we finished our dessert and my dad finished his snifter of Drambuie, we headed back out to the car. They drove a full size conversion van at the time, and my mom offered to sit in back with me so my brother could sit up front with my dad. We were still ooh-ing and aah-ing about the amazing dinner and didn’t seem to notice at first how long it was taking the car ahead of us to pay for their parking fee. It appeared to be a heated discussion between the driver and the parking attendant, and I could tell my dad was losing patience. He got out of the car to go check on the situation.

From the back seat, I could now see that my dad had gotten involved in the heated discussion as well. There was a lot of fast talking and finger pointing, and I was starting to get nervous. My brother got out of the car to see what was going on. I witnessed more fast talking, and then suddenly, the two men got out of their car and started taking their jackets off. Not a good sign.

Without thinking, I jumped out of the van and ran into the middle of the melee, determined to be the voice of reason. I have no idea what the problem was, except that the two men refused to pay their parking fee, and the poor parking attendant was noticeably shook. The situation was escalating from bad to worse when, out of nowhere, we turned to see my mother coming toward us with a snow brush in her hand yelling, “I… am… a MOTHER!”

And just like that, it was over. We were silent a moment, staring at her in complete bewilderment, and then each of us quietly retreated to our respective corners. The men in front of us paid their parking fee, and drove off. And that was that.

There are many lessons my mother has taught me over the years. Good life lessons… about being honest, having integrity, and doing the right thing. “Remember who you are,” she used to tell me. I didn’t really understand what it meant until I got older, but it’s something I now tell my own boys. It’s a phrase that grows with you along life’s bumpy journey.

So, thanks Goonball. For all the fun and crazy times… the adventures and misadventures. Thanks for being my proudest supporter, my loudest cheerleader, and my most loyal fan. Thanks for grounding me when I deserved grounding, and for picking me up when I was broken in pieces. Thanks for believing in me and always telling me I could do whatever I wanted. (And thanks for not allowing me to wear that pair of boxer shorts to school in 7th grade when it was all the rage. You were right about that.)

And the two life lessons I will remember the most? First, remember who you are. And for God’s sake… carry a big snow brush the next time you run into the middle of a rumble.

Got it. Thanks Mom.