1300 Goose Lake Road Gem Lake, MN 55110

September 30, 1996

Dear Sam,

Last week I was fairly astounded by your sweet, sincere surprise when I told you that I thought you were wonderful and what a tremendous job you have done raising those six great 'boys.'

Dear Sam, you amaze me: not only because you are such a fine person and have accomplished so much, but also because you don't spend enough time just appreciating yourself and savoring your successes.

Perhaps I feel so for your plight because I recognize a bit of myself in it. When Jack and I were engaged he asked me to tell him my greatest fault; I told him I was insecure. He didn't believe me because he said I had no reason to feel that way. End of story. But you and I know that this isn't how it works.

And so I decided to write you a few of the reasons I admire and love you. Clearly, the spoken word, the fond look, the warm embrace don't last long enough to forestall your depression. So, I hope you pull out this letter from time to time to help bolster and reaffirm you. Hear my fondness and feel my hug as you read it.

First of all, lets get this out of the way: your only 'fault' is that you didn't have daughters. Even up to the end, I sat on my father's lap and stroked him and reminded him of all the sweet little things he did for me as a child and all the larger sacrifices he made for me throughout. Kristen does the same for Jack (and me). While Fritz is also loving and expressive, it is we daughters who are unafraid to look back and treasure the small, sentimental gifts. (And yes, I am up for adoption.)

And it is truly the 'small' things you've done for me and our family that have meant so much. While I admire all your professional accomplishments, I have not known you in this realm--only through the complimentary words of others. But I suppose it is your professional training that translates to one of the lovable aspects I know: when you ask me how I am, you really want to know, and I need to be really honest.

I particularly appreciate it when you question and counsel our children. I think of several poignant instances: sitting in Fritz's cabin bedroom, the two of you sitting on the bed, talking about his flying and his depression; sitting in the cabin guest bedroom in 1987 with Jack and Kristen, talking about her anxieties while she is packing up for college. (Thelma and I were in the living room dealing with the 'higher' matters of the Lark Quartet!)

I love, too, your time and concern for our tortured friend, Paul, and for trying to alleviate the suffering anxieties of Steve. In fact, I may send over one or two other composers in need of your advice (after all, you sent me renters!).

Besides your concern for our mental good, I love your attention to our physical frailties. You are one of the very few people you tells me when I am sick, that I am, and what I should do about it. You have 'laid hands' on me to great effect: whether sensing my fevered brow, infected hand, or healing abdomen (the latter will go down in our family lore!). Thank you. And continue on.

And then there is the matter of those 6 men you've raised. I, frankly, don't know of a more accomplished 'brood.' My mother always said it is a rarity for a strong father to raise strong sons. Yours are all solid and of extremely high achievement. Bask in their reflected glow. (And besides, they sing beautifully.)

And then there is the matter of Thelma--you couldn't have done better. There is no one more beautiful is all ways, and, I know you know that, particularly from your telling of the story of her playing piano for your mother. That story is one of the sweetest, most sentimental recollections I have ever heard.  Thelma, I think, represented not only vitality and talent and warmth to you, but the possibility of a new kind of life for you. Sam, you got that life, but sometimes I think you feel guilty that you did, or perhaps, undeserving of it.

Sam, I do believe that there is a lot of luck associated with those of us who have had good lives: our health, looks, intelligence and innate talents are largely inborn. But don't forget that while you have been blessed with these elements of good fortune, you have worked hard to develop and maintain them. Your life, Sam, is of your making--hard work and many gifts of self to others. You are beautiful.

Now, I want you to enjoy it and yourself. And don't worry about money (I'll personally solicit it from your wealthy sons if it ever comes to that--I'm good at donations!) Spend more on you and Thelma. Spoil yourselves.

Thank you especially for all you've done for me and my family. One couldn't have a better friend than Sam Hunter. There is no more to say. There is nothing else that counts.

With love and best wishes, Linda

The University of St. Thomas today honors with its degree doctor of humane letters

Linda L. Hoeschler

Linda Hoeschler, in a St. Thomas magazine profile several years ago, you recalled of your childhood: "I never felt limited…My parents made it clear I was responsible

for my own well-being." In the years since then, you have approached each of your roles - as business person, community servant, wife and mother - with

a similar clarity, sparked by boundless energy and creativity and tempered, above all, by profound integrity and generosity. 

Growing up in New York, you had forward-thinking parents who encouraged your career aspirations, stressed achievement and inspired dreams. Your father, a circulation director for a chain of newspapers, took you to work with him and introduced you to women in business, medicine and law. By the age of 7, you were reviewing children's columns for the newspaper chain. "I was always taken seriously," you said. "My opinion was valued. 

Your education gave you even more opportunities to hone your intellectual skills. At Trinity College in Washington, D.C., and then at Barnard College in the early '60s, you majored in government, economics and Russian studies.

You made scholarship your first priority, graduating with honors and earning a Herbert Lehman Fellowship at the New School University. There you received your master of arts degree with highest honors. 

In 1966 you married attorney John Hoeschler.

You and Jack were blessed with two children, Kristen and Frederick. 

You began your career as a mother with young children, first as a writer, editor and arts critic in the Twin Cities, then as director of the Minnesota Governor's Commission on the Arts. You then began a successful 15-year career in Minnesota's corporate community.

You became the first communications staffer to be named a corporate vice president at Dayton Hudson Corporation. Next, as group vice president of National Computer Systems, you contributed to the significant growth of that company.

In 1991 you were president of Landmark Investors Ltd., a consulting firm, when the Minnesota Composers Forum, a small nonprofit organization, sought your leadership amid major challenges of organizational and financial disarray.

Although you had been involved locally in the arts for more than two decades, you considered your expertise in business and marketing. The Forum persisted.

A longtime devotee of the arts, you said,

"I felt this was too important an organization to fail."

 You agreed to lead the Forum for a year, rolled up your sleeves and got to work.

And the music played on.

Melding your love of music with your considerable business acumen, you reinvigorated this arts organization into one of the most respected in the United States.

Since 1991, the forum has established a network of chapters stretching across the country and in 1996 renamed itself the American Composers Forum.

Its ranks of member composers, performers, presenters and organizations grew from 400 to 1,700. Its two-year nationwide commissioning project,

Continental Harmony, was a centerpiece of the National Endowment for the Arts' high-profile Millennium Project. A release by its new-music record label, Innova, received a Grammy nomination. The forum's budget grew from barely $300,000 in 1991 to nearly

$3 million in 2003. Today this organization nurtures composers and communities in all 50 states through educational and residency programs, a radio show and commissioning programs.

You also have given your time so generously to a host of arts, business, charitable and educational boards, including the University of St. Thomas board of trustees, which you joined more than a decade ago. Acknowledging your leadership of the board's Student Affairs Committee, St. Thomas Vice President for Student Affairs Gregory Roberts recently presented you with a Heart of St. Thomas Award given to those who truly exemplify the values of the university. 

Today, as you celebrate your recent retirement from a 12-year tenure as executive director of the American Composers Forum, you have a reputation, in the words of one newspaper reporter, as "a new-music fix-it diva."

We prefer to quote Minnesota composer Steve Heitzeg, whose 1993-94 residency at St. Thomas was supported by the Minnesota Composers Forum:

"Linda lit a fire of musical inspiration and creativity across this country."

May that fire - and your many others - continue to burn brightly as we offer hearty congratulations and best wishes and confer upon you the degree, doctor of humane letters, honoris causa.

Citation to accompany the conferring of the degree doctor of humane letters, honoris causa, given at the University of St. Thomas in St. Paul, Minnesota, the twenty-fifth day of July, two thousand and three.

UST Commencement Speech-July 25, 2003 

Thank you for the double honors you are awarding me today: first the honorary degree, and perhaps more thrilling, the opportunity to speak to you students I sincerely applaud each of you for your diligent work securing your degree-this sheepskin is proof positive of your devotion to learning and self-improvement. And as one who received a master's degree, but lacked the fortitude to pursue my PhD, I am particularly in awe of the newly minted doctors in this audience.

 I am most grateful to St. Thomas for honoring my work today, both that done at the American Composers Forum on behalf of the composers and communities of America, and that offered as a Board member of St. Thomas.

 My service to St. Thomas has been, in fact, more the reverse: St. Thomas has served me richly in terms of intellectual and spiritual growth. Over the past decade I have had the most wonderful opportunities here to work with and learn from exceptional people, particularly the students. While it may sound insincere to state you love and care about an ever-changing group, the students of St. Thomas have compelled my mind, and won my heart, forever.

As you leave this campus and go forward in life, I truly hope your appreciation and admiration of St. Thomas grows, and that you, in turn, make personal sacrifices to support its students and its work.

I presume that each of you has a plan, whether vague or well-defined, outlining what you'd like to do with your newly garnered degree. I am going to ask you to put that plan aside, at least for the duration of my speech. For each of you suspects, I am sure, that whatever endeavor you've trained for today, will probably radically change within 10 years. The job you covet now may not even exist ten years from now, at least in the same form. You might not even want that job, anyway.

Instead of remaining anchored to your current plan, which may only lead to disappointment and frustration, I would like to suggest a more fluid way to approach the rest of your life. All you need are three things: a focus on your personal values, the mind of a baby, and the eyes of an immigrant. I'm going to talk about these in reverse order.

Lately I've been doing a lot of personal genealogical research. What astonishes me, over and over, are the incredible stories of our immigrating ancestors. None of mine were famous or persons of notable achievement, but despite that, all were inspirational models.

When faced with poverty, poor education, lack of English, discrimination and other seemingly endless challenges, my settling ancestors, and yours, fundamentally found America to be a place of unceasing opportunity.

Each had more than enough reasons to inspire 10 lifetimes of depression, especially those who came here unwillingly. Instead, they figured out how to make America work for them. They made things, they started small enterprises, many of which failed, only to re­ invent others. They homesteaded land and sometimes lost it.

Well, that was then, and this is now, so you may think. Life today is more complicated and demanding. Our cities are more crime ridden and less community oriented. But is there less opportunity?

Look at the immigrants around us, some certainly in this class of graduates. They start with the menial jobs, the ones that are "below us", and somehow manage to send money back home. Some fail, of course, but for the most part, each of us should try to catch a case of their enthusiasm!

I am truly amazed at the more recent Twin Cities immigrants, the Hmongs and Africans, who think this a great place to live, despite our harsh winters. These tropical emigrants express gratitude for the ability to work at all. Moreover, they all seem to have plans for the future: ideas and openings you and I would overlook. (Just the other day I called a Russian-born accordionist to play at a party, and he offered to clean my house and office.)

I urge each of us to consistently look at our communities, jobs and families with eyes that behold opportunities galore, not insurmountable barriers. The eyes of the immigrant.

About 20 years ago I read an article that continues to intrigue me. The journal of the Bell Museum at the University of Minnesota posed the question, "Why does nature make babies?" The writer detailed the substantial drawbacks of babies: almost no infant on earth is born self-sufficient or able to defend itself. Most reptile and mammal parents need to feed, groom and train their babies for lengthy times. Babies are clearly a poor means to continue each species.

Or are they? In physical terms, babies may be inefficient. But the genius of babies lies in another realm, lack of memory. Because babies have no memory, they are far more adaptable than their progenitors. Instead of being confounded by changes, babies grow up devising ways to adapt, ways often impossible for their parents.

To think that all my life I've believed and, in turn preached, that those of us who forget history are condemned to repeat it. While there is truth there, consider the flip side of this maxim. At what point does our history cripple our ability to adapt to change?

How often do we resist a person, idea or situation because of past negative experiences? Consider how much more empowered we would be if we approached previously distasteful situations or people as the first encounter. Like a baby, we would not only be open to the person or setting, we would try to discern how they could entertain or help us.

Babies are optimistic, curious, self-centered and unprejudiced. Each of us would do well to approach personal hurdles created by past experiences with a newborn's mind, unhampered by memory. Lack of memory can be a very good thing, a really comforting thought at my age, and a possibly galvanizing idea at your age. The mind of a baby.

Now for the most critical idea that I'd like you to consider, the structuring of your lifearound your personal values, not around material expectations, nor around goals that others have suggested. You have sole custody of your entire life, so why not craft it around matters that fascinate and compel you?

I urge each of you today, or within a week, to write down your values regarding your family, community, work, spirit, health, recreation etc. What are the core beliefs that reflect your soul? Then write down a parallel list of your current activities. Do the sum of your activities realize your key values? Probably not, because most of us confuse our work resume with a meaningful life.

Starting today, shape your life's activities-your job, your family, your reading, your volunteer commitments-around your core beliefs. These beliefs, by the way, will change little as you age, so they can guide you better than any current career plan. I also suggest that whenever external changes disorient you, just revisit your list of internal values for comfort and for guidance. These are your eternal truths.

You will do your best work and make your most significant contributions if you know that you are spending your time on things important to you. Moreover, you will never need to advertise, explain or argue your beliefs, because your life will be your message. A focus on values.

I wish each of you joy and passion, and hope you consider my modest ideas: shaping the rest of your life around your personal values, and living it with the accepting, open mind of a baby, and the wonder-filled eyes of an immigrant. Thank you.

November 4, 2005

Dear friends:

This week has been full of good, relieving news, so I wanted to give you a brief update on "What I Did on My Summer Vacation."

On Tuesday, November 1, my spinal surgeon in Minneapolis pronounced the bone in my back healed, the Swedish hardware in place (to set off airport alarms forever!), and my body brace destined for only 6 more weeks of use. I have been doing physical therapy for over a month to slowly rebuild my atrophied trunk muscles so that I can hold myself in place without external support.

I am so grateful, and never, and will never, take my ability to walk for granted. We have been given a second chance at life, and although we will always have some limitations, we appreciate every day with love and gratitude. Since returning from Sweden, we've walked an hour or two daily, really getting to know the neighbors and neighborhoods of Saint Paul.

On Thursday, November 3, exactly 5 months after the accident, Jack and I went to the Mayo Clinic, where he has been tested extensively. Our one and only car crash was enough for a lifetime, and we don't want to test any more airbags. Our final Mayo visit was with an interventional cardiologist who recommended that, despite the hole in Jack's heart (no smart remarks!), repair surgery is not called for at this time (extensive studies are in progress about the relationship of such PFO holes to stroke; we'll wait for the results). Meantime, it's aspirin therapy after he finishes his coumadin "fix" in December.

We were delighted and relieved, and so upon leaving the Mayo Clinic, we stopped to listen to the lobby pianist and a sort-of sing-along. We put down our bags and with me in my brace, fox-trotted across the lobby. Jack even did a gentle waltz-jump lift of me and a dip (I promise our days of flips and under the leg slides are over!). Despite our reticence(!) we took up the crowd's appeal to waltz. The tears and applause were not just those of the scores of onlookers-I was weepy too. (Jack, ever the romantic and sensitive, urged one man to throw down his crutches and take his wife out on the floor.)

So there we are. All the wonderful letters, prayers, meals, visits, coupled with your respect for our need for solitude and meditation, have been healing. Thank you all.

As one doctor said to me, "You'll be fine in two years," to which I replied: "But I'll be two years older." ''That's a problem,” he said. Such is life. We'll take it.

With love, Linda