I don’t know what to say. It’s so easy to talk to you when you’re here, but now that you’re gone… Actually, that’s silly. You’ve only been gone for two hours. Nothing has happened to tell you about yet except that Mom forgot you weren’t going to be here for dinner and made you stew and blackberry cobbler.
Is it wrong to confess that in hindsight, I’m really glad you had that run in with Josiah Gideon? If you hadn’t, you wouldn’t have spent your days here and with us. I can sense that Daddy is going to make an effort to make friends again. He really enjoyed having you around. I don’t think people were meant to be so isolated.
I wonder if you’ll return our letters? Will you? I wouldn’t think of your being much of a letter writer, but then I wouldn’t have pictured an urban welder as a lover of all things Shakespeare and L’Amour. I’m going to start on the sonnets tonight. I’ve always ignored them as sentimental poetry. “Shall I compare thee” and all that drippy stuff. Why don’t people write poetry about finding new friends in a sheep pasture?
Oh dear, Patience is done. She has a stamped envelope that she’s shoving under this letter. See that blip back there? That’s where the envelope hit my pen. She’s out the door and down the steps. I’d better go.
Uncertain how to sign,
Lane, the shepherd’s allergenic daughter
He read both letters again. And, then once again. Grabbing his clothes, he shuffled to the kitchen and laid them on the mini bar that separated their minuscule kitchen from the living room. His mom was taking one of her “box and can” casseroles from the oven.
“It’ll be ready in ten. Better get your shower.”
Matt waved the letters. “I just got letters from the Argosys. I thought you might want to read them. Read the one that looks like a kid wrote it first.”
He returned minutes later, with dripping hair, to find his parents laughing over Patience’s letter and grinning to each other over Lane’s. Great. They were getting ideas already.
“Man, I’m starved. Did you get to read the letter? Isn’t that kid a hoot? When I saw her middle name, I almost laughed. Her mom’s name is Martha and the dad kept telling the mom to be patient during labor so they named the baby Patience, but I didn’t know they used Martha for a middle name.”
“Patience Martha. That’s a good one,” his father’s voice sounded like the joke was on Matt.
Dinner was a welcome relief. Thankfully, Matt’s parents didn’t have time to comment on Lane’s letter or ask uncomfortable questions. Bowling started at seven-thirty, and his father liked to arrive early for practice.
The moment they were out the door, Matt switched off his video game and checked his email. There was a note from Tad.
From:
[email protected]
Subject:
rescue me
ok matt,
get back here. how could you leave like this? patience is moping around the house. we have made two trips to the post office today. no one can make her understand that her letter might not even be there yet. i made her an email address so please write to her ASAP at [email protected].
lane tries to cheer her up, but she’s a bit out of sorts too. i told lane about the woman at the gift shop. (lane doesn’t “do” email, but i bet she’d read one if you sent it to her. [email protected]) i don’t know if she is willing to risk it. i might go in with her the first time. it’d be nice if she had friends. i need her to have friends. we all do. home schooling patience doesn’t take up enough of her day. she’s learning all that accounting stuff, but… well you get my drift.
the sheep are shorn. we ended up with about 69,000 lbs of raw wool. it’s a good year. we’re back to just us and nate again until time to ship the market lambs in june.
be sure to tell us about your trip home. this is my private email so if you want to write to all of us, [email protected] is a better choice.
tad
After adding the three email addresses to his address book, Matt composed emails to all three of his Montana friends, and one to the family in general. Later that night, before he went to sleep, Matt read Shakespeare’s ninety-fourth sonnet chuckling at the stench of rotting lilies. He’d recommend that one to Lane first. If comparison of woman to nature was so distasteful, she could read about the decay of it instead.
~*~*~*~
Patience bounced in her chair as they waited for the Internet to connect.” Do you think he really got it? You just sent it yesterday.”
Tad clicked open the inbox, found an email addressed to “IMA” and stood back. “It got to him in seconds. He might not even have your paper letter yet.”
Patience was ecstatic. “He did! He got it. It says that it was waiting for him when he got home from work last night!”
Eager to finish his lunch and take Lane to town, Tad gave her head a light pat and went to wash. Patience, reading once more, didn’t notice he’d gone.
From:
[email protected]
Subject:
IMA
Dear IMA,
This is my new name for you—Impatience Martha Argosy. I came home from work today and found yours and Lane’s letters waiting for me. I loved hearing from you so soon, and I will write back, but since Tad gave me your email address, I thought I’d drop a note here too.
You mentioned that your mom still misses Kyle, but no one told me who he is or where he is so maybe you can do that in your next email.
I am tired and have to get up early so I’ll say goodbye, but I’ll write you a letter during my lunch break tomorrow. I promise.
Missing Montana Friends,
Matt
Lane’s voice made her jump. Patience’s eyes flew to meet Lane’s. “What ?”
“I said; it’s time for lunch. What are you do—” Lane saw the signature on Patience’s email and sighed. “I think you’re letting yourself get too worked up over a short visit. He’s a nice man, but he can’t be part of our lives.”
Patience’s shoulders drooped. “I was trying to remember his voice. It sounded different—and he said things.”
The sight of her name halted her reply. “Go wash up, I’ll close this down and be right there.”
“But I want to read it again,” Patience protested with a tone that Lane knew too well.
“Patience! That is enough. Your daddy would not be happy to hear you talk like that.” At the dejected look on Patience’s face, Lane relented. “Oh, all right, I’ll print this for you and bring it to the table. Now go wash up.”
Patience skipped excitedly from the room—her own printed email! Lane found the print button and printed Patience’s email, but before she closed out the inbox, she opened another one.
From:
[email protected]
Subject:
Sonnet 94
Dear Lane,
They are strange things, letters. If the eyes are the windows to the soul, then I think letters are the attic, the place where treasured portions of the soul are stored to be shared only with those who will appreciate them at the right time. And, of course, there are the boxes of things that were just shoved there out of the way “for now” that weren’t meant to be important to anyone, but eventually became the most treasured things of all, albeit a bit random. I think your letters will be a mix of both, and I am glad to know you’ll write.
Tad says you don’t usually use email, but I hope you’ll reconsider; snail mail takes so long, and I’d love to have a nice mixture to look forward to.
As for Shakespeare, try sonnet 94. No one could complain that it is mushy.
Ok, I’ll quit typing so you can see that my emails won’t be a burden and maybe you’ll keep reading them and will reply now and again.
The Welding Shepherd,
Matt
Lane closed out the email and started to delete it, but something stopped her. Feeling foolish, she opened the email again and clicked “print.” She grabbed her email, folded it, and stuffed it in her back pocket. Patience’s printed email sat forgotten on the desk until Patience raced to get it after the meal.
Six
While half of the day crew enjoyed pizza at their favorite place around the corner, Matt sat at one of the long picnic tables near the back of the truck yard. He munched on a stale sandwich, took a swig of syrupy Coke, and wrote his letters to Lane and Patience.
The guys had razzed him about his Montana girlfriend until he showed them a picture taken of him and Patience one night before they cleaned up after work. Both of them were covered in wool, sweaty, and grimy. Patience held rabbit ears over his head while he tickled her.
Her letter charmed even the gruffest of the men, and the coarseness of the teasing ceased much to Matt’s relief. Something about the guys talking glibly about the Argosys bothered him. His new friends deserved better than that.
He sealed the envelope and slapped a stamp on it just as the buzzer announced the start of the afternoon shift. Matt handed the letters to Fran, the matronly office dragon, on his way past her desk and asked her to send them out with the day’s mail. Soon, it’d be too warm to write outside, but for now, it was a great way to spend his lunch break.
~*~*~*~
The keyboard keys clacked rapidly under Tad’s fingers. He wrote describing their delight with the Wheatley family and of a bobcat in the area that had killed three lambs that week. Patience’s hovering drove him nuts until eventually, Tad slid out of the chair and opened a fresh email for her.
From:
[email protected]
Subject:
Hi!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Dear Matt,
Email is fun. I love how fast it is. But I can’t send you gum over the Internet. I’m sorry.
I have a new friend! We went to a store yesterday and there is a girl there. Her name is Megan and we’re best friends. They look like Brethren, but they don’t talk like them, and they talk to us, so I don’t know if they’re real Brethren or just pretending to be.
Megan let me borrow her favorite book. It is called
The Little Princess
. So far, it’s really good, but kind of sad. It has stuff about India in it, and I want to go there. India sounds neat.
Tad wants me to say bye so he can get back to the horses.
Bye,
Patience
Lane heard Patience and Tad shut the front door behind them. Her parents, Levi, and Jude were in Spokane for the day. Feeling quite foolish, Lane raced for the computer and opened the inbox. She wanted to reply to Matt’s letter before anyone noticed and teased her about it. She’d avoided the Internet for this long, changing for a man would bring certain attention.
From:
[email protected]
Subject:
Sonnets and Friends
Matt,
I got your email; thank you for writing. I prefer real mail, but email does have its charms. For instance, it’s faster. Then again, anticipation might be dulled. We’ll have to see. I read your 94th Sonnet. It reminds me of that song from the movie, Emma. (See, I’ve seen a few movies in the past few years!) You know, the line that says, “Stinks, rots, aahhhaaaahhhnd dies!” I think it is time for me to write a sonnet. Here is my first attempt.
I think that I shall never again see
A man encircled by sheep bleating free.
A man who stands there with a book
A face of terror is his look
A man who takes off his shoes and then
Leaves them to be sought again.
Sonnets are written by fools like me
To torture Matt in that big ci-ty.
What do you think? Am I Shakespeare’s long lost niece? I think it’s quite marvelous.
I have to admit, I didn’t want to go to the store you told us about. Rose Wheatley showed me an afghan like you got your mother. It was gorgeous! If only people made beautiful things like that out of some other fiber!
Rose and I talked for a long time. She’s new here, but I think she told you that. She said that they went to a few of the Brethren’s assemblies, but as much as she liked their lifestyle, it being so near to her own, she didn’t like the insistence on molding everyone into a carbon of each other. They go to that interdenominational fellowship that meets in the old Episcopalian church building. I’m almost jealous.
What? You don’t believe me? Well first, notice that I said, “Almost.” Then, second, remember that you don’t know why! So I’ll tell you, and it’ll make sense, and you won’t have to worry about me slipping back into a speaking relationship with God.
See, when I was a little girl, I loved that building. This was before the Brethren had gotten so controlling. I loved the tall roof, the spire, and if you promise not to tell, the pews and floor and organ. Yep. I liked it all. It used to be the biggest dream of my heart to get married in that building. I had it all planned from about the age of six or seven.
Silly isn’t it? Now I’ll probably fly to California, work for my aunt and uncle like Kyle is doing, and then meet someone, drive to Vegas, marry him at one of those drive-thru windows, and then fly home. Poor Uncle Mitch. He’ll never keep one of us for long.
Ok, so now the confession. No one knows I’m replying to your email. I’m going to quit writing now and get off here so I don’t have to hear it about coming out of the dark ages. I feel like a hypocrite saying it, but please write again whenever you can. It’s almost like having you here again and we all miss you.
Techo-Lane
She reread her email and clicked “send.” Was he home from work? Would he read it even as she stared at her inbox? She wondered if there was a way to know. Throwing caution to the wind, she started a new email.