I just got back from a hike along the old road out by Melanie and Jim’s. When I feel lonesome, I go for a walk. You and I used to walk a lot. I wasn’t ever lonesome when we were together. When you were as tiny as sissy until you were one year old and even two years old, I walked you in the cart on and off the road.  We’d walk to get the mail, ride over bumpy trails through John’s.  The cart had good wheels for that.  I’d bring a snack, your bottle and some extra clothes along. We’d travel miles just looking around, the breeze in our faces. We’d stop whenever we wanted.  There was no rush on walk days.

Georgia and Metro would run ahead.  Georgia would chase deer through the trees and come back her curly hair snaggled with berry vines. She’d sit quietly as we untangled her ear from her tail while she was panting with her big pink tongue hanging out as long as ever! We were always calling Metro.  He’d put his nose the ground and follow it. Then he’d be way back there and we’d have to whistle (you said, “ooo-ooo-ooo”)  down the trail.  Sometimes he’d sit and howl like he was lost.  But he’d always show up at home before us.  He knew all the short cuts.

When you got old enough and you wanted to walk, you got on your tricycle and we’d park at the trail head; you’d get off and we’d hike so you could play in the sand.  Sometimes we’d hike up to see the water trough and check for pollywogs.  Now its too cold for pollywogs.  Georgia and Metro are sleeping after their walk out the old rutted asphaltum road.  And Grandpa is in town.  I am glad I took a walk and I very happy to be writing to you.

Come take a walk with me pretty soon, okay?  Maybe in February you can come visit.   We’ll hike all the way to the top of the quarry and wait for the sunset. I’ll ask your mom and dad. Want to?