Dear Mister Ed

Life has sure been some hecktick this past week.

I sware, some days I been stirrin’ my stumps when it ain’t even noon yet. Not that I can tell fer sure, on accounta The Widdow don’t allow any clocks on her island.

Way she puts it is, “Theres three things to know if you want to fit in around here. If its lite, its daytime. If its dark, its nite. And if yer hungry, the cooks name is Emma-Lee.”

Once I got all that sorted out, my main job has been to sit in a chair and watch the tide come and go.

It cant get more better than that, unless yer the sort that dont enjoy jest kickin’ back, like The Widdow seems to be.

I tell you Darrol, watchin’ that gal tuckers me out. If she ain’t playin’ tennis or swimmin’ full tilt from one end of the pool to the next, shes in the garden at all hours or on the phone plannin’ some shindig or other.

Shes even got Unkle Walt doin’ that thing where you sit on a mat with yer eyes shut and try to hoist yer legs behind yer head.

With him bein’ 84 and her but four years less, seems like its a race to see who busts a gusset and hits the Other Side first.

Thank hevvin she ain’t set her sites on me yet. Maybe she figgers I’m past all hope, and I ain’t about to tell her diffrent.

Theres seven bedrooms in the place. The one I got is on the top floor next to where Unkle Walt is at. Its big enuff fer a small army, and from the window I can see clear to the State of Warshington.

On a reel good day I can even get a sqwint at the mountin thats named after the beer that was named after the Prince that married that movie star back in the 50s. Somethin’ or other Kelly.

The bathroom is near the size of a normal house and has a doo-dad I never seen before called a beeday. Walt says its fer warshin’ yer undercarridge, but I ain’t up fer nothin’ fanssy.

The ownly house rule I herd tell of so far is the about dont flush if ain’t brown.

But truth to tell, I find the days a tad long. Jest fer fun, I picked up one the The Widdows pitchur books to see how many birds I cud spot in the yard.

Of coarse, that put in mind of my naybor Merna whose mindin’ my place back on the Anny Lake Road. So I called ‘er up.

Turns out its been hotter than stink in the Youcon, jest like down here.

Merna says my gardens doin’ fine, ‘sept fer the greens are all brown and the chickins has took to pluckin’ themselves to keep cool.

Pretty sure she was joshin’ me on that, but it may be near time to think of headin’ home.

Yer pal,

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