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Vo l . 3 N o . 2 On Tuesday, I’ll take in more wash, but I will think of you. On the trail you will be the grime that clings to your clothes. At home, I am the quilt suspended, the half second before it falls to the mattress, ripple of patches and labor, floating above the sagging, empty bed. Your wife, Nellie
August 21, Queen Charlotte Sound Dear Nellie,
Brenda Roper
Tell Tommie and Elmer to be good boys. It’s time they learned to do without their father. When they come to work the claim I stake, they’ll have enough of me. Good-bye, Dear Wife, Joe
Dear Joe, This morning I snapped out the quilt over the mattress, and for a second it stayed suspended, borne only by my fingertips and air. If I knew what to say, I’d pull a page and pen from the desk and write. Instead I draw in the wash, sweep this day’s dust from the kitchen, and feed the boys.
Near the Alaska boundary, the fog is so thick we will have to lay here all night. The ship pitched so much this morning that the breakfast table sat empty of patrons. Men clung to the rails. I wavered with them. The mules, stowed below, are in a good place. I hear they may not survive the trail. Barebacked and tethered, they wait without knowing they wait. When this ship stops rocking, men will fold against the rail, weighted with concern: steep ascents, wrecked rafts, dry goods soaked. Even our imaginations are heavy. We will reach Dyea about Saturday. Ready or unready, our walk will begin there. Remember me to the boys.