Letter From the Saddle Bag

A while back, I received a letter with one of the all-time great opening lines of any letter I’ve ever gotten. The letter began, “Dear Bernie, Yes, you may call me Scout.”

I enjoyed the letter so much I thought I’d share it with you. Aside from the great opening line, Scout’s letter reminds us that we all need to slow down, if for no other reason than to save a toad’s life. I wrote Scout a letter reply and will post that in the coming days.

Enjoy. And slow down! Bernie

PS: You can read Scout’s letter all typed below his handwritten letter

PPS: If you want to write me a letter, here’s my address. I especially enjoy getting handwritten letters. Yes, I’ll be sure to write back.

Brick likes getting mail, too!

Letter From Scout

Dear Bernie,
Yes, you may call me Scout or whatever seems appropriate at the time. I answered a friend’s question one day, and that’s how I got the name. He asked why I hadn’t answered a phone call and where I’d been. I told him I was off scouting a ridge and that was how it started. There are other nicknames too. Thirty-seven years of driving trucks will position a fella to earn a few.

It’s possible you don’t even remember my letter to you or your kind reply. The initial correspondence was dated May 25th, 2019, and the principle subject was a bumper sticker reminding folks of the hazards that accompany an artificially sped up brain and the remedy being to slow down. Your reply encouraged me to share the message. I assure you I do. Heck, I even reassure the fells riding lawnmowers around town to mow at the speed of toads. That’s the optimal speed for lawn care and keeping your toad population healthy.

You mentioned a paint horse. I never rode a paint, but I’ve done some equestrian work in the past, and yes, a bunch of settling young horses was accomplished along quiet ridges with an old barn dog alongside.

Sadly, I have no practical experience with mules. My dad harbored a hateful grudge toward mules. For some time in my life, I shared this prejudice. Now in my 70th year and some enlightenment courtesy of seeing mule trainers on R F D TV and Polly’s willingness to journey with you, I have repented. In my father’s defense, it might not have been mules he resented, but an incident which broke up a band he occasionally played guitar with. It’s a long-winded affair, but it involves a tune called “Flop Eared Mule”.
Please forgive my delay. I’ll be more prompt the next time. All the best to you and yours.

The Scout


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