An open letter to smallest brotherski

Dear Smallest Brotherski,

I got your note in the last care package.

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I was already thinking of writing you, you know. It’s not like you’re important or anything; you’re just a convenient literary vehicle for this blog post. Don’t get full of yourself.

Ok stop crying sorry ok, jiminy crickets, I mean I guess you’re alright. And I know I still owe you a plate of cookies. Not my fault you decided to carry two honkin’ pairs of shoes through 410 miles of mountainous Southern heat and humidity. How was I to know you’d actually follow through and carry them both all the way?*

*We all know you just wanted to win. No clue where you got that from. It’s not genetic or anything.

Well anyways I hope you’re proud of yourself. It’s not every 16-year-old gets to say they walked 410 miles on their first ever overnight backpacking trip, and their first time sleeping outside in a tent. Trash bags would have been even worse to share. Good thing we still had the tent then, huh? I was walking through the woods yesterday and thinking of you, actually. Here I thought I was all in shape from hiking up and down the White Mountains and the ranges in southern Maine, and suddenly it got above 86 and I was so sad. Not quite as sad as we were in Alabama, though.

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I’m only talking 86F and 90% humidity levels of sadness, not 95 degrees and pouring rain and splashing foliage with copious amounts of mud and squirrels falling out of trees, sad. That was pretty sad. Good thing that beautiful hostel in historic Talladega existed so we didn’t have to walk all the way through that hurricane tropical depression; thanks, Nancy and Jeff. Y’all are still my favorite hostel on trail, if only for the bacon we cooked on your stove.

Anyways I caved and got a tent. Today.

I didn’t buy it. Our friend Fluff gave it to me because he’s done with it for a while; but I’ve been thinking of bugs for a while, and at last figured I’d carry something with a bug net. Maine, ya know? No worries; I still look like a chump because I hike in sandals, but if Grandma Gatewood (one of the first thru-hikers, was in her 60s, I forget details wahoo) can walk a barely blazed Appalachian trail in Converses, with a laundry bag as her pack, using a shower curtain as her shelter…… Well then. Not errything’s about having the shiny equipment, is it.

Huzzah. Anyways I’m in town today, playing music with a group of folks who played at the open mic in the bar last night; was fun. Never doing it again. You wish you were a homeless music-playing vagrant with a college degree that you aren’t currently using at all, but that gets you nice shiny things when you need to look for jobs, because food and supporting humans is important.  Too bad you have to do your Psych homework to get there.

Cry some more.  Whoops. Tell our parentals I love them very much. Eat good food for me, alright? Roofs. Roofs are great. I love roofs; enjoy those too.

Love or whatever,

Yer sistah,
Sail

P.S. Dear other siblings:

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5 thoughts on “An open letter to smallest brotherski

  1. laaaaaaaaame

    ma says: “ur not homeless u can come home here” (probably. I didn’t actually ask her, but that’s probably what ma says. probably)

    that tree has a funny face on it

    Like

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