Morning, friend.
I’ve got a confession. This week I didn’t get much done around the place. The fence still needs mending, and Deputy’s been giving me looks about our afternoon walk. Your letters are to blame.
June, my wife, finally made me print them out. She said I was squinting at the phone like it owed me money. So Friday evening we spread them across the kitchen table and read them out to each other, one at a time, till the coffee went cold.
I want to tell you about a few of them. No names, because some of you are private folks, and I respect that.
You’ve been through more than I knew
A lady out in the country wrote about the big Texas freeze. All-electric house, no power for days, her husband laid up hurt. She and her teenage boy kept the place running. They cooked supper in cast iron over the fireplace, kept the food in ice chests on the porch, and hauled buckets of water out to the barn for the goats and chickens. She called it “a good learning experience.” I called it something else when I read it, and June told me to mind my language.
A fella in North Carolina went two weeks without power after an ice storm. He dug a hole by a spring in the ditch so he could fill a bucket to flush the toilet. Signed it, “Good times.”
And a couple in their early nineties, still active and still skiing in their memories, wrote to say they’d found their water shut-offs, tested them, put a flashlight by the bed, and fitted rails in the shower. They said learning from other people’s mistakes beats making your own.
June read that one twice. Then she looked at me and said, “That’s us in twenty years.” I said I’d settle for that.
Here’s what I took from it
I’ve been doing this a long time. I thought I’d be the one doing the teaching here. Turns out a good many of you already know more than most. You’ve done it the hard way, in the dark, with the water off and people counting on you.
So I’ll keep writing. But I’ll be listening too.
One more thing
I’ve been working on something for you, and it’s taking up most of my desk. I’ll tell you more soon. June says I’m not allowed to say anything until it’s done, and she’s usually right.
Who taught you to be ready? A parent, a grandparent, a scout leader, a hard winter? Hit reply and tell me. I read every one.
And if you know someone who’d be better off reading these letters, maybe a neighbour, your sister, or a friend who lives on her own, forward this on to them. They can sign up here:
See you next time.
— Cole
P.S. Deputy got his walk. He’d like it on the record that it was late.