I'm writing from an old house in Deene called The Seahorse. I was remembering the night you spilled Burgundy all over my parents' bedsheets. Good heavens: talk about a guilty streak. So what have you been doing with your quiver full of gifts? It was windy last nite and the chimneys were singing softly in different keys. Earlier we found a baby squirrel whose mother had been killed by a motorcar. Sissy has been feeding it 2% milk out of the palm of her hand and just boiled six brown eggs for it.(!) His eyes have opened and he's called "Chief". We'll either set him loose soon (there's the dilemma of the cats), or Hazel will take him back to London. We came over on the Ferry from Holland last Sunday but saw no whales. Matthew gambled on the slot machines and won 175 Dutch Guilders, enough for a nice box of cigars and a bottle of Lagavulin. Uncle Prism had threatened to show up at the festival, but we have not seen him--although there was somebody singing, a barrel-chested baritone up on the hill in the woods after midnight, a song with a vaguely familiar ring, something like, "Gloria, my heart is a knotted lifeline, the world is *drowning* you..." If you were here I would show you the stars reflected on the lake. We would sneak into the private chapel. You would be tender and happy but always sad.

Lord I miss you,

L. Saint Jerome

P.S. Always remember: to forget is a form of suicide. (If I could only remember to forget myself.)

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copyright 2000, Linford Detweiler