A Wildwood Story

“It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.” -Dumbledore

Starbucks

Letter 18 {Road-trips & Deodorant}

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Dear Candace,

Today the children and I drove the four and-then-some hours to my parent’s house. It went fine, except for all the usual roadwork (everywhere I go=roadwork) and that weird smell the van develops after housing boys for a couple hours. I’m always telling the kids, “Drink more water!” except for when we road-trip. Then I insist they dehydrate themselves so I don’t have to make numerous bathroom breaks. “Are you chugging that water bottle? Noooo!

I had to take a bathroom break for moi on this trip.

Also a stop at Starbucks. But I was fast. I used mobile order as soon as I arrived and by the time I walked in my order was ready and all the people standing in line glared.

This letter may not be very coherent, since my eyes and head are tired from being the only adult and having to concentrate so much today. My mom gifted me a massage from her friend, Ann, who is remarkably good at several different styles of massage therapy. This evening she gave me a therapeutic massage. It was relaxing and wonderful after a busy day on the road! I think I will sleep well tonight, even if I am sleeping in my little sister’s old twin bed.

As I relax here, writing to you and thinking about the day before I turn the lights out, I can hear my mom watching a nature documentary in the downstairs living room. I’m starting to recall all the things I forgot to pack, deodorant being the most notable item. I don’t have to wear it much in the winter, and with my brain being the sieve it is lately, I’m forgetting to incorporate it back into rotation. I always recall my neglect at the most awkward moments, such as when I’m getting a chiropractic adjustment, standing in line at the store, or being introduced to someone. All true scenarios which occurred this week.

I’m looking forward to a weekend with family (smelling good, of course, since mom already bought me new deodorant) and celebrating all the spring things: birthdays, Mother’s Day, time to be together outside, all the lovely things….mom’s documentary soundtrack is totally putting me to sleep now. The earth is so beautiful.

Much love,

Rachel

Letter 17

Letter 19

Letter 8 {Waffle Fries, Goals}

by

Dear Candace,

Something very big happened. I still can’t believe how blessed I am. I thought being within 30 minutes of IKEA was enough to make me content for the rest of my life, but this is like the cherry on top: A new Chick-fil-A opened a mere four miles from my home!

It’s located right next to our library, which is undergoing an enormous expansion and remodel. So when I’m in the library, I can look through the window directly at Chick-fil-A and think about how wonderful waffle fries and frosted lemonade is. And when I’m in Chick-fil-A I can gaze into the Library and think about which next true crime book I want to check out. It’s a perfect marriage.

If you come to visit I will take you there and if we want to be good, we can have a salad. The salads ARE yummy. I think with the accountability of a companion I could overcome the fries and just stick with a salad. I’m going to have to think this through.

Growing up in a small town, then living in rural Missouri through my teens and twenties makes this whole suburban experience a novelty I’m never tired of. I CAN WALK TO A STARBUCKS HALLELUJAH.

In contrast to this wonder in my life, I’ve been sick all week. You’d think I put “BE SICK” on my 2017 list of resolutions with how often it’s happened this year. I’m pretty much wasting away what little youth and beauty I have left. When company dropped by, they skirted around me very carefully, their eyes wide. And I HAD put on a little foundation and mascara, even.

Perhaps I should see my current circumstances as a gift. All this illness and melancholy probably means I’m about ready to write an epic, tragic love story. It will be so movingly written that even I, the stone-cold non-crier at the movie theater, will shed a tear when my powerful tale of love and loss is told onscreen. Aren’t some of the best things borne out of difficult times? If not a novel, surely these bouts of illness will at least produce a poem in the vein of John Keats. This could be the fever talking, but I doubt it.

Please make sure my book gets published should I die as soon as I finish the manuscript,

Rachel

 

Letter 7

Letter 9

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