The 50th Good Thing I Discovered While Visiting Our 49th State

It’s official. In July, Rice and I finished Our Fifty-State Project by visiting Alaska. Watch for 49 good things—some observations, some pics—about our trip in my July newsletter, coming out Monday, July 31st.

For now I’d like to muse on the 50th good thing I discovered during our trip to Alaska.

It started when my cousin Beth reached out, suggesting that Rice and I join her and three others on a ten-day cruise to Alaska. Hmmmm, ten days? Based on our history, we aren’t big cruise fans. Not to mention we prefer solo travel. But Alaska was on our bucket list—part of Our Fifty-State Project—and what better way to see different parts of the state than to take a cruise?

The other carrot about this particular trip? It would re-introduce me to another cousin I barely knew. Our fathers, along with Beth’s dad, were brothers. We fell out of touch when, as a toddler, I lost my dad, Douglas Putnam, in an accident. When my mom remarried shortly afterward, I got folded into Harold Heidrich’s family, with two older step-sisters and, eventually, two younger half-sisters, too. Life went on.

During my preschool years, I maintained a special relationship with Grandma Putt, spending the night at her place often. We’d drink tea from one of her mismatched but fancy cup-and-saucer sets and wash the dishes together afterward. I winced as she gave herself twice-daily insulin shots, but I learned a little about life—like how to like grapefruit with sweetener at breakfast the same way that she did.

I was in elementary school when I first learned my mom and dad weren’t getting along when he died. “We probably would have gotten a divorce,” Mom said. This caught my breath, but I nodded when she suggested I not mention this talk to Grandma. “Just tell her you’re sure that your dad was a nice man.”

Grandma Putt passed away when I was in the sixth grade. Shortly after that, my mom, a widow again, moved my younger sisters and me from the village of Caro to the larger town of Saginaw. Again, life went on. I grew up as a Heidrich, stouter and paler than the rest, but we were family. That’s all I knew.

In my fifties—my fifties, for heaven’s sake!—I got a call from my mother to tell me my father had been a sonofabitch at times. Whoa. Mom had clearly been in the cups and was in no shape to explain more at that moment. But over time, I learned more specifics about her call. And my dad’s death.

To the best of my knowledge, the fatal single-car crash that killed him occurred in the wee hours after a night of drinking. My mom was home with me. My dad’s mistress, who survived the crash, was driving.

It’s now been over sixty years since my dad’s death. My mom’s been gone herself for eleven of those years. I trust she finally rests free of the deep shame and bitterness she obviously carried over what happened. I never picked up a huge animosity between her and the Putnams. (Her and my dad, yes. But not his family.) Over the years, I haven’t had a lot of contact with that branch of the family. A few Putnam aunts sent gifts when I started having babies. A cousin attended Mom’s celebration of life. Another cousin sent me a cup and saucer from Grandma Putt’s set when her own mom passed.

Then several years ago, my cousin Beth—a Putnam who’s never met a stranger—reached out to ask if she and her husband Sam could stop by while traveling through the Southeast. “Sure,” I said, pushing away my shy inclination to make an excuse. They joined Rice and me for dinner, and we clicked, enough so to pay them (and my Aunt Patty) a visit when we traveled out West in 2021. I’m glad we did. Aunt Patty died in 2022.

But back to 2023. And Alaska. I felt nervous about meeting my cousin Gary. “No worries,” Rice assured me. “Even if you don’t really mesh, we’ll still have Alaska.”

How right he was. Alaska delivered, in amazing fashion. Forty-nine good things, as I mentioned earlier.

But for now, here’s the 50th:

I was bowled over to meet Gary, five years my senior, who almost immediately said, “Your dad and Beth’s dad”—the youngest brothers—“used to toss me around when I was little just like a football.”

I smiled as I envisioned that picture of a family I never really knew.

“Another story,” Gary said. “Your dad was not a big guy. But he was strong. And Beth’s dad [Uncle Keith] had a mouth on him.” Gary’s eyes twinkled, and so did Beth’s. “Sometimes Keith would be out at the bars, talk trash to someone, and then get the snot beat out of him.” Gary paused. “But the next night, Keith would take your dad back to the bar to even the score.”

Oh…my. I’m not sure whether I was more tickled or mortified to hear that. I just know that it moved me.

And isn’t that the very point of sharing our stories? To create emotional connection and maybe even lend understanding to others’ behaviors?

Gary—and Beth—shared plenty more stories, and I loved hearing them. They didn’t explain all the gaps I have from childhood memories, but I didn’t expect them to. In fact, I’d venture we all have gaps.

Anyway, here’s one last story, maybe my favorite:

“I was helping your dad on the farm,” Gary told me. “When we finished some chores—I don’t know, maybe milking the cow or something—he turned to me and said, ‘I should go in and check on Janet.’”

That jolted me from the story. Until I remembered Janet was me. Long, long ago, I was Janet Putnam.

“I’m not sure if your mom was napping or what,” Gary continued. “But you were in the cradle, fussing. And your dad picked you up, changed your diaper, and then rocked you until you went back to sleep.”

Granted, this snip of a story could lead to other questions. Like where was my mom? And who watched me after I got placed back in the cradle?

But that’s not the point. The point is the story itself. It filled in some gaps. It re-lit a spark of a father’s love I never realized I was missing. I can’t put into words how much that spark has meant to me.

Because let’s get real. We all have unexplained memories and gaps, parts of our inner child we take to our grave.

What a gift it is when part of the inner child we once linked with shame gets transcended by love.

Hugs to friends and family—all of you all! J

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