assure you: the purpose of Nate’s visit is
not
to fall in love with me. Yet in my heart of hearts, I must confess: I simply cannot stop myself from the inevitable “what if”!
He got in last night, by the way.
Have I written that he’s witty? Clever to near-fault, it turns out. Not to mention the fact that he speaks with such a mellifluous Savannah-honey-voice that I come close to simply melting away each time he opens his mouth!
I must confess, as well, to being still in the thrall of two full glasses of Sonoma Cabernet. I write you—glancing at the clock near my cot—at one in the a.m. Sleepy, I know I ought to be, but I am not!
I must also relate how taken Mother is with our new houseguest. For his part, Mr. Warren has been most open to oursmile-accompanying, eager-to-please hospitality—reciprocating our courtesies with southern-tangy flattery, in couplet with sweet masculine grace.
He will be staying with us for a week or so before traveling to your neck of the forest to meet with Mr. Lyttle. If I am lucky, his trip to town will concomitate perfectly with my own trip to see my most favorite cousin.
Tomorrow I shall wake, thereupon to wish none of this were put to paper, but by then it will be too late, for this letter is going into the corner mailbox as soon as I can throw on a robe to venture out. What a lovely time we have spent this evening, Sweet Ella, even without the use of the four illegal letters.
(I must own to a slippage on occasion; there was slippage from each of us as the evening wore on, our tongues becoming looser; it was almost impossible not to stumble in light of the intoxicating circumstances. But we were lucky in that when such a misspeak took place, there were no ears pressing themselves against the portals or fenesters to overhear.)
I trust, as always, the safe, nonintercept passage of this letter. For while arguable is the possibility that Nollop speaks to us post- mortem—sans mortar as it were—the one thing that isn’t contestable, that rings with pure alloyless truth, is the last thing that left our venerable vocabularian’s mouth prior to his expiration: “Love one another, push the perimeter of this glorious language. Lastly, please show proper courtesy; open not your neighbor’s mail.” (You may recall that this was a rare pet peeve of Mr. Nollop’s.)
Love
,
Tassie
NOLLOPVILLE
Wetty, September 20
Ella,
I beg you to ignore that last letter. I was in a state of shameful inebriation. Mr. Warren is a nice man. That is all. A nice man. I am near mortification!
Love
,
Tassie
NOLLOPVILLE
Wetty, September 20
My loving sister Gwenette,
I cannot teach. Without that grammatical unifier. It is impossible. I plan to resign tomorrow.
Semicolons are simply not an option. These youngsters are only seven! Young people of such age can’t fathom semicolons!
Nor can I employ an “or” when I want the other one—the one that brings together, not separates.
My brain throbs. I have a hangover. Far too much wine last night.
The wine. Plus the loss of that grammatical unifier. It is all too much.
Forgive me for my weakness.
Love
,
Your sister Mittie
NOLLOPTON
Thurby, September 21
Throbbing Sister Mittie,
Still you are luckier to be in the village. Eighteen families were sent away this morning. Many of the members I knew. Losing the first three letters was relatively easy in comparison to this most recent banishment.
Slips of the tongue. Slips of the pen. All over town people hesitate, stammer, fumble for ways to express themselves, gripgrasping about for linguistic concoctions to serve the simplest of purposes. Receiving no easy purchase.
I go to the baker’s. I point. We all point. We collapse upon our mattresses at the close of each evening, there to feel … feel … utterly, wholly diminished.
There. I now happily enlist in the “first offense club.” It feels exhilarating! You know I cannot allow you to be a member of any club to which I
not
to fall in love with me. Yet in my heart of hearts, I must confess: I simply cannot stop myself from the inevitable “what if”!
He got in last night, by the way.
Have I written that he’s witty? Clever to near-fault, it turns out. Not to mention the fact that he speaks with such a mellifluous Savannah-honey-voice that I come close to simply melting away each time he opens his mouth!
I must confess, as well, to being still in the thrall of two full glasses of Sonoma Cabernet. I write you—glancing at the clock near my cot—at one in the a.m. Sleepy, I know I ought to be, but I am not!
I must also relate how taken Mother is with our new houseguest. For his part, Mr. Warren has been most open to oursmile-accompanying, eager-to-please hospitality—reciprocating our courtesies with southern-tangy flattery, in couplet with sweet masculine grace.
He will be staying with us for a week or so before traveling to your neck of the forest to meet with Mr. Lyttle. If I am lucky, his trip to town will concomitate perfectly with my own trip to see my most favorite cousin.
Tomorrow I shall wake, thereupon to wish none of this were put to paper, but by then it will be too late, for this letter is going into the corner mailbox as soon as I can throw on a robe to venture out. What a lovely time we have spent this evening, Sweet Ella, even without the use of the four illegal letters.
(I must own to a slippage on occasion; there was slippage from each of us as the evening wore on, our tongues becoming looser; it was almost impossible not to stumble in light of the intoxicating circumstances. But we were lucky in that when such a misspeak took place, there were no ears pressing themselves against the portals or fenesters to overhear.)
I trust, as always, the safe, nonintercept passage of this letter. For while arguable is the possibility that Nollop speaks to us post- mortem—sans mortar as it were—the one thing that isn’t contestable, that rings with pure alloyless truth, is the last thing that left our venerable vocabularian’s mouth prior to his expiration: “Love one another, push the perimeter of this glorious language. Lastly, please show proper courtesy; open not your neighbor’s mail.” (You may recall that this was a rare pet peeve of Mr. Nollop’s.)
Love
,
Tassie
NOLLOPVILLE
Wetty, September 20
Ella,
I beg you to ignore that last letter. I was in a state of shameful inebriation. Mr. Warren is a nice man. That is all. A nice man. I am near mortification!
Love
,
Tassie
NOLLOPVILLE
Wetty, September 20
My loving sister Gwenette,
I cannot teach. Without that grammatical unifier. It is impossible. I plan to resign tomorrow.
Semicolons are simply not an option. These youngsters are only seven! Young people of such age can’t fathom semicolons!
Nor can I employ an “or” when I want the other one—the one that brings together, not separates.
My brain throbs. I have a hangover. Far too much wine last night.
The wine. Plus the loss of that grammatical unifier. It is all too much.
Forgive me for my weakness.
Love
,
Your sister Mittie
NOLLOPTON
Thurby, September 21
Throbbing Sister Mittie,
Still you are luckier to be in the village. Eighteen families were sent away this morning. Many of the members I knew. Losing the first three letters was relatively easy in comparison to this most recent banishment.
Slips of the tongue. Slips of the pen. All over town people hesitate, stammer, fumble for ways to express themselves, gripgrasping about for linguistic concoctions to serve the simplest of purposes. Receiving no easy purchase.
I go to the baker’s. I point. We all point. We collapse upon our mattresses at the close of each evening, there to feel … feel … utterly, wholly diminished.
There. I now happily enlist in the “first offense club.” It feels exhilarating! You know I cannot allow you to be a member of any club to which I
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