LETTERS 

She was wearing old clothes. That is, old dresses that her great aunt may have worn in the 20's or 30's. She had on a pair of sandals and always carried a book under her arm on homeopathic remedies. She would sit against the chicken coop, reading leisurely with bees and horseflies hanging in the air.

The first time she saw me she measured me very carefully with her eyes. 'They say you are escaping the war.' I nodded my head. 'Well, good luck to you.'

She told me her name. Mona. And Mona was the offical chicken beheader of the bunch. By her side was a bloody hand ax.

'Are you a good chicken beheader?' I asked.
"I'm damn good. The rascals don't feel a thing."

We could hear the shouts of children down the path, along the water. In the far distance we heard the sound of machines.

"Are you up from the Bay Area?" she asked me.

"Yes."

"That's where I lived for awhile. I lived in San Francisco out by the Great Highway. That's where I met Rasputin."

"Do you miss it?"

The woman made a face of disgust. "One of the reasons that I came up here was to get out of the city."

"It's certainly more peaceful up her. The birds wake me in the morning and the children's voices are what break the silence."

I spent a moment of uncomfortable quiet with her and then left to go to the swimming hole. She returned to reading her book and I left but I knew I would see more of her.

Did I miss women during that time? No. I didn't miss anything. Most especially I didn't miss the TV and daily newspaper. I became convinced during my time in the mountains that both are driving the world crazy. On TV they showed the bodies. They showed a kind of attitude but they didn't have credibility. So, the smell of water filled me with pleasant reveries of the passage of history and my time, my city became the merest fragment between the sharp angles and mad shouts from one end to the other.

And here, in the mountains, I was discovering people who had emerged from their own, rightful imagination.

David Eide
February 14, 2000
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