| THE EPISTOLARIAN |

For my high school summer job, I worked as a wrangled in Lake Tahoe, where I guided tourists on rides and worked with a motley group of bull riders and cowgirls who came from the most forgotten places in Nevada.

To say we came from different would be a vast understatement.

One week a cowboy friend of mine rescued his girlfriend at gun point from her stepfather who had been molesting her. Another cowgirl’s brothers got in trouble with the law for trapping mustangs. Their region of Nevada was so poor that I believe she eventually went into exotic dancing and possibly sex work since those were the best options to change her circumstances.

Then of course, there were the ubiquitous antics of cowboys and the aftermath of their drunken buffoonery: tipped over porta potties, and strained relationships that vacillated like clockwork to and from dramatic declarations of love and the inevitable disappointment in immature men.

Though we came from different worlds. I loved them all, and they possibly loved me too nicknaming “sunshine” and “karo” (after karo syrup, which they pronounced “Kay-ro,” a nod to my name and innocence).

Sometimes the cowboys would line up to help unload the tourists off my rides. From the distance, they would wave like the famous bull rider, Lane Frost. They were so openly loving and loyal. Despite their drunkenness and general misogyny, I still remember them fondly.

One summer, my sister and I were talking about grammar and code switching, a term we wouldn’t have known. I shared that I never say “I’m well” at work because it would have widened the perceived differences between me and my coworkers, something I’d already noticed with the head cowboy’s son giving me a less-welcome nickname “Mother May I” after I asked “may I” instead of “can I” when requesting a water break.

My sister said she wouldn’t deign to use bad grammar saying “I’m good” even if it made someone else uncomfortable. I felt that in the culture of those cowboys that “good” was actually more grammatically correct than “well.” When asked how I was doing, the cowboys weren’t asking about my education; they were simply being friendly. The best grammar isn’t about what's “right” in a grammar book. The best grammar is about what feels right between two people.

C'est la qu'elle puise

A quill draws its ink from the heart. The French inscription reads, "C'est la qu'elle puise," which means, that's where she draws, ie the quill draws its words from the heart.

I added butterflies to allude to the magic of the heart. I especially love letters due to their impermanence. Like butterflies, they transform, they delight and they fly away.

Do you now how to spell properly?

When I run live QAs about letter writing, I often hear, “How much do you edit? Do you write drafts?”

There are two types of spelling, and I’d rather get one wrong to get the other right.

The first type is the spelling we’re familiar with. It’s about arranging characters in a correct order to create words. If you’re like me and part a generation that learned to write on computers, which would fix any error with alacrity, this type of spelling might be intimidating and also of little consequence since it’s easily remedied.

The second type of spelling is much more important. It’s the spelling that is akin to casting spells, the spelling that asks, “What are you bringing into the world with these words?”

In her autobiography "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings," Maya Angelou wrote about the power of words saying, "Words are things, I'm convinced. They get into your walls, your upholstery, your clothes, and finally into you."

Our words bring forth new feelings and new action. They can uplift and inspire. They also can be as bland and boring as boiled chicken. The arrangement of the letters means little in comparison to the intention and consequence of writing.

Depending on the relationship with the person you're writing, it might be a gift to include your edits and mistakes in your letter as it shows your thought process and imperfections. Don't we all like to peek behind the facade of perfection?

When the Marms Swarm (poem by me)

They don’t even know they dwell there.
Their critiques act as vigil
since many of them are long since dead.
​
In my efforts at scribing, they chatter,
carrying me from my heart
into my wounded head.
​
I don’t want to be accusatory,
even when I'm annoyed they still debate
the nominative and accusative cases.
​
Who calls upon these schoolmarms,
Is it me or is it I,
forever seeking their good graces?
​

Kay