Dear Charlotte ~

They came back today. Your four cranes came back to our pea patch Sunday morning and I got photos of one of them eating our corn. I was in my office answering e-mails when I heard Nathan calling me urgently from the kitchen. I knew from his tone he was seeing something that was important for me to see, so I grabbed my camera and went to the french doors in the Pass-Through room. There they were, tall and elegant, three of them at the pipe fence on the Romero side, and the tallest one on our side enjoying the corn I put out last Thursday in strategic piles. We watched them 20 minutes or more, our on-site visitor unperturbed by our photography or the background mountain blue grass gospel music wafting from the stereo speakers on our porch. Nathan took video using his new phone and I snapped away taking digital still-shots from the adobe wall. Your cranes know now where the good stuff is, so I’m guessing they’ll be back for more. The three on-lookers were rather pathetic walking the fenceline watching their leader scarf down the corn stash on our side alone. You might want to coach the ‘three stooges’ on fence jumping to their advantage!

Nate and I went to the White’s for supper and a Netflix DVD movie Saturday night. We ate in their cozy kitchen and Nettie had her usual terrific ‘home cookin” meal for us. Their house cat, Ming, adopted me instantly and curled up beside me on the banco throughout the entire meal. I figured he had instructions from you to comfort me with special attentions. Nettie’s figured out how to make her own replica Red Lobster cheese biscuits and they’re way too good to be on anybody’s diet!

Remember the last time she saw us before Mexico, the last time she saw you alive? She came, ready or not, sensing, I think, we were in trouble. I had you napping on a day-bed on our couch while Roberta and I tried to figure out how to fill and ship Tartan Scottie orders before Christmas. How much did you know in your bones that day? Did you sense you weren’t coming back from Mexico? You looked at her and said, “Nettie, take care of this man for me.”

Well, she is. She refers to Nathan and me as “the Harvill boys” and is a committee of one dedicated to making certain we don’t starve! She made a date with Nathan to personally take him around Nob Hill and downtown Albuquerque this week to the classy pubs and bars suitable for ‘her’ Nate’s bartending applications and skills. She’s looking out for us. She also presented me with a menu list of options for me to choose from, finger-foods and culinary dishes she will buy and cook and bring to your memorial celebration at Las Golondrinas. She’s the perfect helper to line up everything we need as far as informal foods at your service.

Nathan has chosen Saturday, February 27, 2010, at 1:00 PM as date and time for your memorial at Las Golondrinas. Nate even lined up discount room rates at Los Lunas’ only motel, the Days Inn, for out of town guests attending your service! I’m hoping by the end of February I’ll be capable of good laughter and good cheer. I want your memorial to be a celebration of your life, not just a mourning of your death.

Took the Mini Cooper and went by myself to Albuquerque today. I needed some time alone. I find time alone is important to me these days–as important as time with others. Saturday I felt the need to sit by myself on the ground in your garden, grounding myself literally in the last Las Golondrinas project we did together: spreading a pick-up truck load of chicken compost-manure over your winter garden. You had high hopes for a spectacular yield of vegetables next summer! I needed to sit awhile, in touch with that black dirt you raked. Not so silly, really. I somehow felt close to you, as I do at night sleeping on your side of our bed. I couldn’t bring myself to stop at our Dairy Queen on my way out of Albuquerque today. Too raw. I knew I’d see the manager who always waited on us and always made happy fuss over our single blizzard with two spoons.

Nate and I shared Sunday night pizza, carrying the ritual on. But it’s not the same. Pizza itself is not the same. How can it be? What made our pizza nights rare had little to do with pizza. I know that’s true because now when the really essential ‘ingredient,’ the ‘topping’ that made all the difference, is missing, Sunday pizza is just dough and stuff.

You made magical the tastes and tunes, the rituals and rhymes in my world. I need your help as I grope to make sense of your absence. The magic is gone, Char, and you who made lists and instruction sheets out the wazoo left no instructions for me to follow to get it back. Tonight I’m your magician who can’t remember how we pulled the rabbit out of our hat.

Joseph Harvill, publisher Great Scots Magazine