Horse rider #3

Can't help that the hands shake--they have for years.  I have non-essential tremors just like my mom. 

Horse rider #2

Horse rider #1

No one looks at this, but I'll take it down if you want.

Hunter's Thoughts on Sheriff Walt

I know I haven't posted for awhile.  It's been pretty busy.  I did, however, take the time to return to Texas to sign my tenure contract.  Sweet.  While I was there, I had a chance to talk with one my colleagues, Hunter Hayes.  He provides some insights on Wyoming and Walt for me to contemplate.  

Dead Bodies and Outhouses

Walt—I know you’re not on friendly terms with computers and that you can barely communicate through a cell phone.  However, someone who does understand this technology (Vic perhaps?) might be kind enough to inform you of what’s going on in my world.  I haven’t added any posts lately because I’ve been occupied with graduate student projects, budgeting, scheduling, advising, and working on my scholarship.  Work comes first, but I know the same holds true for you, especially considering how you’ve had to leave your daughter’s hospital bed at times in your third book.  You and I both try to exceed human capabilities, but let’s face it; we ARE human and can’t do anything about it. 

Can't quite bring myself to
use the outhouse

I’ve had another complication in this story.  I found a DB (as you know, that’s police talk for dead body) and have been dragged into a criminal investigation.  It’s slightly embarrassing, but I found the DB when I had to use the “facilities” provided by the forest.  The bathroom in my trailer, although remarkably spacious, needs to be “dumped,” and I can’t bear using the outhouse located near my campsite.  I can’t use my own bathroom until I find the appropriate dumping ground.  But short story long, when I took my walk into the woods and dug a little hole, I found the remains. 

A remarkably spacious bathroom
in my tiny trailer

Like you, I have keen observational skills, and the sheriff here is calling on my abilities.  I hate to admit this, but I’m drawing from Criminal Minds and the BBC production of Wire in the Blood (which I highly recommend if you don’t mind terribly gruesome opening scenes) because I suspect this is part of a serial killing.  Once I’m “released” from “protective custody,” I’ll keep you posted and hope you can provide insights.  I don’t have Henry to help.  Instead, I have four cats that seem to be more interested in the contents of their litter box than the proceedings before me.  I can only hope I won’t disappoint you and my readers regarding this mystery.  I’m doing the Dickens thing.  That is, I’m just going to write.  I don’t know where this story is going.  I haven’t even begun to write about it, but I will. At least I think I will.  Wish me luck.

In the meantime, I remain faithfully (and I DO MEAN FAITHFULLY) yours,

Susan

E-Mail from Karen R

I received the following e-mail from my friend and colleague commenting on my avoidance of Nebraska:

Dear Susan:

 I fear for you.  I believe that some of the misadventures you may face on your trip to Wyoming may be due in part to the fact that you so baselessly avoided traveling through Nebraska in the summer.  It is, after all, "Beautiful Nebraska / Peaceful prarie land / Laced with silver waters / And the hills of sand." 

New Mexico in Summer

Yours, 

Nebraska in the Summer

Now let me think about this:

Nebraska in the summer, or New Mexico in the summer.  Wow.  This is a tough one.  Stop me now before I high-tail it to Nebraska.

:

Walt-Con Part III: The End. Or the Beginning

Continued from previous posts, and concluding now.

“For heaven’s sake,” Ruby said, somewhat appalled.  “Where are our manners?  What’s your name, honey?  Where you from?”

“I’m Susan.  I live in northeast Texas, and I teach at a college in a little town of about 8500 people.  It’s a sweet town, a little on the downslide, but we’re working on it.  It’s not easy in this economy, though.  And it is hot there!  We have to water our foundations so they won’t shift and crack.  We usually have an invasion of crickets in the early fall.  I once saw a fellow with a leaf blower blowing the crickets off the wall of the bank.”  I paused and took a breath.  I hadn’t had a substantive conversation since lunch at Casper’s in Tea Party, TX.   

“Sounds like a nice place to live,” Vic said.  The others nodded in agreement.  “We’re from Forsythe, Missouri, and like Lucian said, we go to the Walt-Con every year.  We’re already planning on the next one.  Maybe you’d like to join us.”  She paused.  “Least-ways I guess you’re a Walt fan considering you got that book.” 

I clasped my book to my chest. “I’d love to go.  Just tell me when and where and I’ll be there in my tiny trailer.”

“What book you on?” asked Vic, “cuz we got a rule that we don’t give out no spoilers.”

I looked at my book and then at the group a little sheepishly.  “I’m only on the first book.  It’s taking me a long time because I’m not reading it.  I’m listening to it—George Guidall’s narration is unsurpassed—and I keep going back to the beginning because I want to make this last as long as possible. Right now, Walt’s in the middle of a blizzard and a whole lot of trouble.” 

“That’s all right,” said Sancho.  “We’ve all done the same thing.  How many times you read The Cold Dish, Dorothy?”

“Ten,” she responded.  “Now I’ve established myself a pattern.  Before I read the next book, I re-read them that come before it.  And now, he’s got a new one coming out pretty soon, so I’ll start all over again.  What’s that new book Henry?”

“Hell is Empty.  He has taken the title from Shakespeare’s The Tempest.  Yes.”

“That’s right,” said Dorothy.  “Walt’s a whiz at intertextuality.”  They nodded their agreement.

“And have you noticed the way he perceives women?” asked Ruby.  “He likes women.  I don’t mean likes women—but he does, don’t get me wrong there, not with all that sexual tension between him and Vic—I  mean he gets us, even if he doesn’t know what to do with us.”  She thought for a moment and said a little wistfully, “My favorite line is when he says ‘I thought about how it’s a woman’s lot to be dismissed by men.’  How does he know that?”

“I know! said Vic.  “My favorite line is when he says—now how does that go?  Let me think.  He’s talking to Isaac in Death Without Company.” 

“Yes,” Henry said slowly.  “That title is taken from a Basque proverb.  Another intertextual reference, though somewhat obscure.” 

Vic continued.  “I got it.  When he says ‘everything to do with women is foolish and, therefore, absolutely essential.’  Course, I could say the same thing about men, but I’m not sure how ‘absolutely essential’ they are,” she said and chugged a full beer, crushed the empty can in her hand, and put it in a recycling bin.     

“I can’t wait to meet him.”  The words slipped through my lips like an otter through water.  Everyone stopped and stared at me as though I had taken a shit on their shrine.  “I mean Craig Johnson.  I’m sure he’ll come to Dallas sometime.”  But it was too late. 

“I know who you are,” Lucian said and pointed at me, accusation written all over his face.  “You’re that crazy chick that’s blogging”—he said the word with such vehemence—“about going to see Walt like he’s real.  Christ!  He’s not real!  Do you need to be medicated?  Are you on crack or something?  Or do you just not respect him?”

Spit flew from his mouth with the word “respect,” and then he deftly spat, missing my Givenchy cowboy boot by a quarter of an inch.  I wasn’t sure if by “him,” Lucian meant Walt or Craig.  That’s the trouble with pronouns. 

“No.  That’s not me.  I’m going to.  Umm.  Montana.  Umm.  To. Umm See a man about a horse.”  Even I knew I hadn’t convinced anyone.  I was no good at telling lies or fictions.

“You know what Walt says?” hissed Dorothy.  “He says that ‘maybe half truths were all you got in this life.’  He’s wrong.  We don’t get no truth from people like you.  You git out of here!  Now!  Git!  Before we hurt you girl.  Git!”

“I’m sorry,” I said, deflated, shoulders slumped.  “I’m sorry.”  I walked toward Walt, slowly, not caring if they came after me. 

“Did she touch the shrine?” asked Ruby. 

“We need to burn the chair she sat in,” added Lucian. 

“To think we shared our beer with her!” Sancho said, his voice trembling.

I reached Walt and didn’t have the heart to ride him home. Instead, I walked with him.  A lonely tear slid down my cheek; a bit of snot escaped my nose.  I liked these people.  I wanted to exchange X-mas cards with them and hear about their children’s birthdays.  Even worse, I would have to attend Walt-Con in disguise and wouldn’t be able to get credit for a conference paper on my vita. 

Doubts nagged me.  Am I delusional?  Do I need to be medicated?  I’m already medicated.  I don’t think Donna (see e-mail from D-O) would call this crazy talk, but maybe she would.  I don’t know.

After about three miles of chastising and then flogging myself with the branch of a pine tree (it didn’t hurt at all—it was closer to a metaphorical flogging), I stopped and looked at Walt.  I was reminded of a book my mother had read to me as a child, The Little Engine that Could by Watty Piper.  What kind of name is Watty?   Anyway, the Engine’s mantra at the beginning is “I think I can.” He then discovers he can.  Piss on “think I can.”  That’s a sign of weakness.  I will.  I will.  I will meet Walt.  I held my fist to the sky, similar to the way Scarlett does in Gone with the Wind, and swore to the trees, the moon, and the stars, “As God is my witness . . .” you know the rest.*  Just replace “never be hungry again” with “never be hungry for Walt again.”  See  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lMmHUnPJ3Is&feature=related

 

I took a deep breath, mounted Walt, and revved him to life, thus reaffirming my dreams.  I would travel this dark path no longer.  I am alive, and Walt is real.  A light shone on a new path, directing me to my future.    I was reborn and needed some biscuits and spicy sausage gravy.


*See also a Sims version, which, unlike Gone with the Wind, can be embedded.  

Kitchen

The kitchen in my tiny trailer is remarkably spacious.

Kenny Loggins (Vaughn)

For those of you who are following my blog, I've decided to provide some of Vaughn's facebook posts here so that I can document his insanity.  I am NOT making this up, and I have not edited anything.  Note that he has had cosmetic surgery.  Not such a good idea.

Kenny Loggins was AMAZING!!! AMAZING!!! I've been singing "Footloose" LOUD ALL DAY!!! And what great hair! Did I tell you, Kenny has GREAT HAIR!!! WOW!!! oh, one thing though- apparently he didn't do the horse song, you know, "been through the dessert on a horse with no name?" yeah, well, i was screaming for him to sing that song, i mean SCREAMING!! because i really wanted to hear it... and some guy a few rows up was like, "dude, that was America. shut up." WHAT?!? America?! Really?!?! Jeez, okay, so I was wrong. I'M SORRY!!! but you know what they say, if you can remember the 80's, you weren't really there... HA-HA! LOL with a mouth full!!

Anyway, not much new on the cat. Someone from Louisiana sent some pictures in, thought it might be Mr. Poojie-bear, but I don't think so. the picture wasn't that good. But don't worry! I'm on it! I was gonna go look for him today, but man it's hot! And I'm sweating daiquiris. "Vahevala!!!!"

Walt-Con, Part II: Getting to know you. Getting to know all about you (continued from previous post)

"Helloooo," I said timidly.  The group fell silent and shifted their attention to me.  Even the crickets stopped chirping.  The group, as if with one mind (similar to synchronized swimmers) became guarded and assumed a defensive posture.  It was a dramatic moment and I feared I had made an enormous mistake.  One woman scrambled to a table that had a hat and other things placed around a lantnern.  She stood in front of it with the intention of  protecting it.  Suddenly, I was uncertain and frightened.  I was starring in my own horror movie that could only conclude with the sound of bones being crushed.  My bones.  

Another woman approached me, clearly hostile. The only thing I could do was hold my copy of Cold Dish before me like van Helsing held his cross to ward off Dracula and pray that she wouldn't hurt my book.  Her hand inched toward a sheathed knife.  And then she saw my book.  Her eyes crinkled at the corners, and a heartbreakingly sweet smile spread across her face, revealing the lack of dental insurance.  

"She's all right," she said as she turned to the group.  "She's got herself a Walt book."  Her voice was beyond gravelly and she spoke as though she'd been buttered, bred, and born waaay back in the Arkansas hills.  In fact, she reminded me of one of the women in a recent movie I had seen, Winter's Bone, where I first heard the buttered, bred, and born bit.  The crickets resumed their chirping and the group, again like synchronized swimmers, drew near and then encircled me.  

"Hey, there," one man said as he grabbed my hand and just about shook it off my wrist.  "I'm Lucian.  Glad to meet you."

A woman embraced me like we were reunited twins who had been separated at birth.  "I'm Ruby, and we're so happy you're here!"

"Folks call me Vic.  That's short for Victoria," another woman said as she patted me on the back.  "This here is Dog," she said, as she stroked the German Shepherd.  

The introductions came one after another, Dorothy, Henry, Cady, Cliff Cly, and many more.  I knew most of the names.  They were people involved in Walt's life.  I assumed the names I didn't know came from the novels I hadn't yet read.  Even though I had all of my teeth (except one, but no one could see its absence), and I didn't use "ain't" and employed subject-verb and noun-pronoun agreement, I felt like one of them and relished in their warmth and that of the fire, even at this distance.  I was home.  

"So, what's a Walt-Con?" I asked, as we walked toward the campfire.

Lucian offered the information.  "Well (said with two syllables), every year, we go to Sheridan and meet up with other folks that's fans of the Sheriff.  Usually we just camp out, but this year we stayed at the conference hotel.  It was niiiiiiice.  Doggies it was nice."  He turned his head and spat.  "People present papers.  Ruby, here, did a paper on gender performance.  What was the title of that paper, Ruby?

"Gender Performance and the Rugged Man Syndrome: When Strong 'Men' Cry."  Judith Butler was my main theorist, but I included some of them French feminist theorists.  It was well received."   She was clearly pleased with herself.

"I am Henry.  I do not use contractions.  I also know a great deal about wine."  He perfectly captured the tone and cadence of Henry's speech in the novels (none of the other people did).  His voice was deep and wonderfully sonorous.  He spoke slowly and deliberately, weighing his words.   "I presented a paper on the postmodern man, 'Living the Wild West Way in a Postmodern World.'  I know postmodernism is passe and we have moved beyond it, but I am not ready to let it go yet.  It has become a way of life for me.  Yes.  It is so.  I cannot remember what this thought process is called, but I see everything through a specific lens.  Leo, over there, sees everything as ideological.  He cannot help himself."

"Me, too!" I replied excitedly.  "Althusser, ideological state apparatuses, interpellation," words that are music to my ears.

Leo came closer.  "I can see me and you's gonna get along just fine," he said, and draped an arm over my shoulder.  This made me uncomfortable, for he had invaded my personal space, but I liked this man.  He seemed honest and earnest. But then he started rubbing my back.  Maybe not, so I slipped from under his arm and walked to a table with a lantern and several other artifacts.

"What's this? I asked.  But I knew.  It was a shrine.  A shrine to Walt.  Placed on a blanket that looked just like the one I had won on eBay (see "An unsettling encounter at the campground" below) were a badge, a silver-belly hat, a box of Ultra-Max shells, all of Craig Johnson's novels, and other items associated with Walt, including an unopened can of Rainier beer, nestled in a bucket of ice.  In the center was a lantern that bathed the objects in its comforting yellow glow.  

Leo had followed me and had again come too close.  I edged around the table looking at but not touching the items.  Vic came to my rescue and stood between Leo and me.

She gazed at the shrine and spoke with a soft and reverent voice.  "These are just things that help remind us of Walt and who we are and what we stand for. When we're feeling blue, or when we get a case of the green meanies, we just light this here lantern, breathe deeply, and all the bad things go away."  She sighed and looked at me.  "Let's go back to the fire," and she took my hand and guided me to a lawn chair between her and Ruby.  Leo followed, but there was no place for him.  He sneered, shrugged and returned to his lawn chair on the far side of the fire.

To be continued in the next installment.

Walt-Con, Part I. An encounter in the woods

The Trail in Daylight

My Dirtbike, Walt

I didn't mention this last night, for it's taken a bit for me to process, but I went for a ride in the mountains on my dirt-bike, Walt.  I couldn't go to sleep because I kept thinking of Vaughn, wondering what the hell he's up to.  So, I guess it was about 2:00 a.m. when I painfully hoisted my leg over Walt's seat.  A little arthritis goes a really long way and tends to stop me short.

It was an incredibly dark night.  While a full moon shone at my campsite, the trees devoured its light here.  About five miles along the trail, I saw the glow from what looked to be an enormous fire.  I slowed.  This place is way back in the boonies, so I was a little concerned.   I wasn't sure who could possibly be out there, for I've explored enough to know that there aren't any paths except this one.  I also know survivalists tend to head to the backwoods and how dangerous they can be.  At least that's what I've heard.  Or I thought it might be some kind of coven.  I shivered with fear, excitement, and pure stupidity.

There was no disguising my presence; that little bike makes a lot of noise, which would annoy me if I weren't the one riding it.  And I suppose I could have turned back, but I couldn't help myself, no more than I can stop myself from opening an editor's e-mail about a recently submitted (that means within two years) manuscript.  Powerless.  Simply powerless.

I walked Walt slowly and silently toward the fire and saw about 15 men and women gathered in a tight circle.  They looked fairly harmless, but I couldn't be sure.  They were laughing, and each person had a book in one hand, and a can of what looked to be Rainier Beer in the other. Books say a lot about people, which is why I generally stay away from people who read Anne Coulter. They also had a magnificent Rainier sign.  Well, if they drank Walt's favorite beer, they couldn't be too bad.  And then I saw their banner, "WALT-CON" in letters that were five feet tall. Walt-Con?  What could that be?  It couldn't possibly have anything to do with my beloved Walt.  Or could it?  I know life can be weirdly, wildly, and wonderfully serendipitous (or not), but but this would be like Oedipus meeting his destiny.  

A general hum of conversation arose from the gathering.  A couple of women were flapping their arms in excitement.  Three men appeared to be playing drinking games.  A woman approached them and held up her beer.  The men became silent as she began a toast:

Here's to lying, stealing, cheating, and drinking!

        (They shouted their agreement and drank)

If you're gonna lie, lie to  save a friend!

        (The men drank.  They were taking this very seriously)

If you're gonna steal, steal a man's heart!

       (The men shifted uncomfortably and notably didn't drink)

If you're gonna cheat, cheat death!

        (The men stood and cheered and drank)

And if you're gonna drink, drink we me!

        (At which point everyone who had a beer in hand (which was everyone) shouted and swallowed what was left of their beer)

This was promising, so I took my copy of The Cold Dish out of my backpack and cautiously approached them.  My book seemed like a pretty good choice for this group and a handy icebreaker.


Continued in next installment

E-Mail from House Sitter Re Odd Man Wandering around the Neighborhood

I received this e-mail today from the person who is housesitting for me.

Dear Susan:  Some guy has been placing posters all over place--on door handles, windshields, and telephone poles--for the last couple of days about a cat that answers to Whitey, Pookey-Bear, and Mr. Gigglesworth.  I've attached the flyer. 

He has come to the door for the last two days asking about the cat.  He's really tall and kind of wild looking with a stunning beard.  He wears weird hats as well, but they're kind of interesting.  (I think he might be a hillbilly or something.  Is it PC to say that?)  He didn't seem to realize that he had already been to the house, and I had to wonder about him.  I don't think he's drinking or anything, but sometimes he sings and dances in the streets. And last night about 11:00, I heard him calling "Mr. Gigglesworth, Mr. Gigglesworth, where are you?"  He seems nice and all, but I have to say, I'm a little nervous, and don't feel like I can take care of the house anymore.  I'm really sorry. What do you want me to do?

By the way, I hope my grammar is okay.  I know you're an English professor and all.  

Let me know what you want me to do. I can stay maybe one or two more nights at the most, but like I said, he makes me kind of nervous

Hope your trip is going well.

Darlene.

Sigh.  My response:

Dear Darlene:  I'm pretty sure I know who you're talking about.  He's harmless.  Truly. But here's a possible solution.  I'll give you $1,000 and pay your expenses to bring my cats here.  If the plants die, I'll buy new ones.  What do you think?  Do you have the time?  

Best,

Susan

Wow.  This should be interesting.  4 cats in a tiny trailer.  Thanks, Vaughn.  Thanks a whole lot.

Phone Solicitation

I was right in the middle of an extremely tense event in the novel when I received a phone call.  I looked at the phone number and recognized the area code so I answered.  Someone asked me to contribute to a charitable fund.  My response:

"No.  I'm busy and will be for the rest of my life.  Leave me alone."

Additionally, he called me "Mrs."  Now would I be searching for Walt if I were married?  Clearly, he hasn't read my blog.

Deeply Concerned

Just a quick note.  Walt was in a terrible blizzard and is in danger of losing his ear to frostbite.  However, that would make him more recognizable.

Awfully busy

Sorry--but I'm finishing my syllabi and tending to budget matters today (e-mail is a wonderful invention except when it's not).  Maybe late this evening or tomorrow.  I'm not gone.  I'm just sitting at a coffee shop (still in New Mexico), taking care of business.  I don't know how much coffee I can hold. A cocktail would be better, but work is work.

An unsettling encounter at the campground

Had an unsettling encounter yesterday evening at the campground (which is very pretty, by the way).  I was just sitting in front of my campfire, minding my own business, stroking a blanket I had won on eBay, listening to Cold Dish on my iPod, when this woman stopped to chat. I thought I was alone, but apparently not.  She was somewhat attractive, about my age, and maybe a little heavier than I am.  I noticed immediately that she was a bit on the twitchy side and had a tic, similar to the one Inspector Clouseau’s  boss (in the Pink Panther) has after he’s been exposed to to Clouseau for too long.  She was smoking a joint. 

“Hey.  Didn’t know anyone else was up here.”  Her voice was gravelly, probably a result of too much pot.

“Wanna toke?” she asked as she held it out to me.  “Purely medicinal.  Helps keep the tics under control.  And the ticks.”  She giggled at her own joke, though it wasn’t particularly funny.

 

“No, but thanks for asking.  By the way, I don’t think it’s controlling your tics very well.”

“Damn.  Really?  Damn.  Am I twitching too?”

“Yep.”  What else could I say?  I’m fairly blunt.

“Damn.  I need to get that under control before I meet Dwight Hendricks.”

“Who’s that?”  The only Dwight Hendricks I know is the character played by Jason Lee on Memphis Beat.

“He’s the guy on Memphis Beat.  He used to be Earl on My Name is Earl, but he needed a job, so he changed his name and became a detective on Memphis Beat. And damn can he sing the blues.  He's surprisingly versatile.  Damn.” 

Unfortunately, my can of mace was in the truck. 

She continued.  “Got anything to eat?  Yeah, no, seriously, I have autographed pictures of him and everything, and I just recently won a pair of his underwear on eBay.  Whew.  It was close.  Some turd almost outbid me, but I got them.  See?  Wanna touch them?  I’ll let ya.  I understand he wore them and they’ve never been washed.”

She reached under her shirt and pulled out a pair of boxers with an odd handcuff print on them and handed them to me with absolute reverence.  She was a trusting soul.  First the pot, now her beloved underwear.

“Thanks, but do you really want someone else touching them?  It seems somewhat sacrilegious, don’t you think?”

She considered my words for a moment and nodded.  “Yeah, you’re right.  Hadn’t thought of that.”

She returned the boxers to their home under her shirt.  I suspected there was something a wee bit off about this woman, but I had yet to put my finger on it.  I needed to investigate a little more. 

“So, you know that you’re actually talking about Jason Lee, right?  That both Dwight Hendricks and Earl are characters on T.V. shows?  They aren’t real.”

“Damn, you’re just like the rest of them.”  She almost hissed.  Then she crouched and looked around as if "them" were hiding behind trees, waiting to attack.  Or take her away.  She backed away, watching me with a great deal of suspicion, and disappeared in the darkness beyond my fire.  I heard her repeating "damn" until she was out of earshot.  Glad I didn't touch the underwear.

I returned to my book and stroked the blanket.  I had it on good authority that Walt had used this very blanket but he remodeled his little cabin.  He's a good and generous man, for he sent it to Goodwill. I swear I can smell his aftershave on it.  Old Spice, I think.  Or maybe Aqua Velva.  

Some people are just friggn’ crazy. 

Another E-Mail from Vaughn

Well, Vaughn is either delusional or thick.  He wasn't that way when I last saw him.  Or maybe he's creating some kind of crazy fiction.  He knows I don't like fiction (never mind multiple !!!!!).  And I wish he would quit shouting.  I know he has a booming voice, but I have very sensitive ears.  Oh dear.  What if Walt shouts?  I haven't gotten that impression so far.  Anywho, here is his latest e-mail.  I don't think I'll respond.  It might encourage him.

SUSAN!!!!!! Don't worry. Really. I made a poster and I'm going to get it up in your neighborhood right away!!! I know I can find him for you!!!! Don't worry!! God, I am SO SORRY!! 

Okay, I'm going to get it up right now. I'll let you know as soon as I find him. I am SO SORRY!!! I hope you're having a good time.

E-Mail from Vaughn

Received this e-mail from Vaughn Wascovich (I've attached his picture, by the way.  To eliminate any confusion, the first image is of Vaughn.  The second is of the cat).

Susan- I am SO SORRY! I went over last night to check on the cats and water all your plants at the same time I do every night. Everything looked fine when I got there, but "whitey" was no where to be found. I mean NO WHERE. I spent several hours looking for him and even called the cops. They said there wasn't anything they could do, so today I'm going to put up some flyers around your neighborhood and see if anyone has seen him. Christ Susan, I am SO SORRY! I pulled this picture of him off your refrigerator and will use it for the sign if that's okay. Yes, I did try calling, you must be out in the middle of no where. I'm headed over to see if he shows up. Don't worry about it, I'm ON IT. 


My response:


Uhh, Vaughn, I don't have a white cat.  Are you sure you went to the right house?  I guess that means you didn't run into my housesitter. 


Anyway, thanks for thinking of me.

E-Mail from Donna D-O

Susan:

Hope your trip to Wyoming is going well.  Sorry to bother you with school business, but some of your former students had a statue commissioned in your honor.  They want to have a party and present it to you.  I’m not sure how they’re going to get it here, and I’m not sure what it means, but they must think quite a bit of you to pay you this compliment.  I’ve attached the picture.  It’s currently sitting in a piazza somewhere overseas. 

 

They plan on having the ceremony shortly after fall semester begins.  You weren’t serious about not coming back, were you?

By the way, give Walt my best when you find him.

I have to say I envy your accommodations.  I don’t know about tiny trailers, but I have a penchant for tiny pig houses.

Cheers!

Donna

My Low-Carb Breakfast

Note that I don't have toast or hashbrowns.  Going low carb.

E-Mail from a Concerned (Former) Colleague

I received an e-mail from a colleague I worked with at another university.

Susan: I've been following you on Facebook for awhile now, and I have to say I'm concerned.  Tell me you haven't really bought a tiny trailer and are driving to Wyoming to meet this . . . this . . . Sheriff Walt Longmire.  WHAT ARE YOU THINKING?????  He isn't real.  Did you do your research?  Absaroca County in Wyoming DOESN'T EXIST!  Neither does "Walt."  Craig Johnson has made it all up.  Remember?  That's an author's job.   

Please let me hear from you soon.  Tell me you're just creating some crazy narrative, though I've never known you to be that imaginative.  I'm worried about you.

I sent the following response:

---(I won't mention her name)

I'm not sure I understand what you're trying to say.  Just because Walt exists in a novel doesn't mean he's not real.  I'm fine.  Truly.  And I so appreciate your concern.  But please don't shout.  You know how I dislike loud noises.  

Hugs,

Susan 

P.S.: I just bought some cowboy boots because it seems appropriate for Wyoming.  They're Givenchy boots.  I think Walt will like them.

Casper's

A Late Lunch at Casper's

Stopped for a bite to eat today at Casper's in Tea Party, Texas. I've never seen anything like it--Tea Party or Casper's. Although it was after 2, there were about 10 cars in the parking lot, and this at a place that didn't look like it could fit 10 people in it. The aroma of hamburgers, grilled onions, and something that I couldn't quite identify, but which smelled heavenly, enveloped me the moment I stepped out of the truck. The place was packed, but there was a seat at the counter.

I looked around and saw an interesting assortment of people in this odd little place--blue collar, white collar, and no collar. I sandwiched myself between a state trooper and a construction worker who was drenched with sweat. If he smelled, I couldn't tell because that previously unidentified scent was chili, and it was thick in the little dive. Thinking it might be a bit before I got service, I pulled out my copy of Cold Dish. But a woman--the owner, as I later discovered--put a glass of water in front of me within a minute.

"What would you like?" she asked.

"I don't suppose you have anything low calorie."

"Water. Now, what would you like?" She gave me friendly smile to take the bite out of her words.

"Well, then," a brief hesitation, "I'll have what he's having," I responded, and pointed to the State Trooper's bowl of heartburn topped with cheese and onions, a burger (with a light sheen of grease on the bun), and a chocolate shake. I decided I'd go low cal tomorrow. First thing in the morning.

"What's that book you have there?" asked the state trooper.

I put my hand on the worn cover, suppressing the urge to stroke it. "Cold Dish by Craig Johnson.

"Why, so it is. I'm listening to it now."

"Me too. I'm driving to Wyoming and am listening to it on the way. Greatest narrator ever. I just didn't want to listen to it in here. Kind of rude, you know?"

He nodded. "What's in Wyoming?"

"A friend." I wasn't about to tell him what this trip was really about. Belinda, the owner, placed my lunch in front of me. I didn't know where to begin.

"Say, have you gotten to the part where he meets Vonnie? She seems like the perfect match for Sheriff Longmire."

I tried to keep from glowering, for Walt had just had his first date in four years. With Vonnie. This worried me. She's a nice woman, and I don't want to interfere, but still.

He continued without me answering.

"Yep, he's quite the man," the trooper mused. "Strong, sensitive, rugged. And smart. Wish I was more like him. And his friend, Henry Standing Bear. He knows everything about everything. Did you know he won't use contractions? Don't know why. And he surely knows his wines. Yep. I envy the both of them." The trooper shook his head, a touch of regret deepening the creases around his eyes.

"Bill--are you still going on about Sheriff Longmire?" Belinda asked. "For heaven's sake, he's a fiction. He doesn't exist."

"I know, Belinda, but it's like he's real."

"Get ahold of yourself, Bill. You haven't quit taking your meds, have you?"

He laughed and looked at me. "Belinda's such a kidder. I know he's not real. But a guy can aspire, can't he?"

Yes, I thought to myself. So can I.

Directions

Decided I didn't want to drive through Oklahoma, Kansas, or Nebraska. It's going to take longer, but I just couldn't deal with those states. Not in July.

My Accommodations

I'm on the road now. Here's an artist's rendering of my tiny trailer.