Dispatch from Dearborn

Darling Loulah—

Leadened is my pen today, for it is dire news which I must impart. Forgive me, dear heart, if before I unshoulder the heavy burden, I divert myself—and hopefully, you!—with other trifles, however briefly. Having so elevated us to such a plane of levity, I promise then I shall bravely reveal all to you, whose gentle virtue ever redeems me. It shall redeem me again today, surely.

Do you recall some months ago, when in the course of trying to impress upon you my fervent desire to continue my “musical education” here in Chicago, I spoke at length of a particular artiste? No doubt my soliloquy was tiresome, and perhaps now the details do not readily return to you. (And I shouldn’t blame you for finding the whole of my enterprise in this domain damnably frivolous.) But certainly, familiar as you are with the depths of my passion, you’ll remember the admiration in my tone. For in all my travels, no sounds have so captivated me as those in this esteemed gentleman’s oeuvre.

Lest I ramble further, let me roll up my rug of flattery and tell you straight out: Loulah, he comes to Chicago this October next. And I’ve procured a ticket! The concert hall in which he is to perform is said to be quite something, and only a short carriage ride away. How delightful, to think that when next I see you, our beloved oak will be shimmering with gold and my head will be brimming with music!

Otherwise of note—as promised, I am enclosing with this letter my watercolor of the lake. Failed as I have to adequately express in words her precise and utterly captivating shade of green, my clumsy hand will have to suffice. I feel it imperative that when I am so bold as to make an appearance in your mind’s eye, that great beauty likewise be in your thoughts. Oh, Loulah, almost daily I am at her side. Majestic or moody, she is the only companion who can soothe me through your absence.

And now for the regrettable coda.

I’ve had to concede Federal Plaza. Beloved Federal Plaza, through which my nightly perambulation was a reliable delight. Wide, smooth-stoned and still, with that curious crimson statue holding court. It is the skateboarders, Loulah. They have grown manifold. Tried as I might to hold the pedestrian line, those whippersnappers-on-wheels overwhelm me. They make clear their disapproval of my proximity, producing dangerously close skirmishes the likes of which my knobby ankles would never survive. I must re-route. I can see your frown as you read these words, feel your anguish for my loss. Do not begrudge them! They are young, and this world holds in store for them countless betrayal and pain. Let’s permit them the pleasures of play before adulthood throws obstacles which no ollie can overcome.

There, I have done it. I have pulled back the curtain on my cowardice. Would that the sunshine of your grace illuminates some small hope that you think me not a spineless poltroon. I know it does. I know it will, always.

November, Loulah! Godspeed that cheerful month. Until then I remain as ever,

Your James