Printed advice
BY ANN DUDLEY
Have you ever met someone that has
written to a Dear Abby column? Well,
I have, and I can say that with certainty
because that person is me.
I remember sitting on a porch swing in
the sunroom of my friend Janet’s house. The
sun was streaming in as we huddled over a
notebook, carefully figuring out what to say.
We were 10, maybe 11, with pen, or more
likely pencil, in hand. The two of us were in
the same situation.
We were writing to Dear Abby, because
who else could help? That was the column
we read religiously and discussed among
our friends. We talked about it over playing
with dolls, or dress-up or on the playground
during recess.
For us, the column was a glimpse into
the adult world. I remember, most distinctly,
the woman who wrote in because times had
been hard. She couldn’t afford tuna for a
tuna noodle casserole to feed her family. So,
she had substituted cat food.
Now that times were better, she didn’t
know how to put tuna back in, because her
family liked her casserole as it was. I recall
the letter, but I don’t recall the answer. I
remember being appalled by how that dish
must have smelled and tasted. But I also
gained insight into how lucky I was, too,
that my family wasn’t in that situation.
Remembering that woman’s dilemma
now, my heart aches for her as she was
doing the best she could for the family she
loved. Advice to the lovelorn, affairs of the
heart, slighted feelings, worried mothers.
Dear Abby seemed to have the answer for
everything.
But we hadn’t ever seen advice for our
particular problem. You see, Janet and I had
both developed early and we didn’t know
how to talk to our mothers about it.
We agonized over what to tell Dear Abby,
and most especially how to sign it. After
much deliberation, we landed on “Growing
Girls in Oregon.” Most importantly, we had
implored her to please not publish our letter
in the newspaper, thinking that surely, some-
one would be able to trace it back to us.
Janet and I also pledged to each other that
we would never tell a soul. I know that I, for
one, blew that one along the way for sure.
I don’t know how many days or weeks
went by. Finally, an answer came. I have no
idea what my mother thought about me get-
ting a letter from an unknown person.
I remember taking it up to my room,
closing the door, and probably shutting the
blinds for good measure. I can see in my
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mind’s eye the creamy, heavy stock statio-
nery with Abby’s portrait on the top.
But I have no clue as to what her advice
was. Probably some gem about knowing
these things could be embarrassing to talk
about to our mothers, but they had gone
through the same thing once upon a time.
Somewhere in my boxes, that letter
resides, because I don’t think I would have
thrown a piece of gold like that away. I did
read that letter more than once though, tak-
ing it out of its hiding place behind books
that were no longer read.
Flash forward 15 years. On my lunch
break, I’m reading the paper, and flip to
Dear Abby, ready to read about someone
else’s problem.
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As I start to scan the second letter the
words sound all too familiar. My eyes race
to the end, to see how it’s signed. The color
has risen in my cheeks, because I knew what
it would say. And there it is, in black and
white, “Growing Girls in Oregon.”
The editor must have thought that the
expiration date was long past due and surely
those young girls wouldn’t see their letter in
print, or even care. But I did, a piece of my
non-rational brain still thinking that there
was someone out there that would know.
The funny thing of it is, that letter was run
more than once.
Coincidentally, about a year after I saw
our letter for the first time, Janet unexpect-
edly came into the office where I worked. It
had been a long time since I had seen her,
as we had gone our separate ways. After
exchanging pleasantries, I told her what I
had seen in the paper. She laughed heartily,
saying that she had forgotten all about that
letter. But I noticed that her color rose, too,
thinking about it.
I haven’t read Dear Abby in decades, but
when I buy magazines, or come across an
advice column in a newspaper, I always stop
and read it.
It’s a chance to escape into someone
else’s life for a while. I ponder what advice
I would give and then see if I agree with the
response. Because I know, from personal
experience, that the advice given does mat-
ter to someone out there.
This essay was produced through a class
taught by Tom Hallman Jr., a Pulitzer Prize
winning reporter at The Oregonian.