I received you letter at the end of August. It sat at the end of the table for several days, half forgotten. Then one night after clearing the dinner dishes, I found it again. I opened it and pulled out a small picture of you smiling in front of a line of camels. On the back you had written that the two men on the left were guides. You wrote the name of the foreign town they were taking you to. I would imagine now that you have went through that town, and are moving towards some other further place. Enough time has passed.

In you letter you spoke of the Mediterranean and your first landing on the continent. You had contacted your mother, but she had other business and was unable to have you visit. I am sorry for that. I can remember having met her and having similar problems.

Here the yard is starting to curl and dry. We are at the end of the warm months. The garden has done well even though I have not had time to tend it. I gave most of the pears to the neighbor.

I walked out yesterday to the end of the rock fence. The wind does not yet smell like winter. I took two doves for my dinner and ate in the front room in the wooden chair. There are two trees in the woods that fell last summer. Next weekend I am driving the pickup back there to start cutting them up.

I wonder what it is like where you are. Your words are sparse. I have an old book about it over there. I'm sure the information is still not current, but there are a few pictures. I try to see you standing in the pictures. I see you standing at the base of the dry mountains. You point out across the broken rocks. You take tea beside the nomads. The pictures are black and white, so I struggle only with the colors.

I am mailing this to the last address I had for you and do not know when you will receive it. Your sister has called asking on you. I will tell her what I am able.