I mite of messed up the sendin’ of my last letter, so if you did’nt get it, dont bother to read it.
Y’see I was over to Vicktorya doin’ a bit of this and a bit of that afore gettin’ the fairy boat fer the main land.
No matter how hard I looked, d’you think I cud find a Poste Canada Post office anywheres? Nossir.
It was when some kindly old gal with blue hair told me to look in the drug store that it all began to come apart.
This was’nt the kind of drug store where you pop in to get yer stomack pills and maybe pick up a new blade fer yer razer. It was a hole darn departmental store.
By the time I made it past the food and the furnichur and the Fredricks of Hollywood panty seckshun, I was near frantick that the boat wud leave without me.
Finely I seen a counter with what looked like a bunch of mail slots and slipped my letter into one of them.
But in all the confushun, I cant fer sure if it was the one that said Outgoin’ Mail, the one that said Tell Us What You Think, or the one where I cud win a brand new coffee maker in the weekly draw.
Now I may be a tad out of touch, but I think life was better back when you went to Poste Canada Post to send a letter and a drug store to get tooth paste. Fer anythink else, like a coffee maker, you went to Nelsons Hardwear.
Anyways I hope this letter gets to you. I’m sendin’ it from a place called Cash Creek, so I mite be there in person by the time it gets to you.
It was the nite of the big harvest moon when I told the other folks hereabouts that I cud’nt take the rain any more and was headin’ back up to the Youcon. I was reel touched by how they took the news.
“Thats one less mouth to feed” says Maisy.
Eva says “you’ll be back. Nobody leaves Locust Land fer good.”
Unkle Walt, who dont say much but has a bit of a thing fer astronnomy, looks up at the sky and says “the Youcon? In winter? I’m pretty sure thats where Steven Hocking got the idea about there bein’ black holes.”
Still and all, there was a bit of a tear in his eye when he helped load up my Smart little car.
And there was a bit of a tear in mine when he handed me the scarf he’s been nittin’ fer the past six months or so.
“Stay outta the draft” he says. And with the dang thing long enuff to rap round me 10 times or so, I reckon I can do that even at 50 below.
So unless a near-sited moose bags me by mistake somewheres along the Stuart and Cassy R. Highway, I’ll see you soon.