A Holiday Greeting from Father

Dear Son Boy —

Long times have passed since last I wrote. That is my way to avoid you being in the pain we suffer here. It is not any lack of concern for keeping you informed and in the family reach. Your ma and I are most proud of all you have managed and only rue our own suffering crowds out much joy.

Grampy sits in a daze. We thank God for the freeze because it keeps the flies away from the spittle caked around his bloodless lips. Never have I been so grateful for such cold. Your sister claims to be returning for the upcoming season from her time with the ancient people but the ancients have fallen to sin and appropriations are properly taken from them. They cannot escape justice. Yea, we pray she will escape to us.

Your uncle is gone. Rumor is he is rutting in the woods with the free and wild women but folks talk too much and think too little. Your mother cares for my injury with ability, candor, and only rare cruelty. That is my burden and hers.

Do not believe what they say son boy. It is liars and Pharasites who claim Christmas was derived from the pagans. They are filled with sin and the evil of the world that oozes out from its dirt, its trees, and the sapped, sordid, skin of its creatures. I feel that evil stirring even under the ice and I am afraid.

But do not let the children of Hell steal Christmas. Do not allow it. Rise to smite them. Smite their filthy souls—may that I would have had the strength the world needs you to summon but I did not. Now I lie in the filth.

Happy Holidays.

Your Father

To Sleep Perchance To Dream

Dear Son Boy,

It has been too long for which I am deeply sorry, as sorry as I am for what I write and equally shamed.

As I have said, winter started early and then dissipated itself. The young say that is the way of today's world. Grampy, in his state of confusion, mutters that it's a stain on nature brought about by man's sin. Lonzo grumbles that the cat is a stain howsoever caused. "We must kill it and attack it," he claims. Ma asks me, "Why attack it after you kilt it." Her jokes now are an irritation.

But those debates amongst your kin are not why I write. I can bear those slight weights alone.

I write because of my fear of spiders. I loathe to look upon them and I cannot kill them, let alone touch them. And then last night I awoke in a dream with a woman. The Lord says I should not tell this to any man and clear as heaven not my own flesh and blood but my mind has gone wild on me.

I awoke in a dream with a woman and my eyes were closed. When I opened them I gazed on a face as beautiful as the sun, the moon, the mountains, the sea, and all the things I have no words to capture. And her arms were about me and grasping me and rubbing me everywhere. How could she? How was her touch so supple, so omni present? And then I seen. I seen she had the face of all humanity but she also had the body of a spider. Arms and fat backside-I will writhe in utter distress if I try to describe it further.

I wrestled to free myself, to escape. But I could not. I could not and as I tried to push her or it away, her gruesome grip grew tighter. I could not breath. I could not move. And only as I exhausted myself did I awake in a bath of anxiety sweat. I staggered up off the bed as your Ma snored.

I reeled outside for cold, clean air. But the air is not cold and it is not clear. Where is winter I asked. The world is awry.

And, then I heard the cat growl, followed by a shriek. Boy, who will save us?

Trusting all is well with you,
Your querulous, trembling,
Father

A Missive on Reason's Passing

Dear Son Boy,

As you know your Ma and me visited with your sister in the western regions but too far south to reconnoiter with you all. And while we was there, Little Jen had foot ailments which occupied us in finding treatment. A blister festered and, while I have seen uglier wounds, the color and ooze disconcerted us. Your Ma is good with herbs and balms which eased the swelling and eventually the fever accompanying. Upon our return the weather has been gentler than we’d expect given for this time of year. Grampy is improved from the ague which struck him when you were holiday visiting but perchance may never be again what he was. He spends most days wrapped in a blanket staring out at the mountains muttering. Much of his babbling is about that cat and the brother he lost as a boy. I am unnerved spending more than a few minutes by his side. ‘Lonzo continues to urge another cat hunting trek. I think him reckless at times and counsel patience; he is afeared for the stock and yearns for revenge. ‘Lonzo says that cat is the devil’s disciple and not one of the Good Lord’s creatures. ‘Tween him and Grampy I am most unsettled in my mind and sleep.

Go in good grace,

Your Father

Bad News From Home

Dear Son Boy,

I hope this finds you hail and well. As you know our failure in the forests cost Grampy two of his best hounds and all of us a good part of our honor. Our meagre Yule fare served not to cheer the old man even though parsimony and abstinence are our want, our way, and our weight in the world. In consequence perhaps, Grampy has taken the ague and Aunt Cilla doctors to him. Upon visiting he speaks of little but that cat and its path of destruction. Uncle 'Lonzo yearns--I ponder that is the proper word--to set out again and hunt the beast. My own back has taken on a deep bone ache which slows me. Your Ma attributes it to causes both natural and supernatural but offers no remedy. Tonight we welcome the New Year alone--the Papists celebrate it as the circumcision of Jesus Christ. Whether we are here when you return from the village turns on the wishes of God and your Uncle 'Lonzo's persuasion.

Your Father,

A Humble Man

A Holiday Greeting From Father

Dear Son Boy,

Grampy wants to remind us to bring our warm boots with us. Apparently a mountain lion has been killing some of the cattle in the field back by the old woods. Rumors are it might be a hundred year cat like the ones Gram Barnes and the first people talk about, like the one that carried off gramp's brother when he was a boy. The wind is howling and the snow is falling. We’ll hunt on the full moon.

Love,

Your father,

Sure-Eyed Teetering Tom