The one I always forget, though, is one that I should make every effort to remember. I forget it because it wasn’t an in-person meeting. It was brought about my own efforts and was not a happenstance occurrence. And at the time, it meant more to me than anything else in the world.

I wrote to Judy Blume. And she wrote me back.

The summer I turned eleven, my parents rented a house down the shore for the last two weeks of the summer. For some reason, they decided that there, in the spare front bedroom, overlooking the ocean, was the best place to tell us that, in fact, they didn’t want to be married anymore.

I’d had inklings that something wasn’t right; they’d been arguing more. I’d come in on the tail end of a couple of conversations between my dad and my grandparents that made me go, hmmm. But in the delirium that usually accompanies a two week vacation and the impending start of the crucial seventh-grade year, I’d managed to mostly forget about it. After all, I had a stack of books to read (like It’s Not the End of the World. For example. Ugh.) and a new friend to hit the boardwalk with. I had siblings to avoid. I didn’t have time to see this bearing down on me. And for that I understand and recognize that my parents are happier now than they would have been together, and no matter how much I love my youngest three siblings, I have always, since then, associated the beach with loss, and haven’t really warmed up to the shore since. In my head, the Jersey shore is bleak and grey, and no good thing can ever come from it. My mother moved us down there in October, and I have never forgiven the place for that.

Part of that is also the waiting period, which is where Judy Blume comes in. Our parents gave us the news around Labor Day, but I think made the effort to work things out at first. In the meantime, I was a control freak even back then, and so, I was determined to read up on as much of this divorce thing as I could. (Even back then, if I could read about a subject I felt like I had some kind of handle on it.) To that end, I referred back to my copy of It’s Not the End of the World, which had a couple of characters reading a book called The Boys and Girls Book About Divorce. This being before the age of Google, and also when I lived 30 miles from the library and had parents involved with their own problems, I had no way of checking to see if this was a real book or something just made up to fit the context. At least, not without my parents finding out. For some reason, I didn’t want them getting all up in my business on this particular issue. So I did what seemed to be the only thing I could do: look up the publisher’s info at the front of the book and write to Judy Blume.

I don’t recall exactly what I said, which is probably just as well; the dorkiness was strong within me from birth onwards. But I know I asked if it was a real book, because my mom and dad were talking about separating, and even though it probably wasn’t going to happen I wanted to be as ready as I could, just in case. I also distinctly recall throwing in a couple of lines about how much I liked her books, because I thought she wouldn’t write back if I didn’t make the attempt at writing a fan letter.

Within about a month, I received a response. Not only was it a real book, she said, but she’d found one even better, and thought she’d send it along to see if I’d like it. It’s always best to be prepared, she said, even if you’re pretty sure things will work out okay. And she wished me well, and said she’d be thinking about me, and she signed her letter "Love, Judy".

DUDE. When you are eleven years old and Judy Blume is the epicenter of your literary world, a letter like that is beyond…well, maybe not cool, but certainly something amazing. To this day I don’t know if she really wrote it or not. Likely she did, and it’s how I prefer to think of it, obviously, but even if it wasn’t…she cared enough to assemble a staff for that very purpose. Here was an adult who was ready to listen, who wouldn’t tell, who respected me enough to say "OK, kiddo, good on ya, but." And it’s not that my parents weren’t decent, but they had their own problems at the time, plus I was mad at them anyway. (Ah, preadolescence.)

Another part of the reason I tend to forget this, I think, is that it did mean so much to me, and the thought of anyone mocking me for hero-worshipping an author back in junior high is something that gets at me. It shouldn’t, but there you have it.

I don’t have the letter anymore. I kept it for a long time, and the box just eventually got lost, the way things do. But I still have the book. I’ll never get rid of it. As long as I have it, I know that somewhere out there is a lady who’s still on my side.

I would still pay good money to run into, like, Samuel L. Jackson in the middle of Times Square or something though. How much ass would that kick?