Awhile back, I attended a day-long seminar on proofreading (Don’t roll your eyes. It was fascinating).

The presenter asked us to introduce ourselves and tell where we worked.

I wear several hats and, as I listened to the others, I wondered which one to talk about.

“I’m an editor,” the first one said. “I work for the government.”

“I work in the private sector,” said another. “I’m a technical writing.”

And so it went, all worked either for the government or in the private sector. Each one was welcomed with murmurs of appreciation and approval.

When my turn came, I look a deep breath and said, “I work for my husband. I translate, crunch numbers, edit communication pieces and help prepare content for articles, workshops, and conferences.”

I smiled and waited for my share of kudos.

Which did not come.

In fact, they all looked stunned.

“You work for your…um… husband?” someone finally asked.

I nodded and shrank in my seat. Had a giant L appeared on my forehead? Was that the only thing the group would remember?

Over the following weeks, I gave a lot of thought to what I’d said. How could I describe what I do in a way they could understand and welcome?

A few months later, I attended another editing seminar—Substantive Editing, this time. Once again, everyone worked for the government or for a company… except me.

When it was my turn, I took a deep breath and said, “I work for a psychotherapist. I translate, crunch numbers, edit communication pieces, and help prepare content for articles, workshops, and conferences.”

I held my breath, waiting for their reaction.

“What a fascinating job you have!” someone said.

Others murmured their agreement.

One word made all the difference.

It’s all in the spin.

My Uncle Charlie died last week. He was 101, and had lived a long and relatively healthy life. At 100, he beat me fair and square at cribbage. When my brother said, “Wow! You beat her!” he said, “Was there ever any doubt?”

Over his lifetime, Uncle C wore many hats: a school janitor and bus driver… part-time farmer with a few cows… a veteran of WW II… and caregiver to his wife through 40 years of Parkinson’s. People thought this last was incredible. He didn’t. He’d married her for better or for worse, hadn’t he?

I knew all those things about Uncle C , but his impact on me was for something else. When I was 15, our family moved to France and I was catapulted into a culture and a language I didn’t understand. I didn’t belong or know how to make friends.

Uncle C and Aunt L had always sent me birthday cards, but when we moved to the other side of the ocean, they began sending a letter with the card. I suspect Aunt L was behind it, reminding him, but he wrote the letters. For over 25 years Uncle C wrote me one letter a year.

There was never any earth-shattering news in them. My birthday is in March, so every year he said he looked forward to digging in his garden instead of shoveling snow. He mentioned birthday parties, updated me on everyone’s health, and said he had coffee and played cards with his buddies every day at the store (There was only one).

Uncle C’s often made me laugh:

Get even? Did D have poor taste in restaurants?

Another year, he told me of a new pet:

What color was the cat, I wondered. Did it live in the barn? In the house? What happened to the kittens? I was never told.

Then there’s my all-time favorite:

I loved Uncle C’s letters. My birthdays were never truly over until I received them. They weren’t long – a few lines scratched out on notebook paper – but they made me feel special.

It’s said that we need to give children roots and wings. Uncle C helped give me roots. His letters reminded me that even though I lived far away, I had a family that remembered and loved me. That I belonged.