12.17

31st May 1956

Dear Mona,

I'm guessing you've never got such an unexpected letter before. I've since moved out to Lubbock, as you know, and the Lone Ranger is doing just rip-roaring out here. I got him some guinea to chase and he forgives me for moving so far away from all his favorite people. Why, just the other day the postman found us for the first time since we moved, and you should have heard the ruckus -- until he realized it wasn't Old Tom after all. Here's another good one: when I first opened up the car door, he took off like a shot, just like always, and he pretty near ran into the fence, thinking the house was that way. You know how he does. He sat there throwing his head back and forth and barking at that chicken wire for a full minute before he realized he could just go around. Now days, it's actually a struggle to keep him sitting still for long enough to scratch behind his ears. There's always some new thing to smell just out past the fence on my neighbor's property, and he's got a half dozen tunnels I can't seem to fill up fast enough.

A little bird told me it was your twenty fifth today. As you can tell from the letter, I'm sorry I couldn't make it. You know just how much the two of us used to like birthdays. I wouldn't have missed it if I could help myself, Mona. You know that.

Anyhow, just a short letter for you, dear. Tell your mother

I'm guessing she'll read this anyway.

Much love,

Frank

31st May 1957

Dear Mona,

It's hard to believe it's been a year and a half, isn't it? It feels like no time at all. Well, Lubbock is treating us just fine. Well, I'm happy, anyway. The Lone Ranger stands at the door and waits. Not sure what for. Other than that, he has free run of the place and treats all the barn cats so bad you wouldn't believe. One day he came back with blood all in his mouth, but he wouldn't let me get a good look at it. I was worried, but he nursed himself like a champ and now when he pants, you can see what happened: he's got four long white lines  running sort of down his tongue. Must have been that a cat caught him right in the mouth. I shouldn't guess he'll be more wary next time. Still feels the same when he licks your hand, though, so nothing busted up about him.

I guess this is your twenty sixth, isn't it? You're as old as I was when I married your mother. Do you remember that? You were very small. It's amazing how long it's been since then. I hope that once you finish nursing training and maybe move out of the old place you do send me your address. I'm pulling for you, Mona. Me and Ranger both.

I hope this letter gets to you. I've heard that time heals all wounds, but your mother was sure wounded deep. We didn't really talk about it with you, not me at least. It's hard to talk to your grown daughter about the trouble, you know? I'm sure you understand, but it's a bitterness that I never got to explain myself to you.

I'll always think of you as my daughter, anyway.

Thinking of you fondly,

Frank

31st May 1958

Dear Mona,

First, some news about me and mine: You've no doubt heard about the panic out in Levelland last November? Well, I've been sitting on this for long enough and I think it'll make for a great present, since of course I can't make it.

I live out west of Lubbock, as you know, and last November 2nd seemed like a pretty normal night, all things considered. I was just sitting down with a Burroughs that you gave me way back when all of a sudden the Lone Ranger goes absolutely nuts. He's scratching at the door and whining like the devil got in him, so I stand up to let him out and you wouldn't believe it, just as I get to the door, the lights go out in the house. Well, I opened the door to head to the junction box and the Ranger goes tearing off across the front lawn extra fast. He ran right out into the road and I forgot all about the junction and ran right after him, heart in my throat. If anything were to happen to him, I know you wouldn't forgive me, and I went right across the hedge without stopping to open the gate. I scooped him up and the brightest light I ever did see shot out across the road. I thought we'd both had it and you'd be reading about me in the newspaper when the light shot near straight up into the sky and hovered there. The heat was tremendous, and came all at once, in a flash. Ranger was clawing at me and straining and barking and tore me up pretty good with his claws. Just as fast, it shot away again down the road. Ranger stopped barking, and the night was still again. The lights were on in the house, just everything normal. I went straight to bed. When I woke up, I thought I had dreamed the whole thing because of the Burroughs novel, but I still had Ranger's clawmakrs all over my skin!

Come to find out, it was all over the news, and I wasn't the only one who saw it.

I hope you enjoy that, Mona. You always used to tell such good stories that it's nice to turn the tables on you once in a while. Someday, I hope you can make it down to Lubbock, and maybe we can catch up. It's been an awful long time. You're out of training now, I guess. I hope that new job is treating you well.

If you'd like, I can come up there. I don't know how your mother would feel about that. I hope you can snatch this one out of the box before she gets to it. I hope that she hasn't got you thinking badly of me, now.

You'll always be my Mona,

Frank

1st June 1962

Dear Mona,

I missed a few birthdays there. It gets discouraging to write when you know what will happen next. I'd just as soon throw the letter over a cliff, I guess. Just a short note to let you know I still think of you pretty near every day. You were always a bright spot, and I always loved you, Mona. I wait for letters from you, but I should know by now I'm waiting on nothing so far.

I guess me and the Lone Ranger won't give up on you all.

Love from Lubbock,

Frank

31st May 1963

Dear Mona,

Me and the Lone Ranger are thinking of you. He sits at the door and waits, and I figured it out the other day when I was home sick all day. He goes to the door around two and waits until about five every evening, whether or not I'm here. When I get home, of course, he's waiting, but he barely pays attention to me until after five or so, when he gives up and starts nosing around for some supper.

Anyway, he and I aren't so different. We're both waiting for you to get home from school. It's hard to remember sometimes, that you aren't around anymore.

The other day, a dust storm blew up, nothing like the old days, but I ran to get some wet towels just the same, and I caught myself calling for you to -- well.

I feel like these letters are becoming a confessional. If you find this in the box, I've sent you a letter e v e r y   y e a r I have missed a few. Anyway, I think your mother is finding them and sending them back. If I get a letter from you with a new address, I'll forward them all to you and you can read what your old man thinks of you.

You're still my daughter, Mona. Nothing can change that.

All the best,

Frank

20th September 1963

Dear Mona,

This letter won't be no good, I'm afraid. The Lone Ranger passed away last night. I even had the veterinarian around. He said that the situation was the end, and it would be best to make the old man comfortable and give him the best and wait it out. He had some hamburger, the old style, the way he always used to beg for on the fourth. I know you used to slip him some when I wasn't looking. That was all okay, Mona. Well, he couldn't keep anything much down, but he didn't make a whole lot of noise. I wish you could have been here. He went quiet and without much pain. He was just old, Mona. I'm just repeating myself now, I guess. Anyway, like I said. It was his time.

He loved you very much, Mona.

Your mother put all the pictures we took of him in the post to me after the divorce. I went back, just today, and I don't think you have any left. He was always more your dog than mine, but your mother was just resentful that we had something together that she couldn't seem to. Anyway, I've had him for all these years and you've had nothing left. That's not right, so I'm posting most of them to you. I'm sorry, Mona. I'm so sorry.

From the two old men,

Frank

31st May 1977

Dear Mona,

I'm just sure you don't live at this address anymore, but I don't know how to get hold of you otherwise. I turned seventy this year. I don't get around very good anymore, so I'm moving in with my younger brother and his wife in Tulsa. I figured if we were going to be in the same town, we should at least try to see each other.

I know you might hate me for what happened with your mother, and I got no place to ask for anything else. She just kicked me out one day, Mona. I never left. I would have never left you, I hope you know that. The judge gave custody to your mother, of course. You were better off with her, anyway, but it just stung that they wouldn't let me visit you. Your mother must have asked for it that way, Mona. She was your mother, after all, and I wasn't your father. I w a s n I'll always be your old man, though.

Your mother and I grew apart for a few years. You were very smart; you must have seen that. You probably never knew why, though, and I wish I could shed some light on it for you. She just got colder and colder, and seemed to close down and die a little more each day. She quit that job at the phone company, she quit the school board, she quit the 4H club sponsorship. I guess she was just searching for the thing that was making her msierable and event ually she figured she'd quit everything else and there was just one thing left, so she quit me. It weren't personal, I think. But the way she tore up our lives and threw out the leavings didn't give the two of us much time to adjust. She made the decision for all of us. I'd love to talk to you more about all this, but I don't know how to get a hold of you. I called all the hospitals in town because maybe you'd be working there, and they didn't know your name. Maybe you've decided to go by Marie.

I always like Mona more, but it's your name. You get to choose who you are.

I'll always love you.

Keep safe,

Frank

June 17 1977

Dad—

after I never got any letters, I assumed

but that doesn’t matter now. What’s your new address?

Love,
Mona