The letter starts like so many others I receive.

"I have never met you, but I read your column," it says.

Such letters end up in my mailbox fairly frequently. Folks like to respond to things I write. They agree and disagree. Sometimes they have a story to tell themselves. This writer wanted to tell me about somebody who appeared in my column not long ago.

Her name was Nelda Gentry. She was but a bit player in a column about her son, Brack, whose life ended tragically.

So, too, did Nelda’s. Depending on whom you believe, she either fell while in Brack’s care at the home they shared, or he killed her. She was 74. Women like her all too often die in such anonymity. After falling into a spiral of health problems, they become sort of separated from society, and people who knew them once lose touch.

My letter writer knew Nelda once.

They didn’t know each other well.

"I met her at University Hospital," the letter writer said. "She was a janitor; myself a nurse.

"She really didn’t have much to say. As I seen her each day, sometimes I would ask her if she needed a ride after work and she would say: ‘No. I’m taking the bus.’ I would also see her walking, then I would see her at a store, ask her if she needed a ride. ‘No.’ Then several hours later I would see her on the other side of town."

The story hit a nerve. It reminded me of my mother.

My mom was a walker. Once we kids were old enough to look after ourselves, she turned to walking to help keep her diabetes in control. She’d walk all over our suburban neighborhood, first for blocks, then a couple of miles and finally distances that were simply amazing. She’d walk 20 miles in one day sometimes. I’d be out driving and see her and offer her a ride. No. She was fine.

After Mom died, a woman I had never met came up to me at her funeral.

She didn’t know my mom very well, but she used to see her out walking. The woman said my mom was a bit of an inspiration to her. She’d see her out walking on a regular basis, and my mom was always smiling - just moving forward one step at a time.

That’s what Nelda Gentry did, the letter writer wrote. "I am hoping if you write my story, maybe some people remember who Nelda was," the letter says. "I remember her walking all the time when I met her in the late ’70s until she couldn’t anymore. She worked two jobs. … I just want people to think back and remember that was Nelda they saw walking - a sweet woman nobody took time to get to know."

Probably, there are a few folks out there who did get to know Nelda. Besides her family, I’m sure she had others who loved her. But it’s an interesting point the letter writer raises. We all have Neldas in our lives. They bag our groceries, clean our floors, answer the phones, serve our food, cross our paths as we walk to and fro. They’re the faces we recognize every day, and all too often we don’t even know their names.

The letter I received the other day, which started out like so many others, jarred my comfort level to remind me of all the Neldas in my life. Perhaps I’ll introduce myself the next time I meet such a person. Be a little more friendly. Ask about his or her life. The unfortunate part of the letter is that the writer wouldn’t give me her name. She, too, is a Nelda, and she wants to keep it that way.

"I won’t reveal my identity," she says, "because people don’t know I care so much for people, because they don’t get to know me either."