Dear Joe,

Sometime around 1970, direct from your deployment with the US Army in Vietnam, you appeared at our front door on Columbine Street in Denver, Colorado with a somewhat suspect recommendation from a family friend. Grateful for your service to our country (and what must have been an amazing first impression), my parents enthusiastically welcomed you into our home as a basement apartment tenant with a twist.

Dear Linda,

Everything about you fascinated my 8-year-old self. You wore a bikini top and Wrangler jeans with an impressive belt buckle I was convinced you won for some world-famous trick ride.  You commanded a group of too many kids, even more horses, with a small handful of wranglers.   To me you were the real life, true west version of Wonder Woman.  Nothing made me prouder than winning one of your meticulously homemade gold painted horse shoe ribbons.

Dear Columbine Street Neighborhood Families,

I have no idea how many times I rang your respective doorbells.

Occasionally, I rang to be helpful. More often I sprung into your day looking for something to do or eat. Thankfully, I have no memory of reaching out in a crisis. My Mom wished I hadn’t stopped by to announce she had “been spayed” after some kind of abdominal surgery. (I suspect she explained her hospital stay by using our family dog as reference).

Dear Roberta,

I’m just so sorry, so sad that I lost track of you.  I literally don’t remember how we actually spent our time. I know it included ill-conceived baking projects, hours in our rooms, yo-yos, roller skates, ice skates… just classic make your own fun and laughter until you wet your pants. 

Dear Mr. Barber and Mrs. Priest,

Riding horseback to spend the night in Anasazi cliff dwellings, hosted by Hope Native families to learn about their way of life while making traditional blue corn recipes and tasting the wonder of a Prickly pear cactus fruit.

Dear Dr. Ginsburg,

Every year of my elementary and middle school years (1960’s and 70’s) we dutifully came to your pediatrician’s office for my annual, school check- up.  These visits were straight forward, routine and a generally pleasant experience.

Dear John,

In 1978 I flew solo from Denver to Boston, found the trunk my parents had shipped to Boston’s South Street train station and met up with a beloved cousin who was tasked with making sure I got to my destination- Phillips Academy in Andover, Massachusetts. Once on Campus I mistook your dorm, an all boy’s dorm for mine. You were literally the first person I met.

Dear Cynthia,

You and few of your equally spirited friends whose names I regret I cannot remember were evergreen attendees of events at my parent’s home. Whether a caucus for an up-coming election, fund raiser for a candidate or cause or spirited evening of conversation. I know you were a treasured spark and fuel for my Mom’s (and Dad’s) burgeoning feminism and activism in our town.

Dear Young Brave Teacher,

Pulled into a last minute, all school assembly on a rainy day with rumors flying about a scary event the night before is unsettling. However, the pit in my stomach doesn’t even begin to compare to what it must have been like for you to choose to stand before roughly 1,000 high school students, faculty and school administration to share your story about being raped on our campus.

Dear Don and Stacey Cheadle,

This is a bit embarrassing, but a heartfelt attempt to share a message of gratitude with your family. I had my first “professional” summer job in the Customer Service Department of the Colorado National Bank of Denver in the early 1980’s. I had a terrific boss who I remember as Beverly Cheadle. My parents, Don and Mary Hoagland, who were Denver residents for decades, made the connection later in my life that she was possibly a relative of your family.

Dear Siniora Rubio,

Your ballet studio was my sanctuary. Every day, after a long day at school, my world slowed down while I held onto that weathered wooden bar to try to master the precise, painfully specific fundamentals of ballet. Your studio was bathed in sunlight while you sparked around the room to nudge a shoulder or tuck in a knee in your very traditional all black leotard, skirt and slippers. Your thick Spanish accent gave your instruction an exotic, old world, global impression making our very amateur program feel significant. This hour was almost meditative and a treasured moment to just focus.

Dear Professor Bartlett,

Eighteen-year-old me arrived at Smith College in 1981 with a pretty vague idea of my areas of academic and or professional interest. My much older siblings were wrapping up medical school training and PHD’s. Confidence in most situations, curiosity and a knack for unifying a group were my strengths, but I had a healthy insecurity of my brain power by comparison.

Dear Sylvia and Axel,

It’s a classic form of hazing. Who can forget day one of our graduate school when the doors to our classroom opened for our section of ninety students to scramble to find the seat, the one seat, the only seat we would remain in for the entirety of our first year. Rows of seats within the amphitheater had pet names like “The Warning Track” and “The Upper Deck” intended to typecast your commitment, competitiveness and strategy for completing this rigorous first year.

As an American working in England, I had countless questions for you, our company’s solicitor. Visas, National Health Service administration, tax forms and European trade and communications laws brought me to your door regularly. You always made yourself available for the extra hand holding I needed and we muddled through the differences in your kings English and my American slang.

Dear Chris,

Far too many find themselves without a safe place to sleep on a daily basis all over the world.  I have only been in this circumstance for one day in my entire life.  The backstory and circumstance are not important, but I am forever grateful that you opened your door without hesitation.  You and your wife were so kind.  While I was not a complete stranger, we were passing acquaintances and I’m sure it was awkward and even troubling to choose to say “yes” when you received that phone call.

Dear Colleen,

Between 1993 and 1995 I was Market Manager levels below your role.  As it turned out, we were both early morning gym regulars and I had the gift of extra time and mentorship- often at the crack of dawn, in a locker room while we scrambled to get through our morning ritual before a busy work day.

Dear Peter,

As you know, I was an import to our company- a grateful off cycle hire without a co-hort.  Hopefully, I had established a bit of a track record in my first year when I stepped forward to reach for a coveted job.  None the less, you took a real risk when you made the decision to give me the opportunity.

Dear Gayle,

Ideas are the evergreen, but the tradecraft of proving their merit and selling them is so particular to an idea’s circumstance and context. Having an idea has never been my issue- honing them was my greatest opportunity.