You are like to see me before this letter even crosses the mountains as I leave tomorrow and I reckon I will pass it even if the weather is against us. You may wonder then why I should write at all. It may be that this lax city lifestyle and a little brandy have made me sentimental but I am sick for home and am glad to be headed there.
I think that you would not say I was presumptuous for calling it home, having lived there with you these two years and more. You may remember months back when I first received from my brother-in-law this invitation. I admit that any hesitation I showed then was owed entire to a fear that should I leave I might not return. I have not returned to very many places in my life. Even my daddy’s home, as I have learned this past week, has quit standing in order to disallow the event. But I return to you tomorrow, my friend. I would not have bet on it.
My sister’s son is a pleasant child, lively and precocious with his mother’s kind eyes and tendency toward employing me to the task of his entertainment. My brother is likewise pleasant and hospitable, clever as any man I have known and eager for a story of ever cow and hand of my acquaintance. Yet I long for your conversation, your audience, our porch, and your horse to keep mine from growing lonesome. She is unable to settle here, and I believe that she keeps an eye to the west when she thinks I am too occupied to pay her mind.
My nephew has joined me in the kitchen where I write this letter and I am obliged to fulfill my promise of a lesson in calf-roping a fencepost and probably some misfortunate dog, so I must say good bye. I hope this letter finds you well, or the both of us if I am already with you by that time. Give Grullo a pat for me.