LETTERS FROM HOME: A RIOT OF FIGHTS AND FIREFLIES, REPTILES AND SERIAL KILLERS

June 24, 1999

Dear Leslie,

A gentle rain fell today, deepening the hue of these blue-green days of summer. The summer has been a riot of fights and fireflies, snakes and serial killers.

The fireflies hovering like UFOs in the fields alongside the road that leads to DC's parents' cabin on the Castor River. The cabin is Hank and Lucy's second home, a place where their domestication fades and they seem more alive. The same could be said for most the humans who go there.

Not that Hank and Lucy don't gnash their teeth at home. They got into a fracas with a groundhog who lives beneath our cottonwood tree one day we were away. DC's father said the groundhog's teeth chattered like castanets. It took him 15 minutes to separate the combatants. We checked the dogs for wounds but couldn't find any. The groundhog hasn't been seen. Every morning, DC gives them a "Can't we all just get along" lecture.

The yard in summer becomes a battle zone. DC came in the house one day with a look of astonishment and unable to speak. She was picking up small limbs that had fallen during a storm when she realized one of the coiled limbs was greeting her with a wide, white mouth. Another time, she was pulling the hose along at twilight when something slithered against her foot. Thinking about it causes her some gnashing, too.

Both of us love the sound of the trains that pass through downtown, especially when they serenade us at night. But now the notes are in a minor key because a serial killer who murdered a father and daughter not far from here is known to drift about by hopping freight trains. We can't look at trains the same now. Some people are buying guns. These nights when DC puts Hank and Lucy to bed in the kitchen, she tells them it's time for them to go to work.

The evil men do is the underside in this garden of delights.

I and lots of other amateurs played in the Hooters golf tournament. As dubious as that may sound, it was not. Lots of otherwise reputable people played, too. The course was awash in fledgling professional golfers and "Hooter girls." I am less curious about their figures than I am about their futures. I guess it depends on your goals, but what kind of resume do you put "Hooters girl" on.

Years ago, a sister-in-law was in Baltimore with her family one hot summer day to see a baseball game at Camden Yard. The children wanted to go into a museum, but the cost was $37 and they only had an hour before the game began so their parents said no.

But their father wanted a cold drink, so he suggested going to a restaurant near the ballpark called Hooters. My sister-in-law had never heard of it. As they filed in she notice the waitresses were somewhat provocatively dressed and wondered if they should be bringing the children in. But other families were there.

They ordered beverages and an hors d'oeuvre.

"So, which girl do you like best, dad?" one of the daughters asked. "Your mother," he astutely answered.

When the bill came, the total was $37. Said the inquisitive daughter, "We could have gone to the museum for that."

Adults get away with nothing, especially with their kids.

DC is worried about Mr. Toad, who lives in her herb garden under the kitchen window. He hasn't been seen for awhile. Mr. Snake is still around.

Love, Sam