I decided to celebrate this one-year anniversary, because I’m proud of the project, and because I wanted to let you know that I’m beginning the work to publish it in print and eBook formats. I anticipate that Accidental Mentors will be available for presale by January 1, 2025, and launching March 1.

For those of you who have joined Annette’s Wanderings more recently, let me give you a little background. Accidental Mentors: Inspirational Stories of Women Who Shaped My Life by Just Being Themselves is a micro-memoir series honoring women who made me who I am today. When I turned sixty-five and found myself engaging in the typical life reflection that happens when one reaches that arbitrary milestone, I found myself reflecting “on the people who have supported me, loved me, taught me, and challenged me throughout the years I’ve been on this planet.” and as I wrote then in my introduction, “Who and What Are Accidental Mentors”,

For reasons of choice and circumstance, most of these people have been women. From the very beginning of my life on 5/5/55, I’ve had the privilege of knowing incredible women who I’ve looked to for inspiration, hope, and love. Their strength, compassion, determination, and drive have compelled me to be better, to be more than I ever thought I could be.

So I started making a list and ultimately came up with a list of sixty-five women who have been there for me at various points throughout my life and taught me lessons that I needed to learn. For those of you who have already read and enjoyed these stories, thank you. For those of you who were not aware of them until now, this is for you.

My goal in sharing these stories and reflections is to remind us that we are but a collection of interactions, influences, and inspirations. My hope is that in reading these short pieces, you will be reminded of how important each interaction we have is—that just like a monarch butterfly laying eggs on a milkweed plant, what you leave behind is just as important as what you take with you.

The stories are organized by decades and framed by a short introduction to the decade describing what I was doing and what was going on in the world in the period in which the next group of women impacted me.

I started publishing the stories two days before I began a preventative course of chemo for a recent breast cancer (third time around with some form of cancer—but no worries, I’m cancer-free today!). I knew the summer ahead of me looked dim, and I figured I could turn that around emotionally if I had something to look forward to each day. These stories became a literal lifeline for me.

If I’ve piqued your interest, or if you were already interested and want to go back and catch up on the stories you missed, you can read them here:

Start reading from the beginning or pick and choose. My hope is that by reading these stories you’ll think about women who’ve influenced your life in positive ways. And that you’ll reach out and thank them, or if they’ve already left this planet, that you’ll pass on what they gave you to someone in your life. These are the gifts that matter.

Living Into the Truth is available for pre-sale!

I’m excited to announce that my latest book project, Living Into the Truth: A Daughter’s Journey of Discovery, is available for pre-sale!

You can submit a pre-order in either paperback and eBook versions to Amazon and it will be shipped on its official release date of November 1.

Order from Amazon

For those who prefer a more independently-minded source, it will soon be available through Bookshop.org and other online and physical bookstores. I’ll let you know when you can order it from there.

For those of you who are dying to know, here’s the back cover description:

It’s been a few years now since I've learned as much as is knowable about your secrets. In that time, I’ve come to realize that my pain is not as much from you as it is about you. It’s from knowing the freedom of living in the truth—a freedom you never afforded yourself. I wish I could give that to you. I wish I could let you know that I know...so you could know I forgive you for lying to me about who I am.

With these words from a letter to her deceased mother, Annette Marquis invites readers on a journey through her past, uncovering truths that challenge everything she thought she knew about her origins and herself. From the discovery of a sister who died of polio before she was born to confronting questions about her distinctive red hair, Marquis navigates the complexities of her Catholic upbringing and her adoption.

As she delves more deeply into her family’s secrets, Marquis realizes that living into the truth starts with being honest about who she is. Her journey from a confused teenager at a Catholic girls' boarding school to an openly lesbian adult parallels her quest to uncover her family's hidden past. DNA testing ultimately confirms suspicions about her parentage, forcing her to confront her parents’ deception.

Marquis shows that exposing the truth is only half the journey—figuring out what to do with what you've learned is the other half. This memoir is a testament to living openly and honestly, despite—or even because of—the lies you were told.

I hope you’ll consider purchasing a copy for yourself and for friends who you think might enjoy it.

There’s still time to win A WordsWomen Press T-shirt!

Survey closes October 31, 2024

If you haven’t already, please take a minute to respond to this brief survey. This will help me make well-informed publishing decisions as I go forward into this wild world of indie-publishing.  Everyone who completes this survey will be entered into a drawing to win a free WordsWomen Press t-shirt (once they’re designed). Thanks for playing!

Here’s the link: WordsWomen Press Readers’ Reading Survey.

Thank you again and again for being part of my reading and writing community.

Happy end of September,

Annette

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If you’re just getting oriented to this new project, here’s the progressive table of contents where you can always catch up on chapters you’ve missed.

But before I leave Accidental Mentors behind...

After I finished publishing stories of my sixty-five accidental mentors, I’ve been publishing stories written by guest writers about women who impacted their lives in surprising and interesting ways. I’ve so appreciated the gift of their remembrances. If you would like me to publish a piece about one of your mentors, please let me know. And, if you’d missed them and would like to read all of my Accidental Mentors stories, you can do that here.

Now that I’ve published all the submissions I’ve received, I will take a hiatus from this project. Before I completely refocus my attention, however, I have one Accidental Mentors story to revisit.

What is truth?

Several months after I published a story about a friend’s mother who I believed died by suicide when we were teenagers, and whose death was so prominent in my memory that it later inspired my professional work in suicide prevention, I received an unsettling message from my friend. Susan’s relayed to me that her mother had not died by suicide. She had, instead, died of a massive coronary. She wanted me to know that as bad as her mother’s too-early death was, “it wasn’t as bad as it could have been.”

This revelation from Susan shook me to the core. I’m a memoirist who relies on what I remember to be true. It was difficult to learn that everything I believed about Susan’s mother’s death and the impact it had on me was a lie, a rumor started in our small town that my mother, wanting to make sure I had grounding to be a supportive friend, believed and shared with me. At least that’s what I remember.

Is it possible that’s not at all what happened? Is it possible my mother didn’t tell me that Susan’s mother had died by suicide, that there was no rumor? I have to acknowledge that my memory could be wrong. My mother is gone, and I have no way to verify what she told me fifty years ago.

This disclosure reminded me of something I know but often ignore, and that is that memory is not truth. It is no more true than a Netflix original movie or a Barbara Kingsolver novel. By definition, memory is ethereal and unreliable.

Should I stop writing memoir?

What do I do with this new information? Do I stop writing memoir? Some would say “yes, it’s all just fiction anyway. Memories are an illusion.” Memory science, however, would disagree. Certainly, a lot has been studied and written about false memories, forgotten memories, and even introduced memories.  But a more recent study reported on in Scientific American1, says that our memory might be better than we thought. According to the article,

Despite the standard glitches, our memory can retain far more than either experts or we expect.

That gives me hope and some degree of confidence. I don’t know if it was a faulty rumor or my faulty memory that gave me the wrong impression about Susan’s tragedy. I’m truly sorry I misrepresented it. Yet, I’ve carried this story with me my whole life and, despite the inaccuracy of it, it has changed me in profound ways.

For me, writing memoir is about relating how the experiences of my life made me who I am today. It’s not a historical record. Some facts can be verified through official records, confirmation by other people, and even journal entries that put memories closer to the event. However, some things can’t ever be confirmed. As long as I’m not making up the story, but relating it as honestly as I remember it, it qualifies as memoir, and I think it’s worthy of being on the page. I think authors of these books about memoir would agree with me.

I’m certain that there are other stories I shared in Accidental Mentors that the subject doesn’t remember or they remember in a different way than the way I related the story. In many ways, that doesn’t matter. What matters is how the memory of whatever happened, accurate or not, impacted who I am today.

Memoir is about conveying feelings and deeper realities. It’s about reflecting on events and experiences in our lives and becoming more whole, more honest, and more grounded in our own truth. I think that’s an important part of living the best life we can.

Therefore, I plan to keep writing memoir. As I often do, I will put disclaimers on it when I feel it’s appropriate—things like “I don’t remember it exactly, but I think it probably happened this way…,” or “Chances are they said this because this is what they often said in situations like this…,” or “I imagine it rained that day because, when I remember it, I see dark clouds overhead and feel a chill in my bones.” But I’ll still write about things that happened to me the best way I can, recognizing that the truth of what I write is not necessarily exactly the way it happened.

Revealing the truth with grace

Susan handled revealing this information to me with incredible grace. It made me remember why I liked her so much when we were kids. She wrote this to me:

I have lived in blissful ignorance that the citizens of Rogers were perpetrating a myth. However, when it comes to your service in crisis situations, the myth is all that matters. It makes me happy that my situation created the emotional template for your own compassionate mission.

What a gift she gave me, especially when I think about all the ways she could have reacted. As a result of this revelation and of Susan’s incredible offering of truth and grace, I decided I needed to rewrite the piece for the record. Here’s the revised version.

I hope you don’t shy away from writing memoir because of having what you consider is a “poor memory.” Write your story as you know it and, just as Susan did by revealing the facts to me, you will enrich the world with your truth.

A tragedy that saved the lives of countless others

In 7th grade, I left my small, three-room Catholic schoolhouse and ventured into the public junior high. When I did, I developed a new set of friends. Susan was one of them. She was smart and loved English—two qualities that instantly attracted me to her. She was different from my Catholic school friends. She had confidence in who she was—she could focus on her schoolwork and still enjoy having fun. I admired that about her. We splashed about in Beaver Lake where she lived, had sleepovers, experimented with the contents of her dad’s liquor cabinet, got too sunburned falling asleep on a raft on the lake, and enjoyed being teenagers.

While we were still in junior high, Susan came home from school to discover that her mother had died. As tragic as that news was, it became even more tragic in my mind when my mother heard from a friend of hers that she died by suicide.

As a result of this Accidental Mentors project, I learned from Susan that this rumor was untrue. Instead, her mother died from a massive coronary. How the myth of a death by suicide got started, I’ll never know. I just know that I’ve believed it my entire life and knowing something like this about a dear friend, even if it wasn’t true, has had a life-long impact on me.

I didn’t know much about suicide then—what teenager who hasn’t been directly impacted by it does? In the days that followed, my mother talked with me about the impact of suicide on a family, so I could be better prepared by knowing a little of what my friend was going through.

Susan handled her mother’s death as well as one might expect a teenager to, at least publicly, but I could feel her unspoken pain. We never talked about it. If we had, I might have learned much sooner about her actual cause of death. Regardless of the cause, though, I struggled with what to do or say to help.

A short time after her mother’s death, Susan, her father, and younger sister, moved to Fort Smith, about eighty miles from Rogers. We stayed in touch for a while—I even ran away to her house one time—but gradually, we drifted apart. I imagine that my own discomfort with how to help played a part in that.

A memory resurfaces

Years later, on September 11, 2001, the day of the World Trade Center and related attacks, I was working as the Executive Director of Third Level Crisis Center, a mental health crisis center located in Traverse City, Michigan. We served much of Northern Michigan’s Lower Peninsula and had developed a year-long plan to connect our crisis lines to the national 1-800-SUICIDE hotline. Then I received a call that changed everything. The people at this national hotline anticipated that because of the day’s events, they would be overrun by calls and asked if we could come online sooner than scheduled to handle some of them. Like, TODAY!

It was an impossible request. In addition to the technical details that had to be worked out, we had to ensure that our mostly volunteer staff had the training they needed to respond knowledgably to the calls we might receive. How could we do this so quickly and do it well?

I went into my office and closed the door to consider the request. For reasons I didn’t understand in the moment, memories of Susan flooded my thoughts. They surprised me at first. I hadn’t seen or spoken to Susan in years. I didn’t grasp the connection. Then it all came flooding back—the helplessness I felt so many years before when I learned of her mother’s death. Believing that she had died by suicide, I couldn’t reconcile her actions then, just like I didn’t understand the events of this day. And just like this day, I didn’t know how to help.  

I let the feelings—all the feelings, the ones from the horrific events of this day and from my first encounter with suicide—wash over me. Behind a closed office door, I cried. Although the two events seemed so disconnected, feelings of desperation and despair linked them across the decades. In that moment, I understood the anguish a person who contemplates suicide feels in ways I never had before. I doubled over with an overwhelming sense of desolation and despair and rocked myself trying to find my equilibrium.

After pulling myself together, I decided to dedicate my work to Susan and her family, to do whatever I could to offer hope to people contemplating death by suicide and offer solace to those who were left behind. I made a call to the national hotline director and told them yes.  We would do all we could to be ready.

By the end of the day—that same day--calls from our geographic area to 1-800-SUICIDE rang on Third Level’s phones. Although thankfully not the onslaught that the national hotline had feared, people who needed our help began to call. Our volunteers and paid staff stepped up and handled the calls with competence and care. I trust that the people who called that day, overwhelmed by grief and fear from the day’s events, found hope from the person they talked with and were able to keep on living for another day.

I never told Susan this. I didn’t feel a need to tell her, and even if I had, I didn’t know where she was and had no way to reach her in the days before we eventually reconnected on Facebook. It was one of those private moments that has stayed with me though, when life events remind me that how we inspire someone is often never known. I didn’t know Susan’s mother well, and, in fact, I didn’t even know Susan that well.

If we had stayed in touch, I might have learned sooner about the myth I carried all my life about how her mother died. As it was, what I thought I knew about them made a difference to me and countless others who reached out for an empathetic ear and received one that day and for years to come.

Thank you, Susan, for having to courage to tell me the truth.

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Mercie Elizabeth Huss (Carnahan) 1901 - 1983

I met my maternal grandmother when I was six years old. She and my step grandfather retired to Florida, where my family lived. My grandmother, who we affectionately called, Bangoon, was a petite, solid woman who had short grey hair when I met her. She had an impish grin and a twinkle in her eyes that I immediately loved.

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My grandparents bought a little house on a canal in central Florida, two houses down from the large and beautiful Lake Pierce. Soon Mom and I, and sometimes my brother Steve, began visiting there regularly. I loved going to this beautiful place. I slept in the back room which had jalousie windows facing the canal. In the cooler months, the windows would be open toward the canal, and I could feel the breeze and listen to Bangoon, and her husband, Grandpa Vern, talk into the night, sipping their gin and tonics. I remember thinking, how do they have so much to talk about?

My parents didn’t talk much. My father did most of the talking, pontificating, or ordering my mother and us kids around, paying little attention to my mother. Therefore, the affection between Bangoon and Vern surprised and warmed me.

I soon felt a deep affinity with my grandmother. She was very different from my paternal grandmother, whom we often visited in North Carolina, where my father grew up. This grandmother deferred in every way to my grandfather and the other men around her. I barely remember her voice. She smiled sweetly, served quietly, and seemed to have no opinions of her own.

Bangoon was a whole different kind of woman. My father barely contained his dislike for her. She never said anything critical to him, but I knew she had his number. He only came to the lake once in the years they lived there, which was fine with me because their home was a respite from his dominance and safe haven for Mom. I loved Bangoon for creating a sanctuary for my mother.

Bangoon was born Mercie Elizabeth Huss in Pierre, South Dakota in 1901. Her parents were quite progressive. They had a ranch in central South Dakota and a home in Pierre. Her mother, Minnie Mae Calfee, came to South Dakota as a Methodist Deaconess. Her father, Frank Huss, had come west in 1881 and established a ranch in central South Dakota. Minnie met Frank, a widower with two children, soon after she arrived in Pierre and they married within a few months. My grandmother was their first child together, they would have two more.

Bangoon was very proud of her parents and the work they did among Native Americans and within the community of Pierre. She once said to me that her family was “one of seven families in the area that didn’t hate Indians,” emphasizing the word hate. My great-grandfather did work with and for the Natives. The Lakota Sioux made him a blood brother. His Lakota name was Hoksila Hanska, or Long Boy. 

The stories Bangoon told me about her parents standing up for the local tribes and against the pervasive racism of most of their neighbors, had a significant impact on me as a child, growing my sense of racial justice. She supported the Civil Rights Movement. I looked up to and admired her.

In addition to their defense of Native Americans, her parents supported women’s suffrage and education for women. Her mother was an early advocate in the new field of social work. They were avid readers and had lively discussions about history, politics, and other topics of the day. 

Bangoon was sent to Dakota Wesleyan College to earn a baccalaureate degree after high school. Her college education was cut short at the end of her freshman year. A late spring blizzard hit central South Dakota hard and destroyed most of her parents’ cattle. There was no money left for Bangoon to continue her education.  

After she came home, Bangoon met my grandfather, Howard Manning, who was fifteen years older than her. They married and my mother was their first child, born in Wall, South Dakota in 1923. Soon after, Howard moved them back to a small town in Missouri where his family lived. They had two more daughters, my aunts Jeannie, and Mae.

The Manning family was the opposite of Bangoon’s. They were conservative and patriarchal. Bangoon told me that she “got in trouble” with Howard when she voiced her opinions as the men discussed politics. My grandmother was strong-willed and too much an independent thinker for her husband. He tried his best to dominate her. Things went from bad to worse. My grandfather’s drinking and determination to keep my grandmother in line became fiercer. He started yelling at her and pushing her around. She began to plot her escape.

Bangoon had friends in Missouri, a couple who sympathized with her. One day, after her girls had gone to school, she began packing their suitcases. She picked up Aunt Jeannie early from school and they walked to the edge of town and down into a dry wash under a train viaduct to meet her friends. They gave her an envelope with train tickets. She and Aunt Jeannie walked back home and finished packing. That evening, Bangoon and her girls walked down to the train depot and got on the train to Rapid City, South Dakota, where her parents now lived. This was in 1931, during the Great Depression. Bangoon told me, “I only had five dollars in my pocket but was determined to leave.”

Soon after settling with her girls at her parents’ home, Bangoon found work at Canyon Lake Lodge, learning how to cook and manage. About a year later she bought a small diner in Rapid City called the Dixie Lunch. She filed for divorce and because Howard didn’t respond to the divorce papers or show up for court, it was granted. She never received any monetary support from him for their children.

The Dixie Lunch burned down about eight years later. Bangoon moved to Wyoming and bought another little café in Upton, Betty’s Café. A few years later, she married my Grandpa Vern. They moved to Winslow, Arizona and then to San Francisco, California with his job. Bangoon loved the beauty and liberal atmosphere of San Francisco.

Eight years after they moved to Florida, Vern died. Bangoon sold the house and moved to Englewood, Florida where she lived directly next to Lemon Bay, on the Gulf of Mexico. Bangoon chose Englewood because she had a few friends from South Dakota who lived there, and she had always wanted to live close to the ocean.  She quickly got involved in the community and worked hard raising money to help build the first fire department in Englewood.

When I was a student at FSU, I would sometimes drive down on weekends to be with Bangoon. She loved being out in the sun and had deeply tanned skin. We would drive out to the beach to swim in the Gulf of Mexico, have a hamburger and talk about everything under the sun. Bangoon had an older friend there who had worked for her father when she was a child, a widower named Nels. Sometimes the three of us would go to Whiskey Corners, a bar with a live band. Bangoon and Nels would dance every dance with friends or each other. They both loved to dance.  Bangoon told me, “People who dance are happy people.”  

Bangoon always displayed a portrait of President Franklin Roosevelt. She revered him as a champion of the common people. Once, I told her I had gotten involved with the Christian left and that these people were setting up “conscious communities” based on sharing their resources as well as working for social justice and economic equality. I’ll never forget what she said to me, “you cannot read the gospels carefully without realizing they are a socialist tome.”

In 1981, Bangoon had a stroke and ended up back in Wall, then Rapid City at a nursing home. Once she lost her independence and her ability to write poetry, play the piano, and dance, she declined rapidly and died in August of 1983.

Bangoon was a very influential person in my life and modeled for me how to create my own path even in the face of criticism. I adored her. She lived life on her own terms, divorcing at a time when it was very rare and controversial, bearing society’s judgment with her head held high. I already had the seeds of independence when I met her. Bangoon watered and fed those seeds and helped me grow into a strong woman.

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I didn’t know The Woman of Willendorf from The Creation of Adam the first time I stumbled into Coburn Hall. It was a warm day in early September. I do know that the brass door handle at the top of the landing got stuck, and that I had to push hard against the recessed panels for it to open. Balancing my new leather book bag on my right shoulder, I was desperate not to draw attention. Inside, the lobby was shady—dark wood, dim sounds, and the mysterious scent of something starting. I checked my schedule one more time to be sure—classroom 432—then headed for the staircase. My heart was beating in time with clicking heels of confident girls, who flirted with boys wearing pants well below their waist. Nylon backpacks bumped up against my bare arms. Maybe I should have worn a sweater. No, it was much too warm. Was I having a hot flash? I pulled at the front of my shirt, still trying to prevent the difficult book bag from sliding off my shoulder. Finally, the fourth floor. A gold nameplate on the side of the door was a welcome relief: Art History, 432.

I had made the decision to go back to school around the same time that I registered my youngest for kindergarten. I announced my plans one night during dinner. My three daughters peered at me across the table.

“What?”

 “Why?”

“Aren’t you a little old?”

Not having a college degree had felt like a missing tooth, something I could have lived without it, but I’d always be aware of the hole. Later that night, I tried to explain my role as a full-time student. “While you’re in school, Mommy will be in school.” It sounded easy enough, but even I worried about there being enough time for classes, homework, and homemaking. Would I create new holes?

In room 432, a stout woman with thick blond hair and a deep Italian accent introduced herself.  “My name is Liana Cheney,” she announced, marching up from the back of the room, arms swinging in perfect form. “I am a professor of Art History, and this class will teach you how to think critically about art and life.” I had no idea what that meant. So far, my limited college experience had been a few years of night classes in accounting, over twenty years ago. Back then, questions had only one answer, and mine were usually wrong, which was why I decided to switch majors this time around. In order for my accounting credits to transfer, I had to enroll in the Department of Liberal Arts, of which Dr. Cheney was the Chair. Her Art History class was mandatory.

Professor Cheney went on to explain the logistics of the class and her rules for classroom decorum. “I will not tolerate cheating,” she said, pumping a tight fist on the last word. “If you cheat in my class, you will cheat for the rest of your life.” I thought of the time in fourth grade when my teacher, Mrs. Burns, asked me if a girl in my class had copied my answers. It was probably the last time my answers were worthy of being copied. Professor Cheney continued her class introduction with as much severity as General Patton: “If your cell phone rings in my class, get up, go to the registrar’s office and drop my class.” I didn’t know whether to hide under my desk or salute her. My friends and I didn’t talk like that in our mothers’ group. There, we used indoor voices, mostly to validate our importance as stay-at-home moms.

Art History was on Tuesdays and Thursdays for an hour and fifteen minutes. The lectures went like this. Dr. Cheney would stand in the back of the class, peering over a slide projector, each click demonstrating another work of art from a particular historical period. Dr. Cheney was eloquent. From memory, she’d walk us through the world of ancient art, which I soon learned was art before the written word. She’d describe the religious symbolism of Stonehenge, a famous “cromlech” in southern England, built of posts and lintel (horizontal slabs). “The text will tell you that Stonehenge was built in 2000 B.C., but this is false,” Dr. Cheney would argue. “It dates back to 7000 B.C.” I had no reason not to trust her contradiction and quickly became awestruck by her knowledge and confidence to challenge the facts of others.

Later that semester we moved on to the Middle Ages, Europe after the fall of Rome. We discussed Gothic Art, and the great cathedrals. My collection of index cards was as thick as the Book of Kells. Over and over again, I’d examine those cards, harnessing Dali’s persistence of memory, hearing Dr. Cheney’s voice, accenting names like Caravaggio, Donatello, Raphael.  Dr. Cheney was opening doors to a whole new world for me, a world beyond scheduled playdates, carpools and conversations inspired by diaper rash. After class, I’d head for the O’Leary library, where I’d spend hours printing out pictures of prehistoric fertility goddesses, fresco paintings and renowned Italian sculptures. I was mesmerized by the tomb of the Egyptian pharaoh, Hatshepsut, Foremost of Noble Ladies, and the limestone bust of Queen Nefertiti. Who were these women with enough strength and intelligence to transform a society?

One day, the week before our Art History midterm, Dr. Cheney came over to me at the beginning of class. “I’d like to speak to you after class,” she said. Immediately, I put my hands under my desk, over my pants pockets. Had my cell phone gone off without my knowing it? My pockets were empty. I had gotten into the habit of leaving my phone in the car on Tuesdays and Thursdays, just in case. A risky move for a neurotic Mom. I spent the rest of the class wondering what I had done or worse, what I hadn’t done that deserved a talking-to from Dr. Cheney.

She was still standing behind the podium when I approached her after class.

“You wanted to see me?” I asked.  

“Yes,” she smiled.

 From my seat in the front row, I hadn’t noticed the sparkle in Dr. Cheney’s eyes.

“You take good notes, Katzie,” she continued.

There were at least forty students in the class. I had yet to hear her call anyone by name.

“I was wondering if you could share them with a student who has been out sick, so he can take the midterm.”

“Of course,” I said.

“Great,” she replied, walking toward the exit sign. And that was it. She was gone.

Later that semester, I discovered that Liana Cheney was my Advisor. In her small office, also on the fourth floor of Coburn Hall, I got to see Dr. Cheney’s softer side. I’d meet with her at the end of each semester to go over my schedule for the following term. During one of our meetings, she explained that I needed to take a language in order to meet the graduation requirements. “Have you studied a language before?” she asked.

Embarrassed to admit that I had not studied any language since Francisco Franco had reigned over Spain, I hesitated, “Yeah, but a long time ago.”

“No problem,” she said, picking up the telephone receiver. “Bonjour, Professor Garneau.” Dr. Cheney was fluent in seven languages. “I have a capable student here who needs to take the placement exam for Spanish I and possibly Spanish II.” She put her hand over the receiver. “If you pass both, you’ll receive six credits, without having to take the classes.

That night, after the girls were in bed, I began reading though the Spanish dictionary that I had purchased on my way home from school that day in preparation for the placement exam. I thought about Dr. Cheney’s conversation with Professor Gareau. Capaz is the Spanish word for capable.

My final meeting with Dr. Cheney was during the winter before my last semester as an undergraduate. She figured out which classes I still needed in order to complete my degree. Then said something that shocked me. “And when you go on for your master’s degree…”

“What?” I asked, as if she had fallen into one of her six fluent languages, one that I could not comprehend.

Maybe she didn’t realize how old I was, or that I had three daughters at home who needed me. Maybe she didn’t realize that getting a college degree was my goal, and how once it was achieved, I had planned on going back to being Mom full time.

“So you can teach,” Dr. Cheney continued.

She had misread me. I hadn’t shown any interest in teaching. When I would volunteer in my daughters’ classes, it took all of my patience not to glue half the students to their seats. Maybe I had given Dr. Cheney too much credit.

“I’m not interested in teaching kids,” I finally said.

Her eyes sparkled, just as they did when she’d discover an error in the textbook, “I’m not talking about kids.”

Two years later, I sent Dr. Cheney an email, just after receiving my first master’s degree. “Thank you for noticing something in me that I had yet to see in myself,” I wrote. She wrote back, congratulating me on my wonderful accomplishment and asked me to send a picture so that she could put my name to a face. I never did. It wasn’t important that Dr. Cheney know what I looked like. I wasn’t looking for her praise or validation this time. I only wanted her to know that she had made a difference in a student’s life.

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Thank you to Amy and to those others who have already submitted your Accidental Mentor stories about one of the women in your life who has inspired you, helped you, guided you, or positively impacted who you are today. I’m still hoping to receive more stories from you. If you haven’t submitted yours yet, please get it to me as soon as possible. Here’s more information:

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“I wasn’t asleep. I was just resting my eyes,” Gram insisted, lifting her chin to meet my gaze before shifting the face-down issue of Good Housekeeping from her lap to the coffee table.

She pushed herself up from her chair and bustled to the kitchen. I followed, shaking my head, a smile tugging at the corners of my lips. She’d already set sweet pickles, spicy brown mustard, and a deli packet on the counter by the time I walked the eight or nine steps to join her. As the smoky tang of Lebanon bologna scented the air, I grabbed plates and glasses from the cupboard.

This was a familiar scene when I’d stay with Gram and Pop in Florida, a state they first visited with my Dad and Aunt Mae in the late forties after Gram’s mother Lottie began working winters at The Osceola Inn. They retired to Florida from New Jersey around the time I started junior high.

In both states, Gram was the embodiment of industry.

She managed the cafeteria at High Point Regional High School when I was a kid, overseeing a crew that included a jovial woman I called the milkshake lady, her station a place I’d gravitate to amid the jumble of students. Gram’s office sat behind the serving lines, across from a walk-in freezer I’d scamper in and out of while she updated ledgers, called vendors, and planned menus.

The walls, tile floors, appliances, and serving lines formed intersecting canyons, carrying the rise and fall of her voice and those of the other hair-netted women across the staff side of the cafeteria, laughter and the clatter of stainless-steel trays echoing amid the steam and stirs.

She had a side hustle too: cakes, elaborate wedding cakes with fountains, toppers, and tiny figurines on staircases between the tiers. Once I could hold a brush steady, I helped paint them to match the wedding party, and on the drive to the reception hall, we’d gather ferns to arrange around the bottom layers.

Her kitchen was bigger then. On the nights of wedding weeks, swirls of cocoa, vanilla, and White Shoulders perfume wafted through the house as Gram moved steadily down a table laden with cakes, leveling off each top. Then, while Pop and I poured milk over bowls of chocolate cake shavings, she piped rows of violets and roses onto wax paper.

I didn’t realize it, but Gram was showing me the ways that work could matter. Work was where you could build a community, where you could make money to pay the bills, where you could express your creative flair, where you could do something that could make a difference to someone else.

She took pride in her work. The cafeteria manager post was one she accepted in her mid-forties, a role that demanded every skill she’d acquired in her previous jobs at Woolworth’s and my grade school - plus more. It was her staff photo from the yearbook that ran with Gram’s obituary. On display boards for the memorial service, we included her recipe for red velvet cake, and beside photos with family and friends, pictures of wedding cakes she’d made for her grandchildren.

She also knew how to play.

Gram valued time with family and “the girls” she loved being one of - the women at High Point and those she befriended in her Florida neighborhood. Time with the girls, her sisters, or my Mom (usually with me and my brother in tow) often involved savoring food someone else had fixed, like hard rolls with butter at Johnny’s Smoke Shop, or steak, rare, at Zaberers near Atlantic City.

Along with dining out, she enjoyed sunsets at the shore, cocktails, card games, and crafts. I can picture her sipping a Tom Collins with Mom while James and I splashed in the brook-fed pool, stacking pennies for Rummy Royal, and layering intricate cuts of paper into scenes she later enclosed in frames.

At work or play, she rarely sat still. An hour was pushing it. She might read an article or watch an episode of Hee Haw, but she once told me (a librarian, mind you), her chin held high, that she’d never read a book from cover to cover.

I was a quicker study at the lessons about work than play. So much so that a few years ago when my wife and I developed a list of core intentions to guide our lives, we included “cultivate delight” – mainly as a reminder to me.

I sometimes wonder what Gram meant for me to learn. We didn’t discuss her values or beliefs. I don’t think I ever asked. In the forty-two years our lives overlapped, I don’t remember hearing her pray, and the only times I saw her in church were for weddings and funerals. Her work was its own kind of faith.

The erosion of Gram’s ability to work or play felt swift but occurred over decades. I first noticed something was changing when her old stand mixer made its way to my pantry. As more years passed, she stopped telling me about outings with the girls because there were no longer girlfriends in her life to lunch or laugh with. During this dwindling time, I learned another lesson.

As her health declined, Gram refused to admit the slightest need – not for sturdier shoes, prescriptions, hearing aids, recovery time after surgery, or someone to help around the house. Each need marred the stalwart image of herself in her mind’s eye – and she’d have none of it.

Yes, aging and dementia would have overcome her eventually. But I wonder how many more sunsets she could have watched, how many more times she could have heard a friend’s laughter, how much longer she could have kept doing if she’d accepted her changing body and accepted help. 

I don’t excel at admitting my needs or accepting help either. This is the hardest lesson. And asking for help? I swear I can see Gram shaking her head sometimes, but I’m working on it.

Her birthday’s in January. To mark what would have been her 104^th, I plan to dust off her mixer, bake a red velvet cake, call my family, and invite some girlfriends over to play dominoes and toast my hard-working, hard-playing, proud, loving grandmother.

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In the eighties, the high school where I taught sponsored my attendance to the National Conference of Teachers of English to learn about and bring back “writing across the curriculum.” From Michigan to San Antonio, no less. I knew it was an honor, but I had no idea what I was doing except that maybe by studying this, I could resolve my own struggle to teach writing—could learn what really helped a student write better, and just maybe help other struggling teachers. But behind that professional endeavor ran a secret longing: could I begin to address my own off-the-record impulse to be a writer.

That first evening, at the invitation of a friend, I entered the hotel’s river level restaurant where a bright-voiced woman gestured with a glass of red wine and simultaneously held rapt her two table mates. She had an engaging smile and blue-blue eyes (she was wearing blue contacts at the time). She wielded a vigorous intelligence with charm and incisiveness, and she embodied a confidence that had always failed me. I wasn’t used to it, this kind of person, her utter insistence that this moment and this thing we were discussing (no matter what it was) was without doubt the most important thing that could be discussed right now.

She told stories of her youngest students’ first attempts to write, her excitement permeating research statistics and case studies and raising what could have been monotonous detail to the level of high suspense. Ruth Nathan turned out to be a reading-writing researcher with a passion for teaching teachers as well as children. She held a Ph.D. and had co-authored a book with the famous researcher, Charles Temple, “The Beginnings of Writing.” She had pages (in her handbag no less) of children’s first attempts at writing, and powerful ideas about how children learned to write and how teachers could help. She was spilling drops of wine on the pages as she spoke: here, here is the evidence.

She seemed to have a finger in every literary research project from the National Writers Project to the exact children’s poems to help them connect letters to sounds. She was, more than anything, an advocate for children’s literacy, and her message that night was one that would go straight to my heart: teachers who wrote themselves were better able to teach children of all ages to write.

I heard it this way: the best way to teach writing was to be a writer yourself.

So it began. From that first conversation over red wine, I became a fan. I watched how in every exchange, in every panel and presentation, she insisted that teachers discover and exhibit best practices, especially as they applied to teaching writing and reading. She asserted that we could teach children to write better if we practiced the same tools in our own writing. She didn’t simply recommend I write, but fostered me as a teaching writer, both creatively and professionally, in order that I might better teach my students and help other teachers teach writing. That insistence would encourage my own earliest personal essays, poems, and finally some rough scholarship of my own. Word by word, that rare confidence grew. I followed her lead with a hope and assurance I hadn’t previously felt about my teaching, and that I’d never felt about my writing. When Ruth and I worked together, I came to it like fish to water.

She too was writing—in a much bigger way—doing creative research and scholarly articles that could set children on the path to love reading and writing, but she and I also exchanged more personal writing. She wrote her first poem about the American flag, and I wrote my first chapbook about weeds. We supported each other’s drafts and slowly began to work together on educational projects. She taught me the pleasure of thinking, and occasionally I was able to add material to her panels. I was thrilled the first time she asked me to present with her. Eventually we shared panels at state and national conferences. She did everything she could to help me find opportunities to publish—though I sometimes didn’t understand why I was worthy of that. I was and continue to be grateful.

Along with the professional endeavors, our friendship thrived. We both loved to cook, so we made up literary recipes—fun and food. We had this idea for a book of recipes, but life moved fast, and we were on to the next thing before we could finish a manuscript. When she visited, she would throw dinner parties where she prepared the best of the best with an open-hearted delight just because she wanted to offer friends the lushness of abundance. From tomahawk chops to three-day marinated shish-ka-bobs to fish poached in home-made tomato sauce, nothing was beyond her capacity to prepare in my kitchen. We set tables for a dozen in my front yard, trees rustling their songs overhead, or we gathered at my dining table with candles and linen napkins. Always, we set beautiful tables and instead of blessings, we read poems—a tradition I have carried on. She spread literary joy. She talked about books, and listened deeply to my literary dreams. She was generous, warm, dramatic, sensitive, excitable, energetic, incisively intelligent—I felt lucky when I was with her. Still do.

When she and her family moved to California, I feared our friendship might fade, but we continued to exchange books, stories, and life experiences. Every year or two, she returned to Michigan, and we found each other. She suffered a bout with cancer, and then her husband also; I experienced a series of difficult relationships before meeting my husband who she understood immediately and embraced wholeheartedly. We don’t talk as often as we would like, but when we do, real life surfaces quickly—we are back at the table, reading to each other, telling each other about our work and passions.

From that first evening, drinking red wine on the Riverwalk, she has guided me in ways I would not have otherwise found, and she has supported me in the wonder of writing. She has believed in me, and that has become a model for how I hope to teach developing writers. Now, every time I am invited to read from one of my own books (seven and counting) or talk about the value of writing, Ruth is at my shoulder, Ruth’s word are in my mind. I feel her insisting on my best. I may not always meet her expectations, but I wouldn’t even have them without her voice in my being.

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Thank you to Amy and to those others who have already submitted your Accidental Mentor stories about one of the women in your life who has inspired you, helped you, guided you, or positively impacted who you are today. I’m still hoping to receive more stories from you. If you haven’t submitted yours yet, please get it to me as soon as possible. Here’s more information:

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At the time I met her, I was a young working mother with anxious doubts of my ability to pull off the Supermom schtick so many of my generation seemed to expect. How could I be the nurturing, bring- the-cupcakes-to-homeroom mom while also be the confident businesswoman who flies to New York for the day? I mused about this in meetings where PowerPoint presentations droned on endlessly while I tried to will my eyes to stay open after nights of children’s bad dreams or wet beds.

Invited by a friend to an interesting sounding women’s circle, I didn’t suspect that the friendship I found there would be life-altering. I wended my way down the ceramic tiled stairway into a musty smelling basement, nervous at my first foray into a Unitarian Universalist church. My anxiety disappeared as Joanne, the leader of the group, introduced me to women of varying ages as they entered, all warmly welcoming. That circle of free spirits immediately became a sanctuary, a place where I could share openly my vulnerability and my determination.

It was in that circle often led by Joanne, that I began to learn to love not only the feminine divine spirit within me, but also my female body, which had frequently been my nemesis. Standing up proudly and running her hands down her full-figured body, Joanne admitted her practice of standing before a full-length mirror, completely and unapologetically naked, determined to love her body despite the seeming betrayal of aging flesh. “We must love our bodies,” she admonished us. “We must believe in ourselves, even if no one else does.” I listened, considered, and learned.

It was Joanne who became my accidental mentor and lifelong friend when she recognized something in me that reminded her of her own journey, a journey toward becoming a strong, confident but nurturing woman.

In her sunny breakfast nook, we would have wide-ranging and hours long conversations about everything from world affairs to our shared love of fiction. Often her two cats would stalk us from their perches on high kitchen shelves. She would talk to them, not in a sweet high-pitched voice, but instead with a dry, sarcastic tone as she called them “cold, arrogant, bags of fur”.

That day as she was brewing tea and filling a small plate with my favorite soft oatmeal cookies, I told her that I was having second thoughts about my career as a corporate trainer. She turned with an amused look on her face, her blue eyes alight.

“Well, I’m not surprised. You have so much more to offer the world.” she said smiling.

Warm pride filled me, but also a bit of fear. “What do you think I have to offer the world?”

Joanne set my teacup in front of me and sat down, her face reflecting her caring attention. “You’ve got many gifts. So, you can take those skills anywhere. But where do you want to make a difference in the world?”

“Well, I’m thinking about ministry, “I said tentatively.

Joanne’s face showed her delight, “I was hoping you’d say that.”

The next few years were not easy as I made my way toward my goal. There were many more times of sleepless nights, and difficult days doubting my ability to complete my journey to ministry. But whenever I reached out to Joanne, she would once again remind me that whatever I wanted to be, if I believed in myself, I could make it happen.

At my ordination, Joanne gifted me with one of the many small, artistic objects that I remembered from her own collection: a bright blue ceramic Egyptian cat representing protection. It has graced my office shelves ever since reminding me of a cat’s arrogance, the epitome of self-love and determination.

We stayed in touch, visiting whenever I was able to get back to Ohio. Her continued interest in my unfolding journey into whom I had become meant the world to me. Many years later, when I lived in another city, I learned of her decline with age and a move into assisted living. I arranged to go visit a couple of months later.

I came upon her sitting quietly staring out the window in her small, overcrowded room. When she looked up, her face clouded with confusion for a moment, then broke into a joyful smile of recognition. As we talked, I noticed her sagging shoulders and sad eyes, no longer her former enthusiastic self. When I asked her about her adjustment to her new life in this facility, she shook her head with resignation. She shared with me in a no- nonsense familiar tone that she had come to the “end”. When I questioned what this meant, she just shook her head and said, “I’m done.” She knew what she wanted.

The next day, when I arrived for another visit, I found her lying in bed, eyes closed, two nurses hovering, anxiously trying to get a response. “Joanne! Joanne, can you hear us?” She was breathing, but unresponsive. They told me that she had a “do not resuscitate order” and that if I wanted to say good-bye, now was the time.

I sat beside her and held her hand, telling her how much I loved her and what she had given to me over the long years of our friendship. Tears rolled down my face as I held on tightly, hoping to see her eyes open again. But slowly, I felt her life’s energy leaving this world and leaving me. The honor of being with her at that moment did not escape me.

Now and then, when my spirit is flagging, my eye catches on the brilliant blue of the Egyptian cat statue, staring down at me from a shelf with its’ determined eyes. It reminds me, as Joanne often did, that despite whatever obstacle I’m facing, if I believe in myself, I can find the determination and self-confidence of a haughty cat.

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Share YOUR Accidental Mentor stories

Thank you to Amy and to those others who have already submitted your Accidental Mentor stories about one of the women in your life who has inspired you, helped you, guided you, or positively impacted who you are today. I’m still hoping to receive more stories from you. If you haven’t submitted yours yet, please get it to me as soon as possible. Here’s more information:

I want to start a movement where women are appreciated for what they contribute to the world just by being themselves. It’s about time, don’t you think? Won’t you join me?

I’ve published stories about sixty-seven women who made me who I am today. Now, it’s your turn! How many women can you honor with your words? You only need to write about one of them to submit! Who would you like to honor?

You can find everything you need to know about submitting in the Accidental Mentors Submission Guidelines:

If you’re an experienced writer, you’re welcome to jump right in and submit whenever you’re ready. If you’re less confident about your writing skills, I’m here to lend you a hand.   

Crafting your best stories

To help you craft your best stories, I published a free four-part series called “Accidental Mentors Story Craft,” based on what I learned about writing Accidental Mentors.

Even if you’ve never written anything like this before, by the time you finish this series, I’m confident that you’ll feel good enough about your writing that you’ll submit your story(ies) for publication on Accidental Mentors. I can’t wait to read them!

NOTE: Before submitting, authors must be a monthly, annual, or founding member paid subscriber to Accidental Mentors.

Subscribe now

If you’re not able to pay for a subscription at this time, please don’t let that stop you from submitting. Contact us at submissions@accidentalmentors.com to let us know you’d like to submit, and we’ll figure it out.

The time is now! Let’s spread some inspiration and appreciation into the world. Share your accidental mentor stories today!

Annette

I want to start a movement where women are appreciated for what they contribute to the world just by being themselves. It’s about time! Won’t you join me?

I’ve published stories about sixty-seven women who made me who I am today. Now, it’s your turn! How many women can you honor with your words?

You can find everything you need to know about submitting in the Accidental Mentors Submission Guidelines:

If you’re an experienced writer, you’re welcome to jump right in and submit whenever you’re ready. If you’re less confident about your writing skills, I’m here to lend you a hand.   

Crafting your best stories

To help you craft your best stories, I’m offering a free newsletter series called “Accidental Mentors Story Craft,” based on what I learned about writing Accidental Mentors. I’ll publish each post in the series on Thursdays between September 21 and October 12, 2023.

This series covers four steps to crafting a great Accidental Mentors story:

• Connect with the heart of your story to find the lesson

• Write scenes to transport readers into the story

• Incorporate sensory details to turn two dimensions into three

• Revise, revise, revise to make it your best work

Even if you’ve never written anything like this before, by the time you finish this series, I’m confident that you’ll feel good enough about your writing that you’ll submit your story(ies) for publication on Accidental Mentors. I can’t wait to read them!

NOTE: Before submitting, authors must be a monthly, annual, or founding member paid subscriber to Accidental Mentors.

Subscribe now

If you’re not able to pay for a subscription at this time, please don’t let that stop you from submitting. Contact us at submissions@accidentalmentors.com to let us know you’d like to submit, and we’ll figure it out.

The time is now! Let’s spread some inspiration and appreciation into the world. Share your accidental mentor stories today!

Annette

Wrapping up

Sixty-five years, sixty-five women. That was my original goal. As it turned out, three years have passed since I originally conceived this project. It’s been quite a journey!

I published my first post about the concept of Accidental Mentors on May 24th, 2023. And here we are 106 days and 90 posts later. Ultimately, I wrote about sixty-seven women (I miscounted yesterday when I told you it was sixty-six! Whoops!), one bear, seven decades, and a few miscellaneous subjects.

I’m quite proud of this body of work, but most of all, I’m grateful for having been blessed with so many incredible role models.

In my original post, I wrote:

My goal in sharing these stories and reflections is to remind us that we are but a collection of interactions, influences, and inspirations. My hope is that in reading these short pieces, you will be reminded of how important each interaction we have is—that just like a monarch butterfly laying eggs on a milkweed plant, what you leave behind is just as important as what you take with you.

So many women gifted me their wisdom, creativity, and experience so I could grow into who I am today. I’m thankful for each one of them.

Reflections on the journey

This project ended up being much harder than I thought it would be. Creating the list was the easy part. When I describe this project, a common response is, “I’m not even sure I know sixty-five women.” My guess is that they do—and you do—know enough women to represent each year of your life, whatever your age is. I believe we’re all who we are because of those who have influenced us, inspired us, guided us, held us, loved us. And I believe we often don’t take the time to acknowledge those lessons and those people, especially the women.

I hope this project let the women in my life know that I see them and appreciate them, before that is, someone might say something similar at their memorial service. It’s sad to me that three of the women, Carolyn, Hope, and Jeanne died before I could share their pieces with them. That provided me with extra motivation to finish the project.

So, yes, creating the list was no problem. Figuring out what to say about each woman? That was hard. Each piece required me to reflect more deeply than I had imagined on that relationship. Who were/are they in my life? What made them special to me? What did I remember about them? Was there a singular lesson/experience that stood out? What could I share publicly without betraying confidences?

When I started, I wrote general feelings, impressions, and thoughts about each person. A year and a half ago, I had written something about all sixty-five on my original list and thought I was done. I didn’t know what I was going to do with the project—how I might share it—but I felt it was complete. Little did I know what letting it marinate would do.

Enough procrastinating, despite the circumstances

Although losing three women motivated me to stop procrastinating and publish, I was still nervous about sharing the project. I had all kinds of concerns. How would the women feel about the project and their piece in it? What was the best way to get these stories out there? Would anyone else care about reading them? Were they good enough to share?

In early May of this year, I got another nudge from the universe to get my butt back in the writing chair. I recently published a piece about two fabulous doctors who guided me through a case of endometrial cancer five years ago. What I didn’t share is that a year after that diagnosis, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Thankfully, it was also caught very early, so after a single mastectomy, I was cancer-free again.

My mother always said, if there’s two, there’ll be three, and she was right. In January of this year (2023), my oncologist found a tumor in my remaining breast, which required had a second mastectomy.

Even though all three tumors were determined to be unrelated—except I guess for the fact that they were all in my body—my doctor recommended a short course of preventative chemo. After considerable contemplation, research, and discussion, I decided to accept her recommendation. My first infusion was scheduled for May 26.

When I looked at the calendar, I realized that my treatment was going to run about sixty-five days. Hmmm, what else had the number sixty-five in it, I asked myself?  It was at that moment I accepted that this was not a coincidence but a sign. I took a deep breath and designed my Substack website.

I decided I would start publishing Accidental Mentors on the day of my first infusion and publish concurrently with my course of chemo. I reasoned it would give me something positive to focus on—something other than the toxins coursing through my body. I was mostly right about that.

From a well-laid plan to perseverance

For the first couple weeks, I scheduled a week’s worth of posts and sat back until the next set was due. That’s how I imagined the whole summer going. I soon realized, however, that I couldn’t sustain that schedule.

Other than the first few posts that had already undergone substantial revision before this summer (and still needed more), the rest of what I’d written more than a year ago was, in the words of author Anne Lamott, “a shitty first draft.” The pieces contained lots of words but no scenes, sensory descriptions, or lively examples of the lessons I learned. They weren’t good enough to share.

That meant it wasn’t just a matter of a little polishing before scheduling each piece. Instead, I needed to deconstruct and reconstruct each one. I had to rethink the lesson I wanted to illustrate. Then I had to rummage through my memory, put myself back into the time I was writing about, and conjure up something the woman said or did that help convey what they’d taught me. Finally, I had to translate that into a picture my readers could see.

This process is a deeply spiritual journey as well as a writer’s process. Revisiting the times, places, and people can be emotional, as well as gratifying. My memory is not always as good as I wished it was, so coming up with examples sometimes taxed it beyond its capacity. Sometimes I couldn’t pull up an actual conversation, so I had to rely on what my memoir mentor, Anne-Marie calls “likely details.” I worked hard, however, to stay loyal to the truth as I remembered it.

I succeeded in some pieces and not as much in others, but overall, I’m pleased I took the time to revise and revise again.

Having an inhouse editor!

Thank the universe for my incredible editor wife. Wendy read and commented on each post (sometimes multiple times) with everything from where a comma goes (or doesn’t) to her gentle critique that I hadn’t yet demonstrated the lesson I’d named in what I’d written. Sometimes I argued but that rarely got me very far. She was right more often than not. I couldn’t have made it through without her.

When I felt most beleaguered by the chemo treatments and everything required more revision than I’d anticipated, I changed my publishing schedule to take weekends off. And then, when I couldn’t get a piece finished in time, I added in a few more random days off. I’m glad I gave myself this permission and happy Wendy supported each change.

When I almost stopped

Although I had my last infusion in July, that’s when this project began to feel like a slog. In fact, on July 31, I realized I still had twenty more women to write about. I wasn’t sure I could finish. I might have read into Wendy’s expression of surprise when I told her how much of the project remained as she got ready to return to school, but I’m not convinced she thought I could finish it either.

Maybe I needed to come back to it when I felt better, I thought, when I had more brain power to give to it, when I wasn’t pressuring myself to publish pieces that required so much work.

But then one of you who’d read a piece that inspired you, would make a comment, send me an email, or share a post on Facebook about how something I wrote touched you, and, magically, I felt a renewed surge of motivation. You made it all worthwhile. Thank you!

And one by one, day-by-day, we—Wendy, you, and I—did it! I couldn’t be more pleased!

How you can catch posts you missed

If you missed any posts along the way, or if like my dear friend Sharon, you’d like to reread them for whatever reason, here they all are in chronological order. I encourage you to share any of them that move you.

Accidental Mentors Table of Contents

I would love to hear from you!

Next week, I’ll share my plans for what’s next with Accidental Mentors and with my writing in general.

Between now and then, I want to hear from you. I would love to hear about how this project has inspired you. What have you enjoyed about? What, if anything, has bothered you about it? Who and what has it caused you to think about, remember, smile about? I’d love to hear anything and everything you’d like to share!

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Thank you again for all your support! It means the world to me.

Introduction: Who and what are Accidental Mentors?

The 1950s

1. Keep loving and keep hoping: Helen Marguerite Zentner Smith Marquis (1913-2002)

2. Grief doesn’t ever let us go: Marlee Lou Smith (1937-1949)

3. Defying societal expectations of what it means to be a lady: Wilma Zentner Scholbe (1909-1998)

4. Listen to the stories of our elders: Anne Marie Cheff Marquis (1888-1974)

The 1960s

5. Bridging differences across a chain link fence: Margo

6. Being trusted makes a person trustworthy: Mary Jo Cowan (1934-1981)

7. My surrogate healer: Carolyn Fugedy (1932-2021)

8. Expanding my definition of creativity: Leanna

9. Deep listening opens doors: Sister Stephen

10. Embrace everything life has to offer: Mildred Marquis (Sister Patricia Anne) (1909-1965)

11. A tragedy that saved the lives of countless others: Susan

12. Bringing me closer to understanding myself: Nancy

The 1970s

13. Never give up on those you love: Joy Christi

14. Coming home to myself: Renee

15. Navigating through one's Black Sabbath: Loretta Kroetsch (1955-1990)

16. Let's try it! Sister Eileen Rice, OP (1944-1994)

17. College-bound: Pam

18. My point guard for life: Lisa

19. Not all mentees apply all the lessons of their mentors: Carol

20. There is no deeper grief: Kim Annette Bow (1974-1975)

21. Lessons of Faithfulness: Clare Shaw (1950-2019)

22. The Power of Persistence: Bonnie

23. Music that changed everything for me: Holly Near

24. It's all about relationships: Susan Walker (1943-1997)

The 1980s

25. Sometimes it’s the mundane that illuminates the way: Anne Sutherland (Maryanne Beaumont Sutherland -1948-2010)

26. Appreciate a person's strengths as well as challenges: Elaine

27. Look up to the stars: Bobbe

28. Determination to be your best: Kim

29. It's all about faithfulness: Sharon

30. The mentee becomes a mentor: Valerie

31. The highest degree of trust: Rianne

The 1990s

32. How to live a life of faith with integrity: Charlotte

33. Learning to relish appreciation: Gini

34. Asking the right questions is often more important than finding the answers: The Rev Dr. Carter Heyward

The 2000s

35. Sharing the salt of the earth: Janice Marie

36. What we don't know: Anne-Michelle

37. Resilience takes commitment: Bebyion

38. The definition of loyalty: Marcia

39. It's a woman's world: Amy

40. Showing up can make all the difference: The Rev. Jeanne Marie Pupke (1955-2022)

41. Doing what needs doing: Regina

42. Relationship building takes time and patience: Nan

43. The power of touch: Sam

44. Heaven or hell? It's our choice: Linda Kraeger (1947-2008)

45. Speaking the truth in love: Rev. Dr. Hope Johnson (195x-2020)

46. Letting it Go: Sue

47. Saying yes no matter what: Denise

48. I have a dream: Joanne Bland

49. Doing what needs to be done: Dr. Shirley Cherry

50. Generosity as a spiritual practice: Wendy

51. Accepting no for an answer: Terasa

52. Never stop learning: Sue

The 2010

53. Sharing life's most intimate moments: VJ

54. Getting it done: Lisa

55. Learning to write is a collective process: Meg

56. Sharing myself: Kassie

57. Giving feedback that can be heard: Anne-Marie

58. Writing to inspire: Amy

59. Uncovering secrets to claim the truth: Ann

60. Keeping love at the center of our relationships: Gloria

61. Living with passion and authenticity: Charlotte

62. Speaking up against the isms: Anita

63. Accessible to all: Sally

64. Diving into the unknown: Jan

65. Lessons from the Zombie Apocalypse: Katharine

66. Medical care the way it's supposed to be: Drs. Shannon Weatherford and Ceceila Boardman

Bonus

A Big Job for a Little Bear: Earth Bear

Epilogue: The circuitous journey from idea to online

I’d heard the story of Henry Box Brown. Who in Richmond hasn’t? He was the man who escaped slavery by arranging to have himself mailed from Richmond to Philadelphia in a box. That took a lot of guts. There’s a monument to him along the James River in downtown Richmond. My human mom took me for a walk there and so I got to see it. That’s where I first heard about how smart and brave he was to travel all that way in a box so he could be free.  

When I learned about Mr. Brown, I never imagined myself being mailed in a box from Richmond to Brooklyn. Yikes! I know it wasn’t as scary as what he went through, because if he got caught, there’s no telling what horrible things would have happened to him, but it was still scary to me.

A Little Bit about Me

Before I tell you my story, you should know that I’m a bear. Some would call me a stuffed animal, but I prefer to call myself a cuddly miniature bear. My name is Earth, or if you want to know my full name, it’s Earth Bear. I’m brown like the earth and that’s how I got my name. My (human) mom adopted me a long time ago in Nashville, Tennessee.

At the time, I lived in a store with my friends Sky Bear and Sea Bear. Sky Bear was blue, and Sea Bear was green. We made a striking trio. Sadly, they were adopted by others, and I’ve lost track of them. Bears like us don’t have social media to keep in touch, so I hope they’re living good lives and are as loved and happy as I am.

Meeting a New Friend

Now, back to my story. It all started when my mom decided to give me a front row seat to all her adventures. For many years, I sat on the dashboard of her car so I could see all the sights wherever she went. And she drove a lot! All around Michigan, North Carolina, Tennessee, Virginia, South Carolina, Georgia, and even way across the country to Portland, Oregon.

I had to close my eyes a few times when we crossed the Rocky Mountains. Those were some steep and curvy roads! But we made it!

In addition to the mountains, I got to see giant redwood trees in Northern California, the Pacific Ocean in Oregon, a family of eagles in Washington, and a colorful rocky beach in Montana. I loved every adventure.

When my mom got a cool camper van, I got to sit way up high on that dashboard. From there it felt like I could see forever! When we traveled in the van, we stayed together day and night, so I never felt lonely. I really liked that part.

She even took me on airplanes a couple of times when she flew across a whole lot of water. When we finally landed, I got to see England, Germany, Austria, and even Switzerland.

I love to travel, especially when I’m not stuffed in a bag and can actually see where I’m going! I’m not complaining. I feel safe and warm when Mom puts me in a bag, but I do love to see the sights.

I was on Mom’s dashboard when I first met Janice. Whenever Janice visited my mom, the first thing she did when she got settled into the front seat of Mom’s car was reach for me. She’d pull me down off my perch and give me a hug.

“Hi, Earth,” she’d say, in the sweetest, most loving voice. “How you doing?” She’d then let me settle in her lap for the rest of the ride. I always felt special when Janice paid such tender attention to me and so we developed a bond, one that held us both even when she had to go home.

A Sad Day

One day, I heard some terrible news. Mom didn’t tell me directly, but I overheard her talking on her phone. Janice’s twin sister had died. I had met her sister a lot of times because they often traveled together. I knew that a lot of people couldn’t tell them apart, but I could. For one thing, Janice often wore orange and brown clothes, kind of like me, while her sister wore turquoise and other blue colors, kind of like Sea and Sky Bear. But more than that, her sister seemed like a very outgoing human, while Janice is quieter and shyer. Maybe that’s why she connected with me. I’m kind of shy too.

I knew that losing her sister would break Janice’s heart into a thousand pieces. I longed to be there for her—to let her hug me and hold me as she said goodbye to her sister. But what could I do? I’m just a little bear. I couldn’t even call her on the telephone to let her know how sad I was. That didn’t stop me from crying though. I cried and cried all day, even if no one could tell but me. 

A Scary Proposal

A few days after I had cried my eyes out, Mom brought me into the house. She held me close, looked me right in the eye, and said to me, “Earth Bear, I want to send you on a very important mission. Do you think you might be up for it?”

I looked back at her with my little brown eyes but didn’t say a word.

“I would like to pack you up in a box and mail you to Brooklyn to be with our Sister Janice during this difficult time. What do you think about that?”

I was jumping up and down inside and wished I could shout, “Yes!” in human, but all I could do was hope she knew how much I’d like to do that.

Somehow, Mom must have figured out that it would be OK with me, because before I knew it, she wrapped me in orange tissue paper and slipped me into a small box just big enough to hold my little brown body. She then read me the note she put in the box on top of me.

The note was to Janice and said that I had traveled to Brooklyn to be there for her to hug and to give her comfort for as long as she needed me. When I heard those words, I straightened up my shoulders and sucked in my little tummy. I felt quite important and wanted to look my best for my dear Janice.  

From Door to Door

Even though I had traveled to a lot of places, the trip ahead scared me. I couldn’t imagine what it was going be like to be alone in a box for all that time—or even how long I’d need to be in the box. Would I get bounced around like Mr. Brown did on his trip to Philadelphia?

From what I’d heard, he and his box traveled by wagon, railroad, steamboat, wagon again, railroad, ferry, railroad, and finally delivery wagon. Would I travel on all those things? Would some careless human put my box upside down so I’d have to stand on my head for part of the trip like Mr. Brown did? Would I even make it to Brooklyn without getting hurt or lost or smashed?

I trusted that my mom knew what she was doing but still, I called on Mr. Brown’s spirit to give me courage.

Before I knew it, I heard Mom say goodbye to me through all my wrapping (I think she was crying but I couldn’t tell for sure). She closed the box, wrapped it tightly with tape, and handed me to another human at the Fed Ex store.

Here we go, I said to myself. My little heart started to race so I took some deep breaths and prayed for the best.  I’m sure Mom was praying too.

I got thrown around a couple of times, but thankfully, I mostly stayed upright. And although each time I got moved I braced myself for the worst, I got to lie there quietly in my box for most of the trip.

When my box settled down on what I hoped was Janice’s doorstep, I breathed a big sigh of relief. Henry Box Brown’s trip took twenty-seven hours, which was pretty good for mail delivery in the mid-1800s. If I counted right, mine only took sixteen—sixteen very long hours—but I made it. Now, I just had to wait for Janice to find me and take me upstairs to her apartment. I couldn’t wait!

The Surprise Opening

When Janice opened my box, I almost jumped into her arms, but I was afraid that would scare her, so I waited quietly while she read Mom’s note. Then, as she reached her hand into my box and slowly, gently, removed the orange tissue paper, my whole body tingled as her fingers grasped my fuzzy fur.

A tear dripped down her face right onto me, but I didn’t mind. That’s what I came here for—to comfort Janice in this heartbreaking time.

After she looked deeply into my eyes for what seemed like forever, she hugged me close and held me there. I think she was very glad I came. That made me so pleased.

Then after she had squeezed me for what seemed like a long time, she sat me down on her lap, took out her phone, and texted my mom. I watched as she typed:

Earth! Here!

I just burst into tears of joy!

Sister, you know what Earth Bear means to me…

She will accompany me beautifully.

I will hold her in precious care till she returns home to you.

Love,

Sister Janice

I could only imagine how relieved Mom was to receive this text. She wrote back:

If I can’t be with you, I figured Earth could help! Love you!

And then Janice replied:

Best Gift! My heart is singing.

The orange tissue paper did not go unnoticed, either.

And I breathed a huge sigh of relief. Not only had I survived my journey, but Mom and I made Janice happy. My little body tingled with joy.  

My New Life

Janice doesn’t drive a car, so she doesn’t have a dashboard for me to sit on, but that doesn’t mean we don’t get around. When Janice and I travel, she tucks me into her great big purse and positions me so I can see everything. And, oh my, I’ve traveled to all kinds of new places with Janice, including Italy, the Netherlands, and even Jamaica! And yes, I wear a mask when I travel, too, so I don’t catch any bad viruses.

Janice pulls me out when we’re on planes so I can look out the window. WOW! That’s something. I love looking down on the clouds. They look so soft and cuddly that I want to jump right into them! But I’m not sure they’d catch me, and I don’t want to fall all the way through—that would be bad. So, I just imagine landing in those fluffy clouds and enjoy being in Janice’s arms instead.

The first time Janice and I visited Mom back in Richmond, Mom assured us that we could go home to Brooklyn together. I know that made Janice glad because she still wanted me around, at least for a while.

Another New Friend

Although Janice tried to keep me to herself, one day her granddaughter found me peeking out from Janice’s bag. From then on, whenever Janice and her granddaughter see each other, I spend some time with her, too.

She has a wild imagination, so when she plays with me, I get to be whoever I want to be. It’s very fun!

In fact, she made me my very own nightgown so I have something special to wear when we sleep together. It’s brown with blue, pink, and violet swirls, and the best part is that it has unicorns on it. I love it!

Finding My Purpose

One time, after I had lived with Janice for a couple of years, Mom and I got to spend the night together. It was so good to see her again. She put my nightgown on just like Janice’s granddaughter does (although I have to admit, Mom’s not as good at dressing me).

It was nice to be cuddled up to Mom. I miss her sometimes. Janice and I travel a lot, but we don’t go camping like I used to with Mom. I miss being in the woods where there are lots of trees and other bears. Don’t tell Mom but when we’d go camping, I used to sneak out in the middle of the night to spend time with them. It was nice to be around bears, even though they were much bigger than me. But it’s OK that I don’t go camping anymore because I know I’m doing important things in my new life.

During our night together, Mom asked me how it was going and if I liked living in Brooklyn with Janice. Although I couldn’t speak to her in human, I could still speak to her in the way that little bears like me speak to people. I told her I did like living there and that I felt like Janice really enjoyed having me with her.

I told her that Janice is still so hurt about losing her sister and that sometimes when she holds me tight, I know she’s thinking about her. She even takes me to the cemetery so we can visit her sister’s spirit. I could tell this made Mom sad to hear because she misses Janice’s sister too. But I could also tell it made Mom thankful that I was there with Janice.

Then Mom asked me the most important question: what would I think about making my home with Janice my forever home? Mom said she’d miss not having me living with her again, but Janice loved me so much and maybe it would be better if I lived with her permanently.

Then she looked down and got a faraway look on her face. “When the time comes,” she said, “and Janice leaves this earth and joins her sister, you could live with her granddaughter and comfort her when she’s missing her grandmother.”

That was a lot to think about.

I knew that comforting people is what I was meant to do, and so, even though I liked living with my mom, I said yes.  

When Mom told Janice, I thought Janice was going to jump for joy. That made me very excited.

And so that’s what happened. I live in Brooklyn full-time now, travel wherever Janice travels, play with her granddaughter when we get together, and visit Mom when we can (even if it’s on Zoom!). I feel very loved by all the people in my life.

I heard that Mr. Brown found a new life too. After he arrived in his box in Philadelphia, he spoke out against slavery, published books, traveled to England, and eventually got married and began a new family. He liked to sing and perform magic. He returned to this country with his family and put on magic acts and sang with the Brown Family Singers. I wish I could have seen him perform. I bet he was very good. I am delighted he made a better life for himself by being daring enough to put himself in a box to freedom.

I’m also happy to have found the best use of me.

One of the things I’ve learned about humans is that they often have a hard time figuring out what to do when someone is sad, especially after someone has died. They want to say or do the right thing, but they can’t figure out what that is. That’s where a cuddly miniature bear like me comes in. We can be there for some people in ways other humans can’t. Give us a try sometime and see what happens. Maybe you’ll help another bear like me find their purpose too.

That’s a big thing for a little bear.

Final post:

On Friday I’ll share an epilogue to the series with exciting news about what’s next. I hope you’ll stay tuned.

Annette

In 2016, after two D&Cs and related biopsies, neither of which indicated cancer, I continued to have issues with vaginal bleeding. “Let’s just take it all out,” my gynecologist Dr. Weatherford said, “so you won’t have any more problems.”

That sounded good to me. I‘d never had the opportunity to have children in my younger life. In the 1970s and 80s, when I was in my prime child-bearing years, artificial insemination wasn’t an option for lesbians. Although there were times when I wanted kids, I chose not to become pregnant in the traditional way.  Now, post-menopausal, I knew that was never going to happen, so I had no problem losing organs that no longer served a purpose, especially if it would make the bleeding stop and prevent issues in the future.

The surgery went well, and I felt fine. When I received a phone call from the doctor’s office that Dr. Weatherford want to see me, I knew it might not be good news. My wife Wendy insisted that she come along. I’m grateful she did.

As soon as Dr. Weatherford entered the room, I knew my instincts were right.

“I’m going to tell you straight out,” she said, before even sitting down, “It’s cancer.”

“It is?” I said. I could feel the expression of surprise form on my face: raised eyebrows, wide eyes, open mouth, as if everything moved in slow motion. Wendy and I exchanged glances. How could it be cancer? The biopsies had come back clean. What is she talking about? Did I hear her right?

In the few seconds it took for her to sit down, my mind began spinning out of control. It took all I could to refocus my attention when Dr. Weatherford began talking again.

Much to her surprise and theirs, the pathologists who examined my uterine tissue found a malignant tumor hidden in the muscle. The biopsies missed it because it technically wasn’t in the uterus.  

I could tell from the way she told me—the pained expression on her face, and the tenderness with which she explained what had happened—that the news was as heart-wrenching for her as she knew it would be to me. I loved her for that.

I felt a small sense of relief when she said the tumor was stage 1 and probably wouldn’t require chemo.

“Well, that’s something,” I said.

Dr. Weatherford referred me to Dr. Boardman, a gynecologic oncologist and colleague she’s known since medical school. “Our kids were in daycare together,” she said with a caring smile as she handed me her contact information.

“I’m sorry,” she reiterated, as we opened the door to leave.

At my first appointment, Dr. Boardman, sporting a skirt and red cowboy boots with her white medical coat, immediately recognized and acknowledged my fear. At the same time, and even more importantly, she sized up my capacity (and my wife Wendy’s) to be involved in decisions about my treatment. I could feel the tension leave my body. Not all of it, mind you, but enough to allow me to hear what she was saying.

“Typically, when we know there’s a tumor present, we’ll take a few lymph nodes to make sure the cancer hasn’t spread.  Because we didn’t know the tumor was there, that didn’t happen. I would like to go back in to do that,” Dr. Boardman said. “That will tell us what we’re dealing with.

But she didn’t stop there. She outlined every other option available to me, too. At one point, she left the room and came back with charts showing various treatment choices and their potential benefits and risks. And she calmly and systematically explained each one.  

“I recommend the surgery, but the decision is up to you,” she said.

A few days later, when I told her that I didn’t want another surgery, Dr. Boardman respected my decision to choose a less invasive option. Because she engendered so much trust, I knew she would not let me make a poor decision.

In the end, I had four targeted radiation treatments and then regular follow up exams to monitor how things were going. I felt supported, encouraged, and involved in every step of my treatment.

Dr. Boardman and Dr. Weatherford both taught me what to expect from a doctor, what quality of care is possible, and how to be involved in my care as an active participant rather than a bystander. I hope that anyone who faces difficult medical decisions has doctors like these two women to hold their hands.

I was fortunate to have a duo of amazing doctors during this challenging time. I’ve called Dr. Weatherford the best doctor I’ve ever had. Over my years of seeing her, she was caring, professional, and human in a way that so many doctors aren’t. She took time to interact with me not only about my health but about my life as well. As a result, I’ve always felt that she knew me better than any other doctor and that I could trust her with anything I needed to tell her.

Although my time in Dr. Boardman’s care wasn’t as long, she took the time to make sure I understood all the options available to me. At a frightening time, she didn’t only explain the details of the treatment she preferred but gave me details about all the alternatives. I felt comforted by her expertise and professionalism.

After five years with no sign of the cancer returning, I completed my care with Dr. Boardman. She referred me back to Dr. Weatherford for my ongoing gynecological care. Unfortunately, when I tried to schedule an appointment to see Dr. Weatherford again, I learned that she was retiring from her practice to work for Doctors Without Borders. I guess I can’t complain about that, but still…

Of all the women in this book, Dr. Weatherford and Dr. Boardman are among those I know the least on a personal level. However, they’ve had a monumental impact on my life. In deciding which of them to write about, I chose to include them both, even though that pushes this project past my goal of sixty-five women to sixty-six. They’re worth it.  

Next post:

Two months before, when I announced my resignation from my position as LGBTQ and Multicultural Ministries Director with the Unitarian Universalist Association, I took another job—a part-time program director position with James River Writers (JRW), a well-respected writing organization in Richmond, Virginia. In many ways, it was a dream come true. I’d get to work with writers, focus my energy on the literary world, and use my skills to help build a community of writers—all things I knew I’d love doing. This meant, however, that for three months, I would have to juggle both jobs.

When my wife, Wendy, got accepted into a writing workshop with renowned author and poet Marge Piercy in Wellfleet, less than a half hour from Provincetown, I decided to go along so I could do my juggling in a beautiful place while spending time with Wendy when we could squeeze it in. A Sunday in Provincetown seemed like a perfect way to enjoy a day off together in our all-too-busy lives. It didn’t turn out as we expected. And neither did the start of my new job.

Wendy and I arrived in Provincetown early to enjoy a day playing tourist in this LGBTQ-friendly seaside town. As we strolled around taking in the sights, I noticed women, two-by-two, carrying rainbow flags between them as they strode through downtown.

“Why do lesbians have to look so dour when they march?” I joked with Wendy, not really looking for an answer—just sharing an observation. “Why can’t they at least smile when they pass people? Aren’t we supposed to be gay?” We laughed and kept walking.

It didn’t take us long, however, to notice that no one was smiling in Provincetown. And we soon learned why. Earlier that morning, a gunman massacred 49 people and wounded 53 more at Pulse, a gay nightclub in Orlando. Because Wendy and I had agreed to go on a news blackout the night before so we could enjoy the day without the world spoiling our mood, we hadn’t heard about this horrific event. But the news broke through anyway, and our day of fun turned into one of protests and vigils.

When Katharine, my new supervisor and JRW’s Executive Director, heard about the tragedy in Orlando, I didn’t even have to ask. She reached out to me. “I’m so sorry about what happened,” she said. “Take whatever time you need.”

Even though I barely knew Katharine, I could tell by the tone of her voice that she meant that both personally and professionally. Personally, this tragedy devastated Wendy and me, as it did LGBTQ people and allies all over the world. Professionally, it meant I would not be leaving my full-time position quietly.

In a little over a week, an entire community of Unitarian Universalists would come together for our annual General Assembly in Columbus, Ohio. It was my job to make sure that LGBTQ attendees had the emotional and spiritual support they needed to get through this. I knew that would consume all of my time for the next couple of weeks. Katharine’s support meant I could set these priorities without feeling as if I was letting her down.

Read a poem Wendy wrote at the Marge Piercy workshop about the shooting at Pulse: “Weeks before the First Anniversary of Marriage Equality.”

When my full-time job finally wrapped up and I could focus all my energy on my new position, I already appreciated my new supervisor. Although Katharine had ultimate responsibility as Executive Director, she treated me and the membership manager, Phil, as colleagues and collaborators. She encouraged creativity and welcomed my ideas for process improvements along the way. I looked forward to days where laughter flowed at easily as coffee might in other workplaces. I would often return home from a day at the office exhausted and energized at the same time. I must admit, though, that I couldn’t always follow the conversation.

Katharine and Phil regularly exchanged updates about young adult authors, new fantasy books, the latest mythical creatures, publishing contracts, and scandals in the publishing world. Well-connected through the social media platform formerly known as Twitter, they exposed me to a whole new world, especially for this devoted nonfiction enthusiast.

“I don’t know how to tell you this,” I said interrupting their banter one day, “but I don’t really know what a zombie is.”

Katharine looked at me like I had just confessed that I had never seen a book. Phil started to laugh, waiting for Katharine to handle it. When she sufficiently collected herself, all she could utter was, “Wait! What? You don’t?”

“No,” I said. “I’ve heard about them, but I’ve never watched a zombie movie or read a zombie book, so I don’t really know what the big deal is about them.” I knew my admission might mean the end of my credibility with them, but feeling safe with Katharine, I took the chance.

As Katharine patiently explained the use of zombies in fiction, with Phil occasionally chiming in, it all came together. For those of you like me who don’t know and are afraid to ask, as I understand it, and don’t quote me on this, the humans in a zombie story can often survive if they use their heads and apply the appropriate tools (especially fire axes and hunting rifles).

What I came to understand about the attraction to zombies, i.e., the walking dead, is that reading about characters defeating such ghoulish foes helps prepare some readers to cope with terrifying situations by providing a greater sense of control (even if only in their imaginations) or by fostering hope that they could survive. For others, it gives them an outlet for their fear and anxiety, emotions that can feel overwhelming in the wake of horrific acts like the mass shooting at Pulse. And besides that, they’re just fun.

Throughout the rest of my time working with Katharine, zombies served as a metaphor for the things we could survive as long as we used our heads and worked together. Even our sample record in our registration and donor database became Matt Zombia—homage to my education about zombies.

It was these kinds of outrageous conversations, combined with Katharine’s genuine appreciation for my skills and expertise and her respect for me as a person and a professional, that made my four years working for her the most affirming position of my professional career.

I’ve supervised hundreds of people throughout my life and always prided myself on being a good supervisor, but Katherine taught me more about supervision in those four years than I ever learned in workshops or in practice. She modeled for me how important it is to value your employees’ input and ideas every day, to go out of your way to say thank you even when they’re just doing their jobs, to recognize the gifts each employee brings, and when appropriate, to lighten the work with humor.

I left my position with JRW to focus my attention on my passion, the Living Legacy Project, but, thanks to Katharine, I left feeling renewed and ready to embrace a new challenge.

Next post:

For 15 years, the LLP had been taking small groups of people to places central to the Movement and introducing them to foot soldiers who marched and organized in the 1950s and 60s. But this conference would be for hundreds. If we were going to pull it off, we needed professional assistance.

Janice and I knew that Jan, a colleague and professional conference planner, had the experience we lacked. If we could get her to say yes to helping us, we could breathe easier.

Janice and I prepared for the meeting. We figured she’d have a lot of questions, especially about what we were asking her to do and how much time it would take. We didn’t have those answers. We hoped we could say enough to convince her to help, but we knew a yes would take a leap of faith.

We met Jan in a common area outside her office. I don’t remember which of us made the request, but I do remember that before we had described much more than the general concept, Jan jumped in.

“Sure, I’ll help,” Jan said. Janice caught my eye. I could see she was as surprised as I was. We were certain we’d have to lay out a strong case to convince Jan to help us, so her readiness caught us off guard.

“That’s just great,” I said. I could tell that Janice was equally thrilled. “We’ll send you what we know at this point, and we can go from there.”

As we got up to leave, Jan stopped us, “You should know, though, that I have no idea what happened in Selma in 1965, or what we’ll be commemorating. In fact, to be honest with you, I’ve never even heard of Selma.”

I didn’t know what to say. I leaned against the back of the chair and almost had to sit back down. How could anyone as engaged as Jan not have heard about Selma?

“That’s OK,” Janice broke the awkward silence. “You’ll have plenty of opportunity to learn about it as we work together on the conference.”

If almost anyone else had said what Jan said, I would have discounted them and withdrawn our request. Yet there was something about Jan’s honesty and the incredible competence she had already demonstrated in previous conference planning work that endeared her to me. Maybe, I thought, more people hadn’t heard about Selma than I realized but weren’t honest enough to say so. Jan was and that fact convinced me we’d made the right choice in asking her.

It’s a decision I’ve never regretted.

Jan helped us put on a transformative conference for 500 people in Birmingham, Alabama, that has been dubbed by many as the best racial justice conference they ever attended. There’s no question it accomplished our primary goals: to remind participants of what people did in Selma in the 1960s to change the course of history and inspire them to apply those lessons to today’s work for racial justice.

Jan’s journey of discovery about the Civil Rights Movement and the impact of continued racism in this country may have begun with the 50th anniversary of the Selma to Montgomery March, but it didn’t end there. In witnessing Jan’s journey over these last few years, she’s taught me how competence doesn’t require perfect knowledge. In fact, a wise person admits what she doesn’t know, opens and commits herself to learning, and never pretends she knows more than she does.

That’s what I watch Jan do, and that’s why the Living Legacy Project Board elected her to be co-president, where she brings her acumen and experience to a dynamic civil rights organization.

Jan still doesn’t know everything, and neither do the rest of us, but together we can learn enough to make incredible things happen.

Next post:

Jeanne and I were there to honor Sally’s work advocating and fundraising for an accessible ramp so that the river could, in JROC’s words, “be accessible to all.”

“And it’s not just people who use wheelchairs,” Sally told the crowd, “It’s for people who are little unsteady on their feet, for parents with kids who have a disability. Whatever the reason, this ramp will allow them to get down to the water so they can kayak, fish, or just hang out.”

In everything she does, Sally immerses herself in the natural world. Whether it’s feeding the birds, creating a nursery for tadpoles in her backyard pond, or growing vegetables in her garden, she likes to bring nature close. But she feels most at home in rivers. Her greatest joy is shooting the Class 3 and 4 rapids in her kayak on the James or traveling to Idaho to go on a white-water rafting trip down the Snake River – an adventure that challenges even the most experienced rafters.

Sally is not like most other kayakers or river rafters, though. She does it all without the use of her legs. A teenage illness took away their use, so she navigates the world using an electric wheelchair, except, that is, when she lowers her body into a kayak. Then her arms and instinct take over as she bends the rushing water to her will.

Sally sees no barriers except the ones she hasn’t yet removed. She has successfully advocated for wheelchair accessible ramps along the James, including on one of the pedestrian bridges that spans the river in downtown Richmond. So even if a person who uses a wheelchair for mobility doesn’t care to run the rapids themselves, they can access the best viewing spot to experience the beauty of the river while they watch kayakers and rafters try their luck.

And Sally doesn’t limit her advocacy to making the river accessible. I first witnessed her using her voice for change at an annual meeting at our Unitarian Universalist congregation. Frustrated that our church was not living up to its commitment to welcoming and inclusion, she spoke words that will stay with me forever, “I don’t plan to come back to this church,” she said, “until I don’t have to go out to my van to pee into a bottle every time I need to use the bathroom.”

Boom! Sally’s words reverberated throughout the members, and as a result, the congregation raised the funds to build accessible bathrooms, an elevator to the lower level, and a ramped chancel, and add assistive listening devices in the sanctuary, so all could fully participate in the life of our congregation. When questions about accessibility come up in the congregation, it’s not uncommon for someone to recount Sally’s mic drop moment and remind everyone that she is watching.

I look to Sally as a model of what’s possible when impediments stand in my way. I admire her good-natured determination, steadfast advocacy, and unwillingness to yield her rights.

Sally has taught me that I have an obligation to remove barriers wherever possible, whether they’re physical ones like stairs, or the mental ones of my own making. She also teaches me not to let my limitations prevent me from engaging in the things I love. You won’t find me out shooting the rapids like Sally, but because of Sally, I find my own rivers to conquer.

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Our heart sinks and the internal recriminations start. “Why didn’t I say something?” we ask ourselves. “Why did I let that person get away with that [you fill in the blank - racist, misogynist, homophobic, transphobic, ableist, or agist] joke/comment? I know better than to let them get away with this. But I failed again (insert sad or shamed face emoji here).”

We promise ourselves to do better next time. At least to say something--anything to let the offender know they can’t get away with that kind of talk. The next time it happens, maybe we say something or maybe we don’t, but this particular moment is lost forever.

Or is it?

Anita, a friend I met through anti-racism work at my church, taught me differently. An African American elder who might be perceived as soft-spoken to people who meet her, always says what she needs to say. When I expressed feeling pressured to teach others a skill I didn’t feel I had mastered myself, i.e., speaking up when someone says something racist, she said, “There’s nothing wrong with going back to the person later.”

She went on, “We put all this pressure on ourselves to come up with the perfect response, to call the person out, so they won’t do or say something like that again, or maybe we do it so everyone else in the room knows how smart we are. But it’s often better to wait until things have calmed down, until you’ve had a chance to think about why it hit you the way it did and then talk with the person.”

“Yeah, but how would I do that?” I asked, already imagining my discomfort at initiating such a conversation.  

“It’s easy,” Anita replied. “Just invite the person to talk.  Say something like, ‘You know, I’ve been thinking about our conversation from the other day, and it left me feeling uncomfortable. I wonder if we could have some coffee and talk about it?’” It sounded easy when she said it. Implementing would be another thing altogether.

In 2014, Anita and I came together to develop the Richmond Pledge to End Racism, which included designing and implementing a twelve-hour workshop called Living the Pledge, which calls on participants to make personal commitments in the work to end racism. I quickly learned how committed Anita was because she not only jumped into this project but agreed to present a program (maybe even suggested it) at the next Unitarian Universalist General Assembly (GA).

Neither of us realized that this meant we were expanding the Pledge beyond Richmond but, because of the GA program, other congregations around the country got excited about bringing it to their communities. Before long, we were consulting with congregations from San Diego to Boston and traveling to many of them to offer training in how to implement the program. The National Pledge to End Racism was born.

In all the workshops we led together, I watched Anita teach people that speaking up is important but that there isn’t any rule that says you have to do it right then. Take your time, think about how the comment hit you and why you felt offended by it. Consider what you want to ask the person to do/say or not do/say differently, and then invite them to a conversation. You’ll be empowered by it, and you won’t be embarrassing them in front of others. “It’s going to have more impact that way,” Anita assured the participants. I learned right along with them.

Since Anita taught me this approach, I’ve had numerous conversations with people that I otherwise wouldn’t have had. And perhaps even more importantly, in many cases, I’ve learned that the person I before might have written off as hopeless was open to my feedback, learned something they didn’t know, and committed to journey with me in continuous learning.

Although I still miss opportunities to speak up on occasion, I’m much more comfortable following up with people than I was when Anita first suggested it to me. None of that would have happened without her wisdom and her willingness to share it.

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When I finally met Charlotte, I was relieved to discover that I felt that good-person vibe. It didn’t take me long to see what Wendy saw in her. Charlotte is one of those rare authentic and passionate people who tightly aligns her actions, activities, and generosity with her values.

Although Charlotte and I didn’t know each other well at the time that Wendy and I got married, Charlotte (who we call “Wendy’s Charlotte” as opposed to “my Charlotte” who I wrote about in the 1990s decade) jumped in to help.

As a quilter and textile artist, she made a table runner, pulpit cloth, and numerous small balsam pillows as gifts for our wedding party and to scent the sanctuary with their woody fragrance.

Several years later, she turned her artistic talents into another special gift.

“What are your favorite colors?” she casually asked me one day as I girded myself for an upcoming mastectomy.

“I like browns, greens, oranges, and yellows,” I replied, watching her brow furrow more deeply with each color I named.

“Hmmm, I don’t work a lot with those colors,” she said and then changed the topic to something else.  

I didn’t know the reason for her question, and didn’t give it a second thought, but soon after I returned home from the hospital, I understood.

“I told you that I’d never worked with the colors you said you liked before,” Charlotte shared as she handed me a beautiful quilt and matching pillow, “but I have to say that the more I used them, the more I fell in love with them. I really like them now!”

“These are BEAUTIFUL!” I exclaimed as I wrapped the quilt around my legs and hugged the pillow to protect my healing chest.

Weeks earlier, Charlotte had invited Wendy to go to the fabric store and together they picked out cloth that I instantly fell in love with. I couldn’t have commissioned a better gift.

Charlotte is always looking for ways she can help her friends and family, and her giving spirit extends beyond her interpersonal relationships to her commitment to making the world a better place.   

In the relatively short time I’ve known her, I’ve seen her help men in prison transition to life on the outside, organize sanctuary for an immigrant living in a local church, sew masks for friends and the wider community, fight the assault on books and reading, and volunteer with the local chapter of Coming to the Table, an organization committed to “Taking America Beyond the Legacy of Slavery.”

One of the things I most love about her is that she doesn’t stop reading, doesn’t stop thinking, and doesn’t stop staying informed about the issues she cares about. She then finds ways to share what she’s learned for the benefit of others.

Concerned about the recent efforts to censor books, especially those about LGBTQ and African American people, Charlotte designed and printed an informational brochure and gave a talk about her concerns. She combined her knowledge as a retired librarian and former children’s bookstore owner with her current research to present the issues in a way that people could not only be informed but understand how they could act on what they learned. For Charlotte, social justice is not something she does, it’s who she is.

Whether it’s in her one-on-one interactions, creating a quilt for someone who needs a little joy, or confronting the issues of the day, Charlotte lives her values in a world that challenges her beliefs at every turn.

I strive to live as authentically as she does, and sometimes I achieve it, but I look to Charlotte to remind me how to stay true to my values while I’m doing the things I love.

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“Whatever it is, it smells good,” I said.

“Well, I didn’t know which would come out better, so I made two different recipes,” Gloria said, still busy lifting pans, stirring pots, loading plates, and taking pies out of the oven. Yes, pies—plural—there is rarely only one.   

I’m certain Gloria went on to describe the ingredients of each dish she had planned for me and for everyone else and the steps she took to prepare them, but I honestly don’t remember what they were. I enjoy good food in the moment I’m eating it—and Gloria’s food is always good—but after my plate is empty, what I ate is pretty much lost to me.

What I do remember is that early on in my relationship with Wendy I decided to go vegan. That lasted a couple years and then I transitioned to vegetarian before eventually returning to being an omnivore. As a vegan who doesn’t like tofu or mushrooms, I wasn’t easy to cook for.

Even with those restrictions, Gloria cooked some amazing meals for me—butternut squash and black bean empanadas, vegetarian shepherd’s pie, and a host of other dishes she researched online or discovered in Veganonmicon: The Ultimate Vegan Cookbook, which we had loaned to her.

Wendy’s family—both her parents and her brother’s family, who often join us for meals—are omnivores all the way. That meant that every time we went to her parents’ house for dinner during my vegan/vegetarian years, Gloria cooked a special meal for me, and sometimes two, because she didn’t know which would come out better or which I might like better.

Gloria takes pleasure in satisfying the wishes of everyone she loves. When she bakes and frosts a cake, we laugh at its odd appearance because she leaves one portion with no frosting for Wendy, another with no coconut for me, and a third with all the fixings. When she makes her yummy potato salad, she makes two batches, one with onions and then another without because that’s the way her husband likes it.

Very few people I’ve known have the generosity of spirit that Gloria projects in everything she does.

When Wendy and I got together in 2009, Wendy told me how important her parents were in her life.  “I try to spend time with them whenever I can,” she said. “We’re together most holidays, birthdays, and I go there other times just to see them.”

I gulped. With almost 15 years between Wendy and me, age might impact our relationship in ways I hadn’t anticipated. One day I found the courage to ask a question that had been gnawing at me. “So, um,” I paused to steel myself, “how old was your mother when you were born?” I tried to sound casual about the question—just making conversation—but my heart rate told me I wasn’t feeling the level of calm I tried to project.  

“She was only 19,” Wendy replied with no indication she grasped the angst behind my question.

I gulped again. That meant less than five years separated her mother and me. What would that be like? I thought. Could her mother accept me? How would I deal with the discomfort I might feel about that? Was this a deal-breaker?

It didn’t take long though for me to discover my answer—our age difference didn’t matter to Gloria as long as her daughter was happy, and, in all the years we’ve been together, there’s never been a question about that. Gloria has accepted me into the family with graciousness and love.

For Gloria, love is who she is. Even when she disagrees with someone about their stances on political or social issues, she doesn’t hesitate to be there for them when they need her. Even in those awkward first dinners when we were getting to know each other, Gloria extended herself to me, made sure I had my favorite foods, and showered me with love.

I believe that if more of us kept love at the center of our relationships, no matter what disagreements we might have, no matter how distasteful we think another’s views are, or the years, miles, or dietary choices that separate us, we would be a better country and a better people.

Gloria models that for me and regularly reminds me what unconditional love really looks like.

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After listening to their stories, Ann, who had not been adopted herself but instead had given a son up for adoption, added softly, “I grieved for my son for years.”

As Ann shared her grief, I watched the faces of the adoptees. I tried to read how her story sat with them. One woman leaned forward and reached toward Ann as if she were grasping for something invisible from the rest of us. Was she wondering if her bio mom felt grief too? Was she hoping she had?

Ann continued, describing her struggle to claim herself as a mother, how she spent a lifetime wondering whether to come out to friends and colleagues about having a son she didn’t know, and about how she felt when her adult son wished her a Happy Mother’s Day for the first time.  

In her essay, “Ain’t I a Mother, Too?,” which Ann had workshopped in the session right before lunch, she writes about a conference speaker she once heard, an adoptee named Jill, who changed her perception of herself:

Jill tosses a little gold nugget of truth into the air, seemingly meant just for me. I catch it. Unbeknownst to her, in one short phrase, she officially anoints me as a “Mother.” Couched in content that is now lost to me, Jill uses a simple little phrase, “…the mothering work of pregnancy.” Gravity pulls me down, deep into my seat. I hold tight to this little nugget. I roll it around in my palms. It is round, smooth, golden, dense with truth. “I am a Mother,” I think. I absolutely did the mothering work of pregnancy.

When Ann put her fork down, sat back, and lifted a glass of water to her lips, I knew she had shared all she could that day.

To take the focus off her, I decided to contribute to the conversation, unaware of how what I was about to reveal would impact the group. “I have kind of a different take on an adoption story,” I began nonchalantly. Everyone’s head turned in my direction. Evidently, they were hungry for more stories. Taken aback by the intensity of their interest, I stumbled a bit when I said, “I was adopted too—by my biological father.”

“What?” They replied, almost in unison.

I went on to explain a tale of secrets and deception perpetuated by my parents. Our parents told my older brother and me that our father, my mom’s first husband, had died when my mother was pregnant with me. “The fact that my mom’s first husband died is true,” I revealed. “The fact that he was our father was not.”

“Wow!” one person exclaimed.

“How did you find out?” another asked.

I shared that I was in my 50s when a family friend told me the truth. Subsequent DNA testing proved that my mother’s second husband, the man who legally adopted my brother and me, had no need to adopt us because we were, in fact, his biological children. Shame of their illicit affair—he was married to another woman at the time-- kept them from admitting the truth, even to their children.

I noticed Ann absorbing my words in thoughtful silence. After others finished commenting, Ann simply said, “Oh, Annette, you must write that.”

I can honestly say that this had never crossed my mind before Ann’s emphatic nudge. I struggled with the idea of writing a personal memoir and nothing could be more personal than this. Both of my parents had already died by this time, so I wasn’t worried about how they’d respond. But when family secrets are buried so deep that no one dares utter the truth, it’s inconceivable to shine a light on them.

Because of Ann’s experience with her son, she is someone who hungers for truth and wants others to be free of the pain and grief she felt in keeping him a secret. While earning a PhD in rural sociology at the University of Missouri-Columbia, Ann fell in love with writing. She takes pleasure in beauty, music, poetry, books, and the stories of strong women. These factors combined with her own adoption story make it no surprise she wanted to know more about mine.

I felt as if the Muse had spoken, and I had no choice but to accept her invitation.  Because of Ann’s clarity about what I needed to do, the focus of my writing immediately changed.  With her ongoing encouragement, and support from faculty and other students, I rewrote my creative thesis to center on the impact that my family’s secret-keeping had on my life.

Each time I return to my still unfinished manuscript, I channel Ann’s vulnerability and honesty in her writing about her son, hoping it can foster the courage I need to give birth to my own adoption story. Thanks to Ann, it will happen. Stay tuned.

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