By Nancy Gonzalez, CFLE
This blog has been trying to write itself for months; since last summer, in fact. Why is it so hard for an otherwise voluble blogger to bang out 1000 words? It’s because in order to get to the happy ending, I have to go through some searing, painful memories.
Online social networking, and its effects on our lives, has brought on considerable controversy. That there are many downsides to one’s existence online; I don’t dispute this. But, this time, I want to write about how miraculous and wonderful Facebook has been in reconnecting me with two crucial relationships from my past.
Almost exactly a year ago, I opened up my Facebook homepage and saw I had a “friend request.” It was from Jane Shortridge—a personal message added something like—“Nancy is this you? The birthday matches.” At the sight of her name, I burst into tears. Jane was best friend from fifth – eighth grade. In 1974, the summer after eighth grade, I got devastating news—my parents said we were moving. I was 14 years old and crushed. I had to leave all my friends—but the loss of Jane hurt the worst. We wrote letters over the 300 mile distance for a while, but I quit answering them before long. I knew I’d never see her again, and it was best to just let her go and grieve.
Thirty five years later, I got her “friend request.” I clicked on her homepage—there was her birthday that I still remembered—and a photo that was unmistakable. It was her! Another miracle—she had been living just three miles away for years. As soon as we could coordinate schedules, we scheduled a breakfast together. When I picked her up, she got into my car and we hugged each other and just sobbed. It is cliché, but the intervening years just melted away—as if no time had passed at all. Here’s a photo of Jane and me at breakfast that morning.
Jane and Me - Feb 2009
Jane was my first Facebook miracle. The second one is the story I’ve been trying to write about for months. My family moved to a small town in northern Minnesota. I started babysitting for a family—the Nelsons. Randy Nelson was our high school counselor. His wife Sharon was our home economics teacher. They had three bright and wonderful kids. By age 16, I was sitting for them regularly. They were like family to me. Darcie was 7, Darin was 5 and Melanie was 3.
Darcie used to ask her parents to go out evenings and weekends so that they would call me. I spent countless hours, over at least two years, caring for these children, reading to them, feeding them—even bathing them. The bathing part proved to be tricky for 5 year old Darin. He was “all boy” and got himself dirty- a lot! He was at that awkward stage. For bathroom safety reasons, I couldn’t really leave him alone. Yet he was beyond the stage of where I should be in the bathroom with him. So I’d draw a bath, send him in, and coach him through the door. “Make sure you wash your neck!” “Don’t touch the faucet!” I was right there in case he slipped, but he had his privacy.
Randy and Sharon trusted a 16 year old to an extent that now seems unbelievable. But they were great judges of character. I was so careful with those kids. They would leave me the family van so I could take the kids places. Darcie teases me now that I was the only one in their lives who made them wear seatbelts just driving around in that small town (remember—this was 1976). Ice cream at the local drive in was a favorite trip. I took them to their dentist 60 miles away at least once. I was in their lives until a couple of summers after I graduated when I stopped coming home from college. Darcie, who remembered me best, wanted to find me again after all these years.
That morning I had a friend request on Facebook. It’s said, “Darcie Rossborough.” Who the heck is that, I thought? I clicked on the request, and the picture came up… there she was—my little 7 year old Darcie with a grown up face and a new last name. Again, the swell of joy was overpowering. The little girl I used to hold as we watched Little House on the Prairie was now 40, married and mother of two boys.
Darcie told me her dad had passed away, but their mom Sharon was living not far from Minneapolis. We had to get together! I told Darcie that I had a story to tell about her dad.
When I was a senior in high school, life with my family of origin was becoming unbearable. To say it was dysfunctional doesn’t even scratch the surface. Details here aren’t important except to say that there was so much conflict, I didn’t know if I could stay there. I went to Randy—in his role of counselor, not employer—and dumped my sorrows at his feet. I told him how terrible my home life was. I needed to tell someone. He listened, and I couldn’t believe it, but instantly he said, “You can move in with us!” I was bowled over! Who would take on another child—a teenager no less—without a second thought?
Nowadays this kind of offer appears to be a dual relationship with a boundary violation and, to some people, it might even sound creepy. It was not. Here is where context is everything. Up near the Canadian border, in the late 70s, there were no foster homes per se. They were all informal arrangements. As high school counselor, it would’ve been his job to approach the county and to suggest a course of action. As is customary today, foster care workers seek out reliable adults that the child already knows—usually relatives for “kinship care.” We had no relatives in the county, so he would’ve had to collaborate in finding me a home anyway. They were the adults I was closest to. End of story.
When Randy told me I could move in with them, suddenly, life became bearable. I knew that I had another option. I ended up staying with my family, mostly not to have to abandon my little brother. I told Randy that I would keep his offer in mind and let him know if I needed to jump ship. Meanwhile, I babysat as much as possible, which got me out of the home for long periods of time.
Fast forward 32 years. I got together with Darcie and her mother Sharon for breakfast last summer. I told them about my high school crisis. Interestingly, Sharon had never heard the story. Randy had kept my confidence his entire life. I asked Sharon what she would’ve done if suddenly Randy had told her she had a new teenager in the family. She said, as quickly as Randy had replied 32 years ago, that they would’ve taken me in without question. Here is a photo of “little Darcie"—me—and my “other mother,” Sharon Nelson.
Darcie--her Babysitter--and "mom " to us both
The resilience literature says, again and again, that it is sometimes only one person in a child life’s that means the difference between thriving and despair. Randy was one of a handful of guardian angels who were there at critical phases of my life. I want to honor him with this blog. My only regret is that he didn’t live long enough to read my tribute himself. Randy has grandchildren now. I hope Darcie, Darin and Melanie will share this blog with their children so they can read about how well, and how ethically, he practiced counseling and youth development.
I’d like to share a couple of pictures. This is a photo of me (standing) and talking with Randy and Sharon, who were chaperones at my senior prom.
Randy, Sharon and Me-- May 1978
Then, this one I’ll call “The Little Rascals.” Here are photos of my charges, Darcie, Darin and Melanie.
The Little Rascals
I’d kept these photos all these years….
Finally, to Jane Shortridge—and Darcie Nelson Rossborough—thanks for finding me through the miracle of Facebook. It's a joy to have you back!
An important note to anyone who may have had a name change: make sure your former/ maiden name is embedded somewhere in your personal information so that the search engine can pick it up. If you want to connect with people from your past, this is the way they will find you.