June 23
And what is so rare as a day in June?
A letter from me, that’s what.
Be that as it may, I am about to embark on an epistle. Not that
I have anything much to say, mind you, but just that conscience
doth make cowards of us all, especially when R. Guttke is crouched
over his cauldron thinking up juicy new anathemas... and don’t
try to tell me you’re not because I can feel them sizzling past
my ESP.
Okay, for the big news. I am just back from buying a thankful
of gas and learning my oil is down half a quart... a maddening
amount... not enough to DO anything about but enough to add another
niggle to one’s back-of-the-mind anxieties.
I have washed the porch slipcovers
and they are drying nicely, it being some 90 degrees in the
shady today but with a lovely xxx (ignore that) breeze, as I
was trying
to write, blowing. Alfred Hesperus is already sleeping on one
of them in order not to waste a glorious moment getting them
dirty again. I have also got a haircut. I did not want to get
a haircut... I never want to get a haircut although I used
to back in the dear, dead days beyond recall when I would get
a
balloon saying JOHN THE BARBER on it. Now all I get is a polite
request for $17 plus the tip (it’s vulgar to talk about money.
That’s the kind of mood I’m in) and it has taken me much time
and perseverance to train Leonard the haircutter to brush off
the back of my neck with a nice soft brush as John the Barber
use to do.. and he doesn’t even put talcum powder on it. Whither,
I ask myself are we drifting? John would not have dreamed of
letting you go out of the barbershop without a nicely powdered
nape. A holdover, perhaps, from some previous incarnation when
he made a tidy living powdering perukes for nobility. Try and
get your peruke decently powdered these days, egad!
I had a kind letter from your friend Karen Dimond the other
day. She says she likes my books because they are the kind you
can take home to mother. She said other nice things, too, even
about you, but that’s the one that sticks out in my mind. I don’t
quite know why I said even... unless it’s because of some of
the things you’ve said about some of your acquaintances and the
things they’ve said about... and I getting too analytical here?
Anyway she did, and I wrote her a note of thanks because I would
not have it thought that you go around recommending authors who
are ungrateful, mannerless louts. She invited me to tea in Chicago...
not a safe thing to do unless you mean it, as you yourself have
discovered.
Since we are on the subject of you, I did so enjoy your phone
call and hope you have not had to pawn a cat to the bill. It
was good to hear all your news and I’m eager to know what’s been
the outcome of it all... or them all--- of each separate new
among the news.
Tonight I am going to have dinner with Grace Desjardin. I will
give her your regards without mentioning exactly how you regard
her. She is going to have a yard sale at he antique shop tomorrow.
Her mother and I are going to the President’s Coffee of the Central
District of Massachusetts Federation of Garden Clubs. How does
that grab you? Perhaps I did not mention that I am the new president
of the Sudbury Garden Club. I am taking Gigi along in her role
as the elder statesperson. I am also the new chairman of the
Board of Trustees of the Goodnow Library. This is a simple job
I have been ducking for three years and it finally caught up
with me. It was perhaps on account of my affiliation with the
Garden Club, our children’s room having been condemned by the
Board of Health on account of the mushrooms growing on the carpet...
we had a damp spring and it seems the drains that had allegedly
been installed to take care of such contingencies were either
nonexistent or clogged because of lack of maintenance. You may
think of me come that next rainy spell, out there with my drain-scooper
preserving the dignity of my exalted office. Uneasy lies the
hand that holds the plunger. We have been through a series of
meetings with our local Chancellors of the Exchequer, known as
Fin Com (for Finance Committee) and they have voted us $11,000
out of the goodness of their hearts and the pockets of their
fellow citizens to get the damage repaired, and the mushrooms
picked.
What’s happening with Dawn and Deb and all the lads and lasses
at Uncle Edgar’s? When is the Edgarly offspring due? And have
they picked a name? Nero, perhaps, or Agatha? Tell Mr. Dedrick
he was right about the book. I keep thinking of all the money
I’ve spent traveling this past year and writing frantically to
plug the drainoff from the exchequer (I do like that word). Have
you ever got in touch with Stefan and Betsy again? It would be
good to see you all. Right now, the coming year seems to be a
solid phalanx of meetings. It may be necessary to charter a jet
and ship you all here.
More of that anon. I have to go and call the post office and
ask them why the flaming perdition they have still not delivered
the mail, it being 4: 15 pip emma. Pat the cats for me and say
hello to anybody you come across... Charlotte
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