Tribute

When a hayseed farm girl from Iowa who fancies herself a writer meets her boyfriend’s mother—a polished, published New York born and raised editor—said farm girl feels small. Very, very small.

Fresh out of college, where she took courses like Rollerblading and Folklore 101, the girl was too insecure to even hint at the idea that maybe, maybe, she had rumblings in her heart of being a writer.

Particularly around her boyfriend’s mother, aka the first woman editor of the Columbia University newspaper. Moreover, she was also one of the first women accepted into the University of Denver School of Law. (There were three women granted study in 1972.)

The girl’s shiny new degree in communications from the University of Northern Iowa suddenly lost its sparkle.

Sure, the farmer’s daughter was the editor of The Trojan Warrior in high school. Its circulation reached an upwards of 5,000 people in South Tama County, Iowa, as a monthly feature on the back page of the real newspaper. 

Meanwhile, the boyfriend’s mom had edited upwards of 300 full-length, nonfiction manuscripts. Including the autobiography of a former Supreme Court Justice.

And yet. Over the years, the farmer’s daughter let her secret slip. First, she got a job in communications in the insurance industry. By this point, the girl had come to know her soon-to-be mother-in-law as a kind, gentle, and generous soul. The woman delighted in how the girl’s career path mirrored her own, as she’d spent the years before her own babies in communications at a Denver-area bank. 

The woman left this job in pursuit of being present for the loves of her life—her three children. Yet the need to work with words continued to pull at her. The woman chose self-employment, an idea so terrifying to the girl that she swore, swore on all things holy that she’d never, ever be brave enough to make a similar move. 

Until the girl’s own baby, the woman’s second granddaughter, lay in her arms. The appeal of working from home, at nights, weekends, however she could, made the new mom feel brave.

Unsurprisingly, the woman was in full support. She encouraged the new mom to launch out of her comfort zone, and apply to be a member of the prestigious Denver Woman’s Press Club, where she served as president. 

“But I’m not a writer,” the girl protested. After all, she’d written no more than a dozen articles, on such tantalizing topics as “managing risk” and “ensuring HIPAA compliance.” 

“Oh, but you are!” the woman said. Determined, she announced her sponsorship of the girl for membership. 

Soon the new mom found herself not only the club’s newest member, but a full-time freelance writer. With a website and clients and everything. 

It’s funny how much one can grow in confidence and ability, by simply having the right cheerleader.  

Over the years, the bond between the two grew deeper. They shared a love of words and family and laughter, which permeated their every conversation.  

But. As life is wont to do, circumstances changed. Their relationship changed, too. 

The younger of the two quit writing. 

The older of the two focused on the baby, who had now grown to be in her upper elementary school years. They (at least, in the younger one’s imagination) kept tabs on each other through her. 

Four years passed. The girl, now in her middle-ages, once again summoned the confidence to launch herself as a writer, despite having no audience. 

The woman, however, had grown very ill. Though the two had very little communication, soon the younger woman received her first email under her new writer website. 

She’d gotten her first—and to this day, only—subscriber. 

Imagine it: a New York born and raised writer and editor, the only subscriber to a little-known Iowa farm girl, who believes she may, in fact, be a real writer. 

Fourteen days after she received this email, cancer would take the older woman from this world. The middle-aged mom would be gutted. But she’d spend every day thereafter knowing the love they shared was real. As was the belief the woman had in the younger writer’s skills. 

The middle-aged lady would pledge to honor the woman, today with her words. And every day after: the once upon a time insecure, hayseed farm girl would keep on writing. 

Even if her email list never grows beyond a single subscriber, the girl will never again feel small. 

In memory of Joan Woodford Sherman, a bright, beautiful light to myself and so, so many. Thank you for living on in the gentleness of my daughter’s way and the shine of her mischievous grin. You will forever be missed. ❤️