By Mike Gordon
Advertiser Staff Writer

The holiday card arrived last week, just like it has every December for 13 years. It should not have surprised me. Judie always writes.

Judie Rundstrom's son was dying of AIDS when I met her in April 1990 in Redlands, Calif. I spent two days interviewing her and her son, then wrote a story that made my hard-boiled editor cry. The last time I saw Judie was at her son's funeral, a few months later.

She mailed a card that Christmas, the first I had ever received from someone I profiled. I didn't know if it was journalistically right or wrong, but I sent her one, too.

That's how it started.

Each year, Judie's cards offer a gentle reminder about the highs and lows of this business. And if a man defines himself by what he does — and a middle-aged journalist by what he writes — then the cards might serve as a wagging finger.

Journalism is a transient business. Reporters parachute into people's lives, beg them to bare their souls, then walk away. We write with authority about people we will never actually meet and move on to the next story. But no matter how moving they are, those stories are quickly forgotten.

Judie makes me remember. Makes me feel guilty that I don't know more. That I lost touch.

I think of a Redlands teenager named Aimee and hope she stopped trying to kill herself. Her twin sister's suicide should have been lesson enough.

I think of the old World War II bomber pilot who became an architect in Riverside. I gave up my seat on a restored bomber so he could relive his youth during a publicity flight. Last I heard, he had a heart attack.

I think of Angel Sauceda and wonder if she grew up unscarred by the 10 years her father regularly locked her in a closet.

I wonder if anyone ever identified John Doe No. 35. An illegal immigrant without identification, he tried to sprint across an interstate. Two steps into the fast lane, all the way to eternity. I went to his funeral with four cemetery workers.

For some reason, I think of Lois Miller, shot to death in her garage one December near where I was eating dinner. There were no clues then, probably none now.

And I remember Suzie White.

She had agonized about a one-night stand in Tustin, Calif., 18 years earlier and the daughter it produced. Suzie told me she knew her lover's first name — Paul — and that he played a white violin. I reunited them the next day.

For a few years, Suzie sent cards. The last one was the nicest. Paul would play the violin at their daughter's wedding.

I was touched she thought to invite me, but I never heard from her again.

Maybe that's how it's supposed to be. You touch some people. Some touch you.

Then you move on, grateful for the memory.

Judie wrote this year that she wants to visit Hawai'i sometime soon. I hope she writes beforehand. I want to buy her a cup of coffee and ask her how she's been.

Reach Mike Gordon at mgordon@honoluluadvertiser.com or 525-8012.