Internet can bring on bad news, too


The internet is an amazing tool. It allows us to get news almost instantly and it’s how I make a living these days.  It’s a place where we can access and share billions of pieces of data, including jokes and pictures that brighten our e-mail. It allows us to seek and often finds old friends, and to share the written word with them without having to make a trip to the post office.

But sometimes tools have sharp edges and need to be used carefully. It's a lesson I’ve learned again in the past 24 hours.

Anyone who knows me knows that I’m a pack rat who saves everything until I figure out a way to break it, and even that doesn’t mean that I won’t try to take it apart and make something else from the pieces first.

While sorting through a couple of shoe boxes of old cards and letters recently, I came across several from former classmates going back to high school and beyond. The oldest was a letter and some notes from my seventh grade Language Arts teacher, Julie Knudson.

A young boy’s crush

Just seeing her vibrant handwriting on the envelope made me smile. I’m not ashamed to say I had a crush on her, and I'm sure I wasn't the only one. Usually there is at least one student who can't stand a teacher, but I really can’t recall a student who had a bad thing to say about her - even those who may have struggled in her class. I remember her short blonde hair, dancing blue eyes behind glasses, and infectious laugh. She had a way of teasing her students that wasn’t cruel but made the girls admire her and guys like me feel special because she would pay attention to us.

While doing some online research yesterday, I came across a list of names that included a person named Knudsen. It wasn't the same spelling, but it got me thinking: What ever happened to that vivacious lady who encouraged my love of writing that has become my career? With that, the other research was put aside and my ride on internet search engines like Google began.

I remember hearing many years ago that she had left teaching, moved to the San Francisco area and had entered law school. It sounded kind of strange at first that such a friendly, open people-person would get into the rough-and-tumble field of law. But the Julie Knudson I remembered also had a streak in her that could be precise, firm, demanding of precision and a bit stubborn at times. It’s what made her a great teacher of English and upon reflection I could see her as a lawyer, if for no other reason than somebody might have once told her that she couldn’t do it.

Anyway, the search results yielded a couple of references to an attorney named Julie Knudson, but little more. Then I remembered that her letter was postmarked from Raton, N.M.

Adding that New Mexico city to the search element yielded positive results. Her father Russell Knudson, it turns out, was the superintendent of the Raton schools, and Ms. Knudson, as I always called her, must have been visiting her parents when she mailed the letter on Oct. 9, 1975. The yellow stationary also includes a 10 cent stamp that has been postmarked.

In the letter she sent to me after I had been in her class, she mentions being rejected “at that bush school UCLA” and that she was considering a trip to South America in the coming year. She also chided me for getting a B+ in Language Arts, writing “I taught you more than that, surely!”

Back to the search

A little more digging and I learned that Russell Knudson had worked in the Portales school system before moving to Raton. I also found an archived news release from Eastern New Mexico University about him being given “Honorary Alumni” status. The release noted that he “Knudson and his wife, Wilma, are ardent and loyal fans of ENMU, whether supporting the Foundation and sports programs or attending a variety of campus events and activities. They regularly attend the weekly Bench Club meetings during the school year.”

The story went on to recap his career as an educator, including his being named principal at Portales High in 1966 and serving as the superintendent in Raton from 1972 until retiring in 1984. The story also noted that he served on the state’s Commission on Higher Education for six years and was on the CHE Facilities Committee for two years.

The story concluded that  “Knudson has three adult children, and all hold doctoral degrees: Roger has a Ph.D. from the University of Illinois; Julie has a Ph.D. in law from the University of San Francisco, and Randy holds a Ph.D. in law from the University of New Mexico.”

Using the online white pages, I checked for a listing in Portales for Russell Knudson. In the process I was surprised to learn that Randy Knudson’s legal practice was based there, and I made a couple of phone calls. My call to Russell Knudson’s residential number went unanswered and had no message machine at the other end; I was able to leave a message at Randy Knudson’s office.

The phone call

When my cell phone jarred me awake after only four hours of sleep Monday morning, it didn’t surprise or alarm me. I encourage people to call me, and the long hours are just part of starting your own business in general and the newspaper business in particular.

So I was only half-awake when Randy Knudson identified himself.

“I remember my sister talking about you from her days of teaching at Madison Junior High,” he said.

Wow, I thought, maybe I did leave an impression, and my heart soared.

“You went on to play football at UNM, right?”

Sigh. Once again I was being confused with Fred Mady, who lived in the same neighborhood and went to the same schools I did a year behind me. In addition to the similar spelling, Fred played defensive line and was a good-sized man. No one has ever accused me of missing a meal, either.

After briefly clarifying my identity, Randy Knudson said, “I’m sorry to tell you this really bad news. Julie was living in Santa Rosa, California, when she developed a brain tumor and died 14 years ago.”

Shock is the only word that comes to mind. Images of that high-energy bundle of enthusiasm flashed through my mind as I struggled for something to say, and when the words came out they were far from elegant.

“Oh my God. I am so sorry,” was all I could manage at first.

I went on to mumble a couple of things that I wish I would have been able to say to her, how her enthusiasm for the language made me want to keep writing, even to the point where I served as the sports editor for the Portales newspaper for a year in the middle 1980s. But all could really think of was getting off the phone so I could deal with the shock, so I apologized for bringing up what no doubt is still a painful memory.

“No, that’s O.K.,” Randy Knudson said. “I was very close to my sister.”

Then he paused, and I could sense what he was about to say, but I said it first.

“I know a little about brain tumors. It wasn’t very pretty at the end, was it?” I said, not really expecting an answer.

“No, it wasn’t very pretty at the end,” he replied somberly.

I quickly thanked him for calling and we got off the phone. Right then I knew I couldn’t get anything else done today before writing this column and attempting to put the news behind me.

I started thinking that when she died in 1994 she was probably younger than I am today. Anytime someone near your age dies it’s a reality check, but especially when it’s someone you know.

I went back to the shoebox and pulled out that 1975 letter, which also contained two short notes written on the back of scratch paper that once served as some kind of document in her classroom.

One of her notes talked about her class studying Greek mythology. I remembered what a struggle it was keeping those gods and their areas of jurisdiction straight. Much as I’d like to say I still remember them all, I’d be lying if I said I did.

But I do clearly recall the spelling competitions we used to have with another class taught by Mrs. Norma Hall, the wife of former Eldorado High football coach Jerry Hall. Pick a rivalry – Yankees vs. Red Sox, Cowboys vs. Redskins, Democrats vs. Republicans, I don’t care – and they had nothing on Knudson vs. Hall, Madison Middle School, mid-1970s.

I’m sure the teachers didn’t feel that way, but to us kids it was a war. Depending on the result we’d jump around in victory or mope away in defeat, vowing revenge the next time. One of the great days in my life was spelling “insurance” to win our final competition of the year, ensuring that my class prevailed four times out of six in the head-to-head competition.

(Norma Hall, by the way, turned out to be a great teacher, too. The next year I had her for a class and she was a real stickler for detail, insisting that every “i” be dotted and every “t” be crossed. I had a bad habit of doing neither, and my papers often came back looking like they had the chicken pox from the dots she would go back and put over every single “i” that I missed. Years later we could joke about it, but it’s one reason I was one of the few boys who took typing in the eighth grade, a skill that obviously I now use every day.)

Remembering Ms. Knudson

By now I’ve rambled on too much, something that she would have detested. But looking down and seeing that clear, crisp handwriting brings some thoughts I can’t help but share.

Her last note starts off, “Hi! Can you believe I have your little sister? She doesn’t seem to be as CRAZY as you were – of course, there’s no Brad Cheves to conspire with to drive Miss Knudson NUTS!”

I’d know she’d be proud of Brad, who is now the vice president for development and external affairs at Southern Methodist University and is remains a close friend. And despite my failings as a writer, I’d like to think she’d be proud of me, too.

Reading the letters and notes again, more than 30 years after they were authored, made me think of something else: I wonder what Ms. Knudson would think of the internet. Computer programs that check spelling and grammar have unfortunately taken away the importance of teaching those skills. As my sister who also had Ms. Knudson for a teacher just reminded me when I called her with the shocking news, as students we had two classes dedicated to the language – one called Language Arts and one called Language Mechanics, which emphasized grammar and punctuation.

Another thought: Since no one much bothers to write letters anymore, what are future historians going to use to write their biographies of our generation? And since e-mail gets killed off so quickly, who is going to have a shoe box full of memories to help provide some comfort on days like today?

I really wasn’t on my game as a reporter when I talked to Randy Knudson this morning. I wish I would have asked him more questions about his sister. Did she ever get married and have a family? Did she really enjoy the law? Did she miss teaching at all? Was she as much of a tiger facing death as she was in her life?

Someday soon I’ll ask Randy Knudson those questions and many others. As much as I’d like to do it in person, I don’t think it can wait very long.

But I won’t make a phone call this time and I won’t send an e-mail. As bad as my handwriting and spelling is, I owe it to myself and to a special lady named Julie Knudson to do it in a letter, using the tools she lovingly taught me to use instead of modern-day convenience.