A letter to Ken Jennings

Dear Mr. Jennings,

I was thinking of you the other day. I know that must sound very strange. Well, maybe not so strange to you anymore, now that you're a celebrity and all, but it was definitely strange to me. Strange that I should be standing in the middle of the St.George, UT, Deseret Industries and have you, a total stranger, step unbidden into my thoughts. I'm quite certain the reverse never happens. I'm sure you have never been standing in the middle of, say, the Salvation Army store and had me pop into your head. So it felt a little weird to be thinking of you when you have no idea that I even exist. And thinking of you fondly, no less.

I was perusing the books (the best section of any retail establishment) and saw a book from my childhood. A book I loved dearly. A book I must have read at least 20 times. A book that brought me hours of entertainment and diversion. What was this tome worthy of adulation from my childhood self? Ferdinand the Bull? And To Think That I Saw It On Mulberry Street? Perhaps The Secret Garden, or James and the Giant Peach. Nope. Great books all, but none of the above. It was The Book of Lists by David Wallechinsky, Irving Wallace, and Amy Wallace. Oh how I loved that book! Finding that book felt as if I were seeing an dear friend after too many years. And as I looked around to see who was near me, either trying to score my little treasure before I got to it or waiting to share my upwelling of fond emotion, you popped into my head. I knew that if you were there beside me, of all people, you would truly appreciate the joy that I felt right at that moment. You, of all people in the world, would appreciate true devotion I had to the contents of that book, and how the sight of the cover evoked fond memories of hours lost in reading, over and over again, all those wonderfully fascinating vignettes of the past. You would truly understand.

Now, I hope you don't misunderstand. I'm a happily married woman, and I don't mean happily married as a euphemism for married. I love my husband dearly and am not looking for any replacement or change, either physically or emotionally. He is my go-to guy for just about everything in my life. Just last month, in that self-same D.I., when I stumbled across the distinctive brown and tan couches we started our marriage with, the very couches(!), he was the one I called with a shout-out from the past. And last month, he was the one who came uninvited with our children to cheer me across the finish line of my first half marathon. He knew I would love to have them there, have him there, despite my sincere attempts to make his life easier by telling him to keep the 5 kids at home. He's my hero. But he just doesn't appreciate my tenderness for trivia, my love affair with the useless, fascinating minutiae of the world. And so, in that instant, when my mind was searching for just the right person to share the moment with, who came to mind? Ken Jennings.

There are, of course, reasons I thought of you specifically. Even though I have seen hundreds, if not thousands, of Jeopardy contestants, you are the only one I remembered at that emotional moment. My feelings are perhaps a bit more proprietary than your average fan. I too am a Mormon, albeit a smidge older than yourself, and I attended BYU. I wrote an essay for English class bemoaning my roommates' lack of concern for the trivia that I loved so dearly. Not too many people share my taste for the trivial. Watching you on TV was almost like making a new friend. You language, your mannerisms, your niceness - all of these things helped me identify strongly with you. There are probably millions in this country who admire you for your acumen with trivia. After all, you did what no one before had done. I know, I know; but for a then-recent change to the rules you might just be one in a field of many. Such goes life, right? But there you were, in that moment, and ready to take the challenge. You were the one. As I watched you on Jeopardy, I felt a strong kinship to you. You were exactly what I wanted to be. You achieved the dream. The dream that so many of us held but never felt we could achieve for whatever reasons. The dream of being recognized and rewarded (handsomely) for all those years of pursuing the footnote, of filing away and cataloging interesting information, of taking the extra mental step of remembering the fascinating details. You're my hero, Ken Jennings. And I've enjoyed you even more since then. I loved your book, Brainiac. I enjoy your blog. I privately attempt to answer your trivia questions weekly. (I do a pretty good job, for the most part, although I have to admit I have yet to know a Question 7 answer off the top of my head.) You have a very approachable personality and we have a great deal in common, so I feel as if I know you. Thus, I think, your appearance in my head that day in the book section of the local D.I.

I'm afraid there isn't a happy ending to the story. "No Merchandise Beyond This Point" and a potty training 3-year-old conspired against me. I left my cart outside the restroom for a moment, and it was taken by some officious D.I. employee for re-shelving. I searched, but could not find the precious book again. I try not to be critical or bitter. Someone just doing their job, right? It's probably for the best. There was that chapter on the sex stuff, you know. I do have those 5 children, so I would have had to keep the book in the bedroom. Either that or razor pages out like my friend's parents did (but I never could do that, not really.) So, I just let it go.

But I wanted to tell you thank you. Thanks for being you. Thanks for doing what you did, what you do, publicly and unashamedly. And most of all, thanks for being there in that moment. It meant a lot that there was the perfect someone to share those feelings with, even if it was only in my mind.

Yours sincerely,
Jennifer Tomany LeBaron

You can read more about Ken Jennings here. I highly recommend him. He's my friend (in my mind.)