Dear Glenda

Dear Glenda:

I sit outside, on this beautiful acre of land, thinking about you, as usual. I have my thirteen-foot trailer here on my aunt's property. Someday, this place will be mine.

Today is a taste of summer. I sit among gorgeous blue wildflowers, day lillies, and star-shaped wildflowers, and green grass. I love this place, Goose Ridge. I'm slowly turning this place into a park.

I think about you every day. I don't really know you, but there is something about you that has captivated me. I imagine your big white Cadillac coming up the road. I see it approach, and I make a bee line to the gate. You see me, and stop. We have a nice talk: "Yes, I live here." It was a nice day, like today, and you decided to take a drive. You found yourself on Bowman road, then Rager. You saw my lilacs and honeysuckles, my young ten-foot poplar. You saw how somebody cares for this place, and you sensed something. Then you saw me walking up the driveway. "Oh, there's Cary."

Each month, I count the days until I can see you again. Our transaction is so brief. Two months ago, I came in and got you alone, so I could tell you that I like you. You told me your husband died ten years ago, and you were not ready. You said you were flattered. I left. I never did that before. For me to stand before a stranger, and unburden myself...that's a big thing. Last month, we talked of wildflowers, and how the spring rains made the grass grow. I was relieved that there was no awkwardness on your part, nor on mine. Ten years isn't all that long, is it? People think it is, but it's not. I feel you're still in mourning. I can wait. I'd wait for you until mountains become hills. And I'm not sure why.

Maybe someday, I can share Goose Ridge with you.

Jack and Me

T and AJ went down to Rocklin for a few weeks. T took Baby, and AJ took Maddie, so it's Jack and me. I take the opportunity to imagine what it will be like when it's Jack and me for real...permanently.  As usual, I moved into the cabin. I sit here in the little rocker, fire burning before me. Jack's on the couch, doing his morning foot-licking. He was confused last night, because this time, not just the people, but the other dogs left, too.

As I sit here, I look around: kitchen, dining room (someday the library/study); look up at the ceiling; bathroom that remains unfinished. Still wonder why AJ didn't have things completed here. She bought the cabin as a kit. Wall for the upstairs BR couldn't have been extra...could it?

Still wonder about T's motives. Why is she here? Been here all winter. Maybe when she gets back to Oklahoma, or Colorado, wherever, she'll stay put. Goose Ridge is to be mine, and there's nothing T or anybody else can do about it.

I still wonder how much longer AJ will live. In five years, she'll be ninety-one. She's afraid of death. She'll be like Grandma Witzke, desperately clinging to the body to her last breath.