Dear Mr. Frederick

For a variety of reasons, including an adaptation of an idea from Bessel van der Kolk's trauma and counseling book, and what a hexagram in the I Ching "said," I decided to write a letter to one of my upper-grade homeroom elementary school teachers, once I found who I believe is the correct version of that person.

The letter follows below. After that comes some thought about the letter.

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Dear Mr. Frederick
(I still can't call you Roscoe!)

I am not sure you even remember me … but you've been on my mind off and on for the past several months. I finally did enough Googling and found what I was told was your current address.

I was in Jefferson Elementary in the early and middle 1970s. You gave me A+ and even A++ grades on math quizzes, if I got all the extra credit stuff correct.

A short, skinny kid. Bullied a fair amount by others. Maybe you noticed some of those effects, even if  you knew nothing about the bullying itself.

I so fondly remember the post-lunch play and recess time, with you playing quarterback for two teams of kids.

It just felt at times like you were especially looking for me. Even if that's not true, it felt that way.

In hindsight, you were perhaps a small bit of a surrogate father, or at least a surrogate uncle whom, I wish today, could have been more of a surrogate father.

And, that's all part of why I remember it.

Per refreshing your memory, if you don't recall or know, my dad was the pastor at the Lutheran church. Unfortunately, life at home in general was not spiritually nurturing.

However — or maybe "because of" is a better reason — I tried to follow in my dad's footsteps, all the way through his divinity school, when I realized I just couldn't do that.

I eventually landed on my employment feet as a newspaper journalist. Especially in small towns, it's one of the few "professional" job options open without a degree specific to the employment, like you as a teacher.

Of course, I had no idea, 20-plus years ago, that the newspaper world would be where it's at today.

Anyway, those surrogate father thoughts have grown in the last year or two, as I feel more trapped in not just the field, but a particular newspaper job, and in Texas as well. It's America and I'm over 50.

At some point, something like the voice speaking to James Earl Jones in "Field of Dreams" led me to think, Why not find out where you live? And, when I did, then, Why not write?

As far as material benefits, I'm not expecting anything. (Not that I would say no if you had anything!  This is America.) Per "Field of Dreams," I don't know if you're in any sort of pain, anyway. But, I'm writing.

Maybe I'm trying to ease my pain. Or, per Proust, trying to reframe it through a Re-Remembrance of Things Past.

Anyway, even if you have no pain, I hope this helps with your own reflection on things past.

I've also included side-by-side pictures, a then (for your memory) and now. A couple of online and social support friends suggested that.

Anyway, I don't know what else to say at this time. I don't know where you went after Gallup.

My dad eventually wanted to finish a second masters, then a Ph.D. I moved with him to St. Louis after my parents divorced. I eventually landed in the newspaper business after realizing I couldn't be a minister, for reasons noted.

I have bounced around various places in Texas, and was also in Hobbs. I don't know if you were back in Carlsbad in the late 1990s or not.

It's a nice place. I'd been there once as a kid on vacation.

As an adult, I have done the Riverwalk and some of the newer-opened sections of the Caverns. But, I'm afraid I probably wouldn't like the amount of oil-related traffic in the area if I were there today.

Anyway, Mr. Frederick, I am at the address on envelope or on email at XXXXXX.

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First, the sentiments are real. So is the fact that I cast a hexagram, and an "interior hexagram" off that helped prod me to write.

Second: Is it the right person?

I'm pretty sure. Through half a dozen different search tweaks, I found his wedding announcement in the Gallup paper the summer we moved there. I eventually figured out the "J" that MyLife listed as a middle initial was actually for "Jr." And, Mr. Frederick's dad had been a high school teacher and coach for decades in the town where this Roscoe Frederick is now retired. I thought he was about five years older, based on childhood memories, but he's old enough to fit the bill.

Third, the feelings post-letter?

First, I thought it was maybe a bit selfish. Then, I started having antsyness about him writing back.

Third, assuming this is the right person, right address and that he's not either on vacation or in a nursing home, by a full 10 days later, I found out he doesn't do email. And, apparently, unless he's in a nursing home or on vacation, doesn't want to talk.

Well, I made one other southwestern connection this past week. Whether that leads to short-, medium- or long-term benefit remains to be seen.