| Subject: Awe inspiring, as always, my friend! |
Author:
Deb
|
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Date Posted: 13:20:30 12/17/05 Sat
In reply to:
Holly
's message, "Letters to Samson -12 the Pittman Farm" on 16:44:08 11/20/05 Sun
>Your father tries so hard not to believe in miracles.
>I believe in them, experience them daily (now that I
>have you) and promptly forget how miraculous they are.
> But, sometimes, something happens that is so unlikely
>and that meets a need so deep I'm unaware of having
>it. Those are the miracles that provoke reverence.
>Something like that happened in Oklahoma.
>
>My mom was not outdoorsy. My dad got enough outdoors
>in Viet Nam, I think. That made the Pittman farm the
>most exotic - and thrilling = destination of my early
>life. Pat Pittman was my Mom's college roommate, Al
>is Pat's husband. And if I hear from your
>grandparents one more time about how I was made on the
>kitchen table while my newlywed parents waited for Pat
>and Al to come for dinner, I will scream. Same thing
>for the time Pat caught me and Christopher comparing,
>ahem, equipment back behind the red Farm-All. We were
>three.
>
>That's how deep this runs for me.
>
>I felt safe with the Pittmans. Always. Even doing
>things I'd probably never let you do - at least not at
>the age I did them. Riding old tractors. Riding old
>horses who knew how to dump me - softly - when I got
>obnoxious. The rope swing from the hayloft all the
>way down to the loose pile at the bottom. So much of
>who I am, who I wanted to be, who I became, started
>right there.
>
>The Pittman boys relentlessly, yet gently, teased out
>any pretentiousness or gutlessness I had going on.
>They began the work of teaching me how to work hard,
>sweat hard, get really dirty.
>
>Dolores Marie was like my own little sister. Another
>one who liked to go so fast the wind burned tears in
>her eyes and no brush could tear the knots from her
>hair.
>
>Toward college, and after, I never forgot the
>Pittmans. They were family. But I kind of forgot the
>farm.
>
>There were other farms, ranches, riding schools. And
>I never really thought about why I was there, how I
>got to be a person who needs to get out in the air and
>likes the smell of shit. Just never thought about it.
>
>Until Dad got sick, and Mom asked if it was okay if
>you and I stayed at the Pittmans' farm. IN THEIR
>FIFTH-WHEEL CAMPER !!!!!!!!
>
>Rural Comanche County has not changed much. The
>fencelines at the Pittman farm have changed not at all.
>
>The sky is the same, the stars as gigantic and low,
>the long plains as long. And plain. It is easy to
>see how the land I came from was once deemed
>uninhabitable by gentler folk out east.
>
>And that is part of why I love it, the nubby ancient
>Wichita Mountains. The red dirt. The rose rocks.
>
>The wind.
>
>At the Pittman farm, the old red Farm-All still runs
>once in awhile. The old John Deere runs all the time.
>
>The sun still sets over the barn - and nothing else.
>
>I did not even know how much I wanted to show you this.
>
>I taught you where to find the tastiest Johnson grass.
>
>I showed you some of the best wishing stars you will
>ever see.
>
>You and Dolores' little Gabrielle are already friends.
>
>And you drove the John Deere.
>
>With my friend Christopher at your side (he taught me
>to drive that one, too).
>
>My father rallied from your visit. He's so much
>stronger now, and, safe as I felt at that farm, it
>also seemed to me that bringing you there checked off
>one big thing on the list of things I have to do
>before I die.
>
>I love you. I will write again soon.
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