R J Hembree - Writers' Village University

Dear M,
I wanted to let you know I’m not in Arizona. I packed the Jeep full to
bursting with as much of Sedona as it would carry, the red rocks from atop
my desk, my books, laptop, writing notebooks, camera and photo albums,
two cases of green chili beer from Cave Creek, and the four potted cactus
that I couldn’t bear to leave on my patio. I filled a plastic baggie full of the
warm red dirt and tucked it into my glove compartment to fondle if I get too
homesick for the place.
Mattie, Dad’s office assistant, says that Dad is not getting on too well,
although every time I talk to him he says he’s “Fine. Just fine.” He still goes
into the law office every day but Sunday. It’s a good thing he lives so close to
the office and can walk there. I doubt that he could pass a driving test as
bad as his eyesight has gotten. His neighbor, Don Henderson, gives Dad a
ride on Sunday mornings to church, with a stop for donuts and coffee before
the ten o’clock service.
I took a leave of absence from the hotel to help Dad out for a while. I
also needed to sort some things out for myself, but haven’t mentioned that to
Dad just yet. The morning I arrived after my exhausting two-day trek, I
wanted to jump out of the Jeep and crush Dad’s broad chest to me. Instead,
I just took his hand and asked how he had been doing. He was “Fine. Just
fine.” He walks with more of a stoop than when you last saw him and his
blue eyes have a little more haze over them. I guess his next operation will be
for cataracts. Sometimes when I walk into his study and speak to him, it’s as
if I’m disturbing him from some deep reverie. I don’t know if it’s because he
is concerned about something or merely daydreaming. Dad has always
believed in keeping his thoughts to himself.
Marshall hasn’t changed much. That comforts me since my personal
world has changed so drastically. The town square looks like it did when we
were here in December two years ago. You don’t know the Marshall of my
youth, with its bustling Ben Franklin store, Orchelan’s Hardware, where my
mom worked, or the Rexall Drug and its soda fountain, where all the kids
from high school liked to hang out. All those stores are long gone, but the
heart of Marshall, the small town with its friendly quaintness, never changes.
I thought Mattie would break my hand, squeezing it in her excitement
at seeing me again. She tells me I look just like Mom did at age forty.
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