Letter to Elizabeth

Dear LizzyBeth,

Welcome home.  I hope you get home today with your Model T Pacemaker and that you will cease your stubborn attraction to exotic twitterpations.  But you have always been a stubborn one, to wit:

Let us analyze this picture carefully:

1. Who has the right to have their hand on the pitchfork?
2. Who has a look that suggests that he or she has a constitutional right to have their hand on this pitchfork?
3. Who has a look of total exasperation and disgust at the injustice being committed?

I think it is obvious that a miscarriage of rightful privilege of having one's hand on the pitchfork is being committed here.  I have worried about how this came about all of my life.

OK Lizabeth, hold my hand and we'll take our little can of worms and our primitive fishing poles and walk down to the river.  We'll wait for the cars to pass, if any, and walk out to the middle concrete pier which holds up the two sections of the old railroad bridge that once provided the entry into Penrose.  We'll climb down on the pier, dangle our feet over the edge, hang our fishing lines loaded with worms in the moving waters.  We will know full well that we will never catch a fish because we never, ever have caught one and, even if we did, it would be a bony sucker we would just chuck back in the river.

We will sit and while away the time, watching the river waters flow past, wondering where the waters came from and how far they will go.  So we will have a few moments of peace and tranquillity and calm that will light our memories for the rest of our lives, the waters moving by, the cars rumbling overhead, and no cares to trouble our minds.  But those moments were enough.  We never needed or wanted anything more.

Get well. Love, Dwight