The New York Times mag fills a front-of-book page with a grab bag of the week's correspondence. Some of the people they print are mad, some are sad, and some are impressed. Who are these people? Why did they decide to write in? Did they read whatever they're writing about during brunch? Or, was it on a porch! Gawker Weekend will provide you with that back story.

Today, we called up 67-year-old Jane Janis from New Canaan, Connecticut, who wrote to the Times about a magazine feature published a few weeks ago about a girl and her two autistic brothers.

The letter (not yet online):

Karen Olsson's article (Feb. 18) brought us right into the daily lives of the Perry family. Tarrah is to be admired for the way she has handled having autistic twin brothers. She's a wonderful resource for her mother. I only take exception to her telling her mother, while riding in a car with the whole family, that the boys needed a shower because they smelled really bad. Her brother Jason reacted exactly like a normal teen when he almost punched her. Her comments to her mother should have been made in private.

We found Ms. Janis at home this Saturday.

You had a letter published in the New York Times Magazine today. How did that make you feel?
 Surprised. I was surprised.

Did you know in advance?
 They emailed me back saying they might, after I sent it.

Why did you write it?
 I just was kind of caught up in the feeling of reading that article. I thought it was a great article. I thought it was extremely well-written, and it just absorbed you into the story.

But that one part caught your eye?
 Mmmhhhmm.

Mmmm.
 Well, what did you think of it?

The girl may have been a little unceremonious, but maybe it's fair to expect a little impropriety from an adolescent.
 Yeah, but that boy had the right to be mad. It was rude.

Yeah, it was pretty rude. How long have you been reading the magazine?
 Oh, years and years.

What do you think of it?
 I like it.

Do you think it has changed?
 Do I think it has changed... yeah! I guess it has, through the years. I barely remember how it used to be.