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Dear Etta,
I received your last letter and its tone and the description of your life at home pleased me. There is something wonderfully down to earth about you. I loved the story about your mother’s Monday night escapade when a huge storm blew in over the pennisula. Your mom ran outside in her nightgown to cover the cucumber plants, using an old sheet to protect them. You wrote that she worries about everything, even cucumbers! Then you went on to recount that her behavior the night of the storm probably had something to do with your father, his being very dedicated to the care of the cucumber patch. Sadly, though today you say it brings a smile upon your face, you continued that the day before your father died, he had told your mother his dream story about cucumbers standing in line in your garden holding individual name plaques. My father, too, truly enjoyed his gardening, but his great pleasure was his cultivation of roses.
I write, what wonder India, true glory of human civilization rests in its color, languages and people. Yet wherever I go, I must bring along my own particular brand of me. Truthfully, despite the relative luxury and the privileged which had been mine most of my life, and the current wonder of weather and environment, I make myself wildly busy. For all intents and purposes I am not much different from the guy who sat for hours on hard wood chairs scribbling away under the reading room lights at the tables of the New York Public Library. In the end, even when I survey the spectacle of the beaches of Goa, I am in my own head, disturbed by vainglory and ambition. You know me, hey, girlfriend! Going on with the truth of the matter, I would be pretty much the same guy in Denmark as I am here in India as I was the guy at the desk in my parents' hardware store in northern Illinois. Excuse me. Let's not get too romantic. Of course, I would not want to shiver in me feet because I had to save the bucks on heat during one of your famous, northern-European cold snaps. Well nobody is perfect.
I have been thinking of my own dad lately, particularly as he had to deal with me as I must deal with my own son in all the varied circumstances of his and my own life. My dad was not good with the dollar, yet how well-off he ended up in the last decade of his life still astonishes me, though I am not sure his influence on me in terms of basic economics should be merited. Still, he infused me with confidence and set for me the example to learn and then to appreciate the wonder of the arts and the sciences and the lovely things of this world. Though he had traveled a good bit during his life, he never visited Denmark or India. I am sure that he would have relished the experience had he in his life the opportunity to visit both these two nations.
Glad your mother’s back remains on the mend.
Love, S.
SWEET TALK
Out in Arizona my Dad grew roses.
He embraced the great merit,
Loved to say,
How he enjoyed cultivating his own garden.
That spot he tended along side the house,
It was the love of his retirement.
I saw those roses disporting,
Performing and they were real pretty,
Showing off their tightly petaled spiraling centers.
Seems they climbed the trellises just to flaunt their colors,
White and red, yellow, even some of golden orange.
This time I’ll proclaim my sentiment aloud,
Make it absolutely clear for one and all to hear.
They never flowered like you.
No! They never looked the way
You looked tonight, darling.
Surely some may find this verse coy,
No more than borrowed phrase and imagery,
Notions common in the language of the heart,
Yet I swear to it. I tell the truth,
The same as if I stood in court of law
My right hand raised, the left upon the Holy Book.
Would you accept my plight?
These my words which are here and now before you
Knowingly welcome the risk of eternal perdition.
Figure my flattery, a very special gift --My terms of endearment, honest and sincere.
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