Dear Debbie:
I hope you don’t mind me starting this letter like that. Maybe I should have said Dear Ms. Farmer. I tried, but I just can’t think of you that way, and I can’t call you Honeypumpkin no longer, so I settled on Debbie. I ain’t so used to writing letters but, what with you leaving and all, this is about the only way I know to say what needs saying.
Your note about moving to New York City and taking up with that dancer got me to thinking. I’m happy for you and Gustav. I know that sounds funny, but it’s true. Only a fool stands in the way of fate. If he does, fate’s going to win. Always. And I ain’t no fool.
So I decided it’s for the best. Here’s how I figured it. We had lots of good times, we did. But the happier you are, the more it hurts when you’re not happy any more. I know I’m not saying it right. I never was able to pick out words the way I can pick out a pig.
I got an idea how to explain it. You know how married couples get to nagging at each other, criticizing every little thing, how they get tired of each other? Even my cousin Beaumont. You remember Beaumont? Course you do – you and Beaumont was real good friends there for a spell. Anyway he and Betty Lou just ain’t happy no more like they used to be. I can’t imagine us ever getting into such a state, but I guess it could have happened. Just about kills me to think of it. Now I don’t have to worry about that no more.
It sure would have broke my heart to watch you grow old. Remember last summer how we danced at the Metropole until 3 AM? You know in another thirty years we couldn’t even dream of staying out late like that, dancing all night, watching the moon set over the fields. Watching the sun rise from the back of my truck. That was the pig’s knuckles, huh?
That was when Charlie got so drunk he didn’t recall you was my girl and he tried to get the last dance. Remember? I had to teach him a lesson. I hated to do it, him being my best friend. But he was just drunk out of his mind, that’s all. Didn’t know right from wrong. He told me later you was winking at him, but I don’t put no stock in that. The state he was in he would have thought old Hattie Simpson was Jessica Simpson. Come to think of it a lot of guys had that problem where you was concerned. Seems there was always some fellow trying to cut time with you when I wasn’t looking. But you being the prettiest girl in the county, I guess that was only natural. Besides, it made me proud when I wasn’t too busy fighting them off. I guess I won’t have to do that any more.
I won’t have to write no more letters either. Like I did when you was in college and I was in Iraq. I know you was too busy to write back, what with your studies and all. You always was the brighter of us. Seems the Lord made me out for farming, and not much else. Well, maybe fighting. Not even Jack Nabors could roughhouse better than me. Remember the time I had to fight him when I caught him trying to make time with you behind those hay bales on your sixteenth birthday? Three years older than me, and I still got the better of him.
I got to thinking of how much sleep I’ll be saving, too. I mean, it won’t be me who’s pacing about, reading magazines waiting to see if it’s a boy or a girl, like we talked about so much. Or twins like Billy Ray and his wife had. I won’t have to wake up in the middle of the night to change diapers or fill bottles or walk around with one of our little guys on my shoulder. You know how my shoulder gives me trouble ever since Iraq.
And it won’t be me who worries about you every time you goes away all sudden like to visit friends, like in September when you was gone for a few days after we went to see that rock and roll band in town. There was talk you’d run off with one of those musicians, but that was just mean talk, like happens in a small town sometimes. I can understand why you’d want to get away from it when you got the chance.
Now I won’t ever have to feel guilty about forgetting our anniversary, or your birthday, or how much you really don’t like pink. Then there’s all the money I’ll save on flowers – and you’ll save on power tools.
I also got to thinking about all those arguments we won’t ever have to have over whether it was your boy or my girl who did this or that, who broke a window or stayed out too late, like your folks did after we come back late from the prom. And there’s all those arguments we’re not going to have about mirrors and sinks and small bathrooms; about razors, toothbrushes, and all that kind of stuff that seems to get important when nothing else is any more.
So you see, it’s probably for the best in the long run. That’s how I figured it out.
So now I won’t have to wonder ever again if I said something wrong, or if I acted like a dumb farm boy when I should have done something slick.
And it won’t ever be me who sits around and grows tired of you.
And I won’t ever have to stay awake, alone at night, missing the sound of your breathing and praying to God that he’d taken me first, if he was to take you before me.
I hear New York’s a wild place. Don’t stay out too late.
Your friend (I can still say that, can’t I?),
Drew
I hope you don’t mind me starting this letter like that. Maybe I should have said Dear Ms. Farmer. I tried, but I just can’t think of you that way, and I can’t call you Honeypumpkin no longer, so I settled on Debbie. I ain’t so used to writing letters but, what with you leaving and all, this is about the only way I know to say what needs saying.
Your note about moving to New York City and taking up with that dancer got me to thinking. I’m happy for you and Gustav. I know that sounds funny, but it’s true. Only a fool stands in the way of fate. If he does, fate’s going to win. Always. And I ain’t no fool.
So I decided it’s for the best. Here’s how I figured it. We had lots of good times, we did. But the happier you are, the more it hurts when you’re not happy any more. I know I’m not saying it right. I never was able to pick out words the way I can pick out a pig.
I got an idea how to explain it. You know how married couples get to nagging at each other, criticizing every little thing, how they get tired of each other? Even my cousin Beaumont. You remember Beaumont? Course you do – you and Beaumont was real good friends there for a spell. Anyway he and Betty Lou just ain’t happy no more like they used to be. I can’t imagine us ever getting into such a state, but I guess it could have happened. Just about kills me to think of it. Now I don’t have to worry about that no more.
It sure would have broke my heart to watch you grow old. Remember last summer how we danced at the Metropole until 3 AM? You know in another thirty years we couldn’t even dream of staying out late like that, dancing all night, watching the moon set over the fields. Watching the sun rise from the back of my truck. That was the pig’s knuckles, huh?
That was when Charlie got so drunk he didn’t recall you was my girl and he tried to get the last dance. Remember? I had to teach him a lesson. I hated to do it, him being my best friend. But he was just drunk out of his mind, that’s all. Didn’t know right from wrong. He told me later you was winking at him, but I don’t put no stock in that. The state he was in he would have thought old Hattie Simpson was Jessica Simpson. Come to think of it a lot of guys had that problem where you was concerned. Seems there was always some fellow trying to cut time with you when I wasn’t looking. But you being the prettiest girl in the county, I guess that was only natural. Besides, it made me proud when I wasn’t too busy fighting them off. I guess I won’t have to do that any more.
I won’t have to write no more letters either. Like I did when you was in college and I was in Iraq. I know you was too busy to write back, what with your studies and all. You always was the brighter of us. Seems the Lord made me out for farming, and not much else. Well, maybe fighting. Not even Jack Nabors could roughhouse better than me. Remember the time I had to fight him when I caught him trying to make time with you behind those hay bales on your sixteenth birthday? Three years older than me, and I still got the better of him.
I got to thinking of how much sleep I’ll be saving, too. I mean, it won’t be me who’s pacing about, reading magazines waiting to see if it’s a boy or a girl, like we talked about so much. Or twins like Billy Ray and his wife had. I won’t have to wake up in the middle of the night to change diapers or fill bottles or walk around with one of our little guys on my shoulder. You know how my shoulder gives me trouble ever since Iraq.
And it won’t be me who worries about you every time you goes away all sudden like to visit friends, like in September when you was gone for a few days after we went to see that rock and roll band in town. There was talk you’d run off with one of those musicians, but that was just mean talk, like happens in a small town sometimes. I can understand why you’d want to get away from it when you got the chance.
Now I won’t ever have to feel guilty about forgetting our anniversary, or your birthday, or how much you really don’t like pink. Then there’s all the money I’ll save on flowers – and you’ll save on power tools.
I also got to thinking about all those arguments we won’t ever have to have over whether it was your boy or my girl who did this or that, who broke a window or stayed out too late, like your folks did after we come back late from the prom. And there’s all those arguments we’re not going to have about mirrors and sinks and small bathrooms; about razors, toothbrushes, and all that kind of stuff that seems to get important when nothing else is any more.
So you see, it’s probably for the best in the long run. That’s how I figured it out.
So now I won’t have to wonder ever again if I said something wrong, or if I acted like a dumb farm boy when I should have done something slick.
And it won’t ever be me who sits around and grows tired of you.
And I won’t ever have to stay awake, alone at night, missing the sound of your breathing and praying to God that he’d taken me first, if he was to take you before me.
I hear New York’s a wild place. Don’t stay out too late.
Your friend (I can still say that, can’t I?),
Drew
