Linenger's Letters to his Son

April 27, 1997
"
Cabin fever"

Dear John:

Evening. Feel like doing something, going somewhere.

Nowhere to go. Trapped. No new faces. No you. No Kathryn.

A simple walk would be fine. Or a paddle in the canoe. Indoors won’t do. Need fresh air. Need to feel a breeze.

Camping would be good. You, Mommy, and me cuddled in a tent. Telling stories. Small lamp glowing. Campfires nearby casting shadows on our tent. Wrestling with you. Watching you pound your head up and down on the pillow (oh yes, we’d cheat and take big feather pillows). Trying to keep you from crawling to our feet and biting our toes. The sound of wind through the trees overhead.

Mommy is about due to deliver you a brother or sister--so maybe camping is not such a good idea. How about just sitting on Grandma Linenger’s front porch in my old neighborhood. Waving to Harold and Bernice and Glen and Shirley as they relax on their front porches. Everything very familiar, normal, pleasantly reassuring. Watching it get dark, and listening to crickets. Covering up our legs with one of the comforters that your Great Grandma Pusavc made by hand. Crunching on an apple. Snug.

It is difficult being confined. You keep your mind off it by staying busy, but when you have some quiet time, you realize that your options are limited, and that you are very alone. You miss simple things. You miss people. You miss being together. You don’t sulk about it, you aren’t crushed by it, you don’t continually think about it; but at times you simply think: ah, wouldn’t that be nice.

Goodnight John. I’ll be seeing you in month or so (joy of joys!). In the meantime, I’ll be watching over you.

Love,

Dad.

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