Letters
Old bony fingers wipe the windshield, smearing fogged-over glass, and cranks open the driver's side glass a crack. His rusted and faded old blue Ford pickup rattles slowly along a familiar rough dirt and rocky double-track on Becker's Ridge above the valley of the south fork of Twin Creek. The old truck reaches the highest point halfway between the asphalted all-weather Wyoming state highways 28 and 287 and stops. The driver's door creaks and squeaks open as an old hatless driver steps out. White hair blowing in a gusty breeze he walks to his favorite rock, sits, looks out over short grass treeless countryside and remembers. Old watery eyes take in the land he loves.
Years ago, forty-six this 21st of August, he had come to Wyoming to work in the oil fields outside of Casper. After seven years of saving his money, he bought this piece of land he now looks down on-Twin Creek's South Fork Valley. As often as he can the old man still drives out from Atlantic City where his children had made him move to when they said he was too old to ranch. It still hurts that not one of the three wanted to ranch and they made him sell his land. The new owner Cooper Meggers of the CJ-Bar offered, "Any time," when he asked Coop if he could sometimes come out and look.
A gnawing frustration had started when Mandy died leaving him alone and worsened after he fell, hurt his hip, and could no longer take care of his critters. Oh, he resisted but his children persisted. At their auction, not his, everything sold except his few clothes and things his children and grandchildren claimed as keepsakes. Each of them had wanted him to move to Landers, Casper, or Rock Springs and live with them. However, he stubbornly refused to leave Mandy. Finally, they found two small rooms for him in Atlantic City. For four years now that frustration had tormented him and grew worse after every visit out to the edge of town to tend to Mandy's grave.
Last year his children worried about his driving and all three urged him to stop. Again, he had resisted until they let him keep his old pickup as long as the state would let him drive or as long as the old rusty Ford ran. Next May his license runs out. With fading eyesight and diminished driving ability it is doubtful Wyoming would allow a renewal. Finally, this summer he realized that he was no longer a safe driver; it was now time to quit driving. That fact increased his frustration over losing Mandy, the ranch, and now independent living. After returning to town today, he had decided to give the old rusty thing to Wade Spranger. The title is in the glove box already signed over. That way the son of an old friend could have a restoration project to work on with a teenage grandson and thinking of his Ford as a boy's first vehicle made him old lined face smile.
Tomorrow, Sunday afternoon, his son and daughter are coming to Atlantic City to move him to Landers, into Clayton's empty room, before the first snow. Anne, his daughter, told him they had room now that Clayton had finished his last year of college and works in Denver. They were right he knew but that frustration grew sharper and more painful, like a toothache, with each step toward the loss of independence. Always he had been able to do for himself and others all these years. It was hard this getting old like his Ford pickup that sat out in the weather and grew rustier every month. That thought made him think the old thing still starts and goes. So does this old body. His old heavily lined face smiles remembering Hap Wilson's question at the Quick Mart this morning while paying for gas.
"What's keeping that pile of rust together?"
"The old girl's got heart. Lizzie does," he had replied with a laugh.
Hap took his bills, grinned, made change, and asked, "What year is that rust-bucket?"
"1972 ... a 1972 Ford."
"Aren't you afraid it'll break down out in the country."
"Lizzie and I've got an agreement to only have breakdowns in town," he had replied chuckling while accepting his coins. Turning to another customer Hal's hand waved him away. He had grinned at Hal as the change slid into his pocket and traded comments about recent weather with George Matsmen and his grandson Hawley Curtis on the way out the door.
As his mind returns to the old familiar scene below him his old watery brown eyes follow a scar in the grass and sagebrush across the valley that had once been years ago the old stagecoach road. Before his time the stage ran he knew from St. Mary's Stage Station on the Sweetwater River to Fort Brown that later became Landers. Slowly his eyes follow the old road-cut back down almost to Twin Creek and a rock chimney. After an hour and half of quiet looking at his land and remembering his and Mandy's times here in this valley the old man stands, takes a last look at his valley of memories, tests stiff joints, and walks back to his pickup. On the way back he feels for the first time coldness in the northwest wind.
A half hour later down in the valley, he turned the rusty pickup back around toward town, stops, gets out, and steps carefully across shallow Twin Creek's south fork on rocks. On the other side, he buttons the top button on his old blue coat, pulls from his pocket a blue and white wool stocking cap, covers his thin hair and ears, lifts the collar of his coat upward to protect his neck, and hunches over for the wind now has a bite to it. Slowly, he walks over rocks in the creek to inspect the rusty steel posts and five-strand barbwire fence he installed many years ago around three graves. Years ago he had replaced the broken homemade concrete gravestones that read: Olin Hepstead, Carla Hepstead, and Baby Calvin with low angled store ordered bought ones. Quietly, staring at the graves as he always did, he wonders again about the Hepsteads. Frowning, he worries about their future and hopes the CJ-Bar folks give them a little care when needed.
Long before he had purchased this slice of South Valley, someone had torn down the Hepstead buildings for the logs and lumber. That was common practice in the short grass prairie for lumber is hard to come-by. Had not all of his own buildings been gone before the first frost? It hurt him to go back there and look at exposed foundations. Only a few trees grew along year-around creeks or at higher elevations and shipped in lumber was high priced.
Turning back toward the creek he walks past a row of foundation rocks that he guessed had been a small one room and loft log cabin with a lean-to. As he steps carefully along that row of rocks, he notices a stone has fallen out of the old concrete-and-rock chimney above and to the left of the blackened firebox. Shaky fingers lift the stone to replace it. While studying the correct twist and turn to replace the stone, he notices something inside the hole. His lined and wrinkled face smiles thinking he has stumbled upon the Hepstead money stash. Carefully, his fingers pull out a small rusty tin box and it opens with a creaking protest. Inside is a small bundle wrapped in what looks like a piece of often-washed red-and-white checked tablecloth. Inside the cloth, letters bear post-marks from Green Pond Junction, New Jersey, Miner's Delight, Wyoming, and a telegram mailed from Casper and post-marked August 3, 1877. Feeling a chill from the sharp northwest wind, he closes the box and hurries back to his truck.
Back inside the cab out of the wind, his old fingers open the oldest letter. The paper, darkened by age, made it difficult to make out the old faded black ink; and he worried about the brittle nature of the paper.
Dear Miss Carla Kjendle
Last week I talked to Mister Hal Marian, who is new to the West. I told him that women are few in Wyoming and asked if he knew of any that I could correspond with. Mister Marian gave me your name. I own a farm on the south fork of Twin Creek east of Miner's Delight. My land was a homestead and I will prove-up on it this fall. It made a profit the last two years for the wheat and hay harvests were good. It has a small cabin with a loft and lean-to, a small barn for my team, two milk cows, and eight chickens.
In truth, Miss Carla Kjendle, it is my hope that you would consider me a worthy suitor. I am far from a well-educated man, although I completed with average marks all six grades I attended. I am lonely and wish for a wife and children. I do not partake of hard drink. I await your answer.
Yours truly,
Olin Hepstead
Twice he re-read the short letter wondering, imagining the feelings of Olin while writing it. Was he
afraid, shy, worried, and certainly desperate? What of Carla when this letter suddenly arrived in the post and surprised her. He tried to imagine her confusion of feelings.
Her letter back to him written a full month and three days later spoke of thinking long and hard over whether to answer or not. He wondered how many times she rewrote this reply.
Dear Mr. Olin Hepstead
Your letter came without warning. It took my breath away, that a man I had never met would take an interest in me. I'm sure that Mister Hal Marian informed you that I am a spinster past twenty-three. My condition is not by choice. No suitors came to court me for I am a tall wide-framed large woman without beauty. Since seventeen, I've made my way in the world washing, cleaning, and looking after the children of others.
Mr. Olin Hepstead, I too am lonely and long for a family and children. I am not afraid of hard work and do not demand fine or fancy clothing, food, or household fixings. Mr. Olin Hepstead, you may consider yourself my suitor. This does please me greatly.
Yours truly,
Clara Kjendle
It was easy to see that she did not like her forced spinsterhood. Between the lines he could feel her excitement. The need of a woman to be wanted, needed, and loved. Was she as desperate as he was? Would a marriage of two desperate people be a happy one he wondered as he opened the third and last letter?
Dear Clara
I've read your letter so many times I fear the ink may have suffered damage. We are much alike I believe. Clara, would you consider coming out to Wyoming and becoming my wife? I hope I am not foolish for I've enclosed a bank order for sixty-five dollars. It should be enough for a ticket. The stagecoach runs past my farm, but I will travel to Casper to meet you. I will carry enough money for a return ticket if you change your mind. That way, if you want to return to Green Pond you can stay at the Graham House Hotel while you wait for an east bound train.
I hope you will accept and stay.
Fondly
Olin
Clara's reply seems to be lost through the years, but the last item was a mailed telegram sent from St. Louis to Casper.
Will arrive August 27 stop 2:38 P.M. stop Clara stop
From the graves, I knew that she arrived and married him. The only clue of their life, she wrote in shaky and faint pencil script on the back of the telegram envelope.
Billy has gone to Algoma, Kootenal County, Idaho to work at logging. He married Ludora Roe. They have three children. Ella Sue moved with her man Monroe Curbow and their five children to Whelan, Whitman County, Washington. Ardyce, it is my hope that one day in your travels you will return to this old farm. I've waited long to see you again. Papa passed away in the winter. I've rented out the land for pasture. I'm sorry I've no great riches to leave to you. The only things that I treasure are these old letters and I leave them for you in our secret place. The County will soon take our place for taxes. I haven't heard from any of the others since last month. Both want me to come live with them but I can't go off and leave Papa. I write this with winter coming on and feeling poorly. Son, I love you and do hope you are happy and in good health.
Momma
For a time he sat quietly staring at the old frail letters in his hand as watery eyes let a tear escape. With the back of a brown-age-spotted hand, he wipes away his tears over Clara Hepstead dying without close contact with her children or grandchildren, tears over dying alone during a Wyoming winter, or in the company of strangers. Tears over knowing her love for Olin was the same as his for Mandy. Thinks about keeping her treasures for half a minute but knew he would feel like a thief. These were for her son to find-not for some stranger to pass around. Carefully, old shaky fingers refold brittle pages, made sure the telegram is inside its envelope, and put back with the notation outward. When all is as it had been, he slowly wraps again Clara's treasures in her red-and-white checked tablecloth piece, probably something that Ardyce would recognize, puts the package back inside the rusty tin box. The door of the pickup creaks, cold squeezes around him, and again boots carry him across rocks in the shallow creek.
At the chimney, his shaking fingers slide the rusty tin box back inside its chamber, plugs the hole with its stone. From his pocket, he pulls out his old bone-handled Barlow knife and opens the only unbroken blade. Out of habit, his right thumb tests it for sharpness, shakes his head over its dullness, and stands a moment trying to remember when he had last sharpened it. Carefully, his fingers push the dull knifepoint between rock and concrete. When the blade stops he bends, picks up a rock, and gives the knife a sharp blow to drive the blade in deeper. His fingers try to pull the partially blackened stone out of its hole and fails. He smiles and gives the Barlow a strong downward push. The blade snaps, closes the broken blade, and tosses away the remains.
With that same smile still on his face, he hurries across the creek to get out of the cold wind, quickly slams the pickup door, grinds the starter, and grins when the old motor starts. The old vehicle protests his rushed shifting and starts back toward town with a jerk. Following the old familiar dirt tracks up over the ridge he suddenly realizes that Mandy would want him to be with the family. He can almost hear her scold him for not being near her babies. With that realization his frustration leaves him.
Suddenly, he is looking forward to living in his daughter's house and seeing his seven grandchildren and three great grandchildren more often-watching them grow, telling them about ranch life, and Mandy. Strangely feeling like music he tries the radio but fails to get a sound. Not even this small failure can dampen his rising spirits. For a time his fingernails taps the rusty dash creating the sound of a running horse with which he has often entertained his grandsons. To no one but himself and his old rusty blue pickup he speaks aloud in a pleased tone.
"Lizze, this was maybe my last trip out. I hoped it would be special. It was, Old Girl. Wasn't it?"
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