The Letter

I called home early last Saturday morning from Guymon Oklahoma to let my wife know I was headed her way. It gives her something to look forward to! I do the best I can to keep the old girl going, and it gives her time to get the house cleaned up and have a nice supper ready when I get there. I know how important these things are to her.
Okay, maybe that’s not exactly the way it went. She told me in her usual sarcastic way that it was about time I decided to come home. The bathroom sink was backing up and the yard needs mowing. She then informed me we were going out to eat when I got there. So much for that home cooked meal. She called me an old fool, told me to keep it between the ditches and she’d see me when I got there. Just before we hung up, she said, oh yeah, you got a letter from Melissa today.
Oh, just so you know, Melissa is one of my nieces. Like most old guys, I still think of my nieces and nephews as kids. That’s not exactly the way things work though. Melissa’s now a grown woman. She’s married to a good guy named Brian, they have two kids of their own and she teaches school in Houston. I spent most of that 400 mile trip home trying to figure out what her letter could be about. That and passing people. I finally got home that afternoon and opened the letter. In it was a picture I hadn’t seen in at least 25 years. I was sitting on the couch holding Melissa and my daughter, Misty in my arms with my other niece, Michelle was sitting on my shoulders. Michelle’s the oldest and I’d guess she was about 3 years-old in the picture. Yeah, that was a good day.
She said she came across the picture and just had to send it to me. She wrote, here’s a picture of you and your girls. We put you through a lot didn’t we? There were the leeches in Greensburg, then the teenage years. She seemed pretty sure I missed those years the most. Yeah right!
It cracked me up that she remembered the leech story. They weren’t exactly in Greensburg. Do you remember the story about Rosa Smith? She’s the girl who was buried out in the middle of nowhere back in 1884. If you head east from her grave just over the next hill is a small, winding creek. On this creek is a really cool beaver dam. In the process of building their dam, the beavers created a small oasis of sorts. The pond they created is small. Probably only 25 feet at it’s widest point. But the ground surrounding the pond is a little like a small swamp. The grass is beautiful. Wild flowers, cat-tails, and Cottonwoods thrive. It’s one the best places I know of to watch the sun go down. Okay, that’s the story about the beaver dam.
I’ve told you about Sunday picnics we used to take. One of those Sundays I decided since both my sister-in-laws and most of the nieces and nephews were spending a little time with us it would be good idea to share my beaver dam with them.
It was. We spread the kids out on blankets with their peanut butter sandwiches and potato chips or whatever they had that day. I got busy packing stuff up in the back of the truck while the rest of them roamed the area. It wasn’t long before someone asked me if I thought it would be okay if the kids got in the creek. Sure, I told them. It’s a natural spring, you won’t find more pure water anywhere. With that assurance, one by one the kids all got into the water.
I was sitting on the tailgate of my truck watching what them have the time of their lives. Three mother hens and their kids. The water was probably up their bellies. They were laughing and splashing each other. I was watching what could be described as a “Norman Rockwell” moment when it all fell apart. Once the girls climbed out of the creek it took all of about two seconds to realize they were all covered with big, fat, leeches.
There was Misty, Michelle and Melissa, Josh and Katie screaming at the top of their lungs. Their moms, Donna and Karen were about to lose it. And there was my wife giving me that look.
Hey guys, sorry about that. My bad. And Melissa, thank you so much for the memory. You made my day.
Kevin McGinty can be reached at: kevinmcginty@sbcglobal.net