Dear Erin,
Remember that time, in summer, when I declared that once fall arrived I would never pen a late night letter to you again? Well, apparently it’s still summer. I don’t know what to tell you.
Although, I do think you have a head start on me. No. Scratch that. I don’t think you have a head start, I know you do. All this Eastern time zone business turns out to be completely unfair. I’m thinking it should be like golf, where you, Erin, have to start with a handicap or something, if it’s your week? As in, you’re not allowed to start writing your letter until Tuesday? Or even Wednesday? But you must still finish it by Monday afternoon.
Except I don’t play golf, so I don’t know how any of those rules work. Golf is really only something I fell asleep to on Sunday afternoons while I was growing up. I never much made it pass the massive vistas of green grass. Still, I’m betting they don’t call it a handicap anymore, which kind of points to me deleting these two paragraphs in awareness of their pointlessness. Which I would, except that it’s 7:10 pm here (9:10 pm there) and a paragraph is a paragraph is a paragraph. At least, when you’re trying to get to the end of the page it is.
Ahem.
Golf aside, here I am, writing my letter, at the last minute, again. I promise I have excuses. For instance: I did in fact wake up at 6:00 am this morning (already 8:00 am at your house, see paragraph above, when it comes to the futility of my early-rising) and I did in fact begin upon my day’s list of tasks. It wasn’t very exciting. I ordered groceries I should have ordered on Saturday. I started laundry I should have started on Saturday. I sent kids to school that I wasn’t allowed to send on Saturday. Then I had two meetings and took a fifteen minute nap.
(I see you over there. Judging my nap. Thinking I should have written my letter during my nap. I defend my naps. I’ve been cultivating them since the golf-watching days of yore.)
After my fifteen minute nap, I folded the laundry, had an online conversation with my local Amazon rep (or not so local, who knows where Anonymous “Paul” is actually from) and went to teach ballet. At ballet class, it was Bring a Friend Day, which I knew I was meant to be pleasant about. And while the idea of 12 different 3 year olds each bringing a 2 year old friend to class, I managed to escape with my life. At that point, I returned home (driven by my permit-wielding 14 year old daughter—this is Idaho, Erin and potato trucks must be driven), made dinner, and came upstairs to write this letter.
You might be wondering by now what my point is in relating all these details to you, and I would remind you, once again, that a paragraph, is a paragraph, is a paragraph. At least when you’re trying to get to the end of the page.
A brief story:
Last Friday, my children were out of school. I decided to be motherly, for once, instead of hiding in the laundry room to write while they wandered around the house scavenging for food. I made plans with two of my friends—who luckily had some kids the same age as mine so I could pretend, yet again, I was doing all of “this” for them.
Without ado, we got in the car to head out for a hike to see “fall colors.” Three of my six children were sobbing as we left the house, as I forgot to call the “hike” a “walk to the river,” but along the way, we found we were following the car of my friend.
Ah ha! I thought, and gave up all efforts at any navigation of my own. I set to following her.
Twist and turn we went, up into the yellow hills of Pocatello. Every once in a while a sporadic hint of red or brown would come into view. Mostly brown. Rarely red. Twist and turn we’d go again. In and out. Soon enough, we noticed trail signs had changed to directions to the prison.
Did I turn around, you might ask? With the prison looming ahead?
I did not. After all, that was my friend I was following, and I assumed she must know where we were going. Perhaps there was a turn off before the prison gates?
Dear reader, it turns out that there was not.
Dear reader, it turns out she was lost, and headed directly to the prison. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200.
Once we’d determined our state of disaster and turned around, I shared this helpful tidbit of advice with my daughter: Beware of the friends you make. You might think you are following them to a hike of “fall colors”, but they could very well be leading you up the rosy path to prison.
The End.
Ahem.
While you might wish you had fallen asleep by now, Erin, as I often did during golf, and while you might feel I am leading you up a rosy path to a useful essay, when this really an essay prison of sorts, you are still required to be my friend. I wish I could say I had something useful thing to tell you, on this lovely Monday evening (Monday night) but I am stuck with this: even the drive to prison is lovely and golf commentators make good backgrounds for your dreams.
Yours, at 7:49/9:49 pm
Jamie
p.s. I’m so glad your whirlwind of activity is spurring you onward. I’m just waiting for those words to whip outward and fall onto the page.
Friends who think they know where they are going often lead people astray.