Omigosh, I cudn’t hardly beleave my eyes when I seen yer name in the paper.
Are you the Darrol Hockey that sold me an icebox back in the last Ice Age?
So how’d you get all rich and puffy like a deppity minister in such short odor?
Oh. Reckon I’d best interduce myself, in case you don’t recall.
My name’s Rodney Doherty and I’m from Dingwell’s Pond, Prince Edward Island.
Back in the old millenyum, I had a short spell of the Youcon. Feels like a thousand years ago.
From time to time I rote home to my sister Wilma, till someone at Canada Post sold me down the crick.
Turns out they was seckretly slippin’ my letters to a newpaper, and the galldarn editor started publifyin’ them without my never-you-mind.
Next I knew folks was laffin’ behind my back. In front of my back, even.
Cross my heart and spit on a frog, I was so hummilyated I lit off home with my tale between my wings.
But things ain’t what they once was in Dingwell’s Pond.
Fer one thing, Momma’s passed now. Even Dear Wilma’s gone to her infernal glory.
I’ll tell you more on that another time.
The Island’s got so over-ran by torrists, you can scarce turn around without some freckle-face little redhead tryin’ to sell you some plastick nicknack from Ty-wan for the price of a small Carabbian yott.
Worst of all, my few Island pals who ain’t already took up residense on the brown side of the lawn has turned into a bunch of windy old boars.
I’d sooner watch a casket warp than spend an hour with any one of ’em.
Well, you won’t catch me rustin’ away at the Golden Days Club, slurpin’ tea and playin’ croaky-knoll till somebody comes to change my skivvies.
I may be on the north side of 70, but you sure can’t say I’m gettin’ long in the tooth. Nossiree, Bob. These store-botten choppers ain’t growin’ nowhere.
Anyways old trout, the long and short is I came back. Jest like the cat, I cudn’t stay away.
Galldarn Youcon gets in you like a tapeworm.
Got back in time to see the Sour Doe Rondyvoo and growed men riskin’ there lives in the Runnin’ of the Dogs.
Found a nice little cabbin down Anny Lake way. Out where kids call there folks by there first name and even share the odd fatty with ’em.
(I ain’t sure what that means, but its what the reel estate lady told me.)
I hope to get the electrick in time fer the next black out.
Must say I’m took back a tad by all the changes hereabouts.
Billy Wiggans ain’t Mare anymores. Pennycut has left the buildin’. Oddrey ain’t even the Youcon’s MP. And Johnny Oystershuck’s in a better huntin’ ground.
Sure hope little Denny Lang hasn’t fell on hard times.
Anyways, I’m inclosin’ $2 fer a one-year inscripshun. But please don’t tell a sole I’m back in town.