glasses on, she took hers off. When I took mine off, she put hers on. Hers were just like mine, too. It was weird. Finally I figured it out: she needs her glasses for distance, while I need mine for close work. So I put mine on to focus on her at close range, and she took hers off; then when we looked elsewhere, long range, we switched. I guess you keep yours on all the time, so that doesn’t happen. Anyway, I was in the process of inquiring whether you can read, if the book is right. No, I realize that no one is going to stand there and hold the book in front of your face, and turn the pages when you blink; it would be hard to read, because the book would wobble and be at the wrong slant and all. They’d rather just read it aloud to you. But suppose the print were on a computer screen, and you could in effect turn the pages yourself, by pressing a button under your finger on the armrest? So you could sit there or lie there, with the screen just right, and read at your own pace or snooze in the middle without losing your place. Would you be able to read then, without getting a horrible headache? Because if you could, and would like to, they might be able to set it up that way. And if they could set up with an IBM AT-compatible system, which is what I use now, after four years on the DEC Rainbow, then I could send you a disk with
Isle of View
on it, and you could read the whole story of Jenny Elf in context. Because of course she’s only part of the story, and there’s a whole lot else going on, but she is intertwined with it throughout. This novel won’t be published until OctOgre 1990, and I wouldn’t want that disk to get into the wrong hands, but if this enabled you to read the novel yourself, even if it took you six months to get through it—well, first you have to decide whether you’re interested, and then your mother has to find out whether it’s possible.
Meanwhile, since your day isn’t all that nice—by my definition, your day won’t be nice enough until you are running through your yard and meeting the ducks who moved in during your absence—let me tell you about mine. I run through my yard—but my yard is an 87 acre tree farm. So my running route is 2.9 miles, from the house down along the forest path, beside the lake, through all the oak and magnolia and hickory trees, to the pump, where I prime it and pump the old bathtub full for the horses, then start my stopwatch again and run on through the slash pines, the dragonflies racing playfully with me and the blackflies trying to bite me, up to the gate at the north. Then back down through pines and oaks, taking a shortcut I carved for the horses, to the other side of our house, by which time I’m close to half way through my run. Then up the paved drive to the little magnolia tree, where, you know, nitrogen—STOP LAUGHING! THE NURSES ARE STARING AT YOU—and on up to the main entrance, which is about the three-quarter mark of my run. Then around and back down that drive to the house. Today I ran that run in twenty-three minutes and forty-one seconds, which is okay for me. It’s one sweat of a workout, I assure you, especially since the temperature was 90° F. But that’s how I keep healthy. I’m in my fifties, you know. If my first child had lived, I could have had a grandchild your age by now. Have you ever noticed how the old and the young understand each other better than the folk in between do? I saw a cartoon once, showing three people emerging from a movie. The posters said “Great fun for young and old!” The old man and the boy were laughing their heads off, while the ordinary man in the middle was looking blank. So then I came in and took my shower and washed my hair, which is dull business, so I sing in the shower, trusting no one can hear. Those old folk songs I memorized when I was your age. “Nicodemus” and “Danny Boy” and funny sea-songs and love songs and such; I like everything if it’s folk. I don’t know if you know
Isle of View
on it, and you could read the whole story of Jenny Elf in context. Because of course she’s only part of the story, and there’s a whole lot else going on, but she is intertwined with it throughout. This novel won’t be published until OctOgre 1990, and I wouldn’t want that disk to get into the wrong hands, but if this enabled you to read the novel yourself, even if it took you six months to get through it—well, first you have to decide whether you’re interested, and then your mother has to find out whether it’s possible.
Meanwhile, since your day isn’t all that nice—by my definition, your day won’t be nice enough until you are running through your yard and meeting the ducks who moved in during your absence—let me tell you about mine. I run through my yard—but my yard is an 87 acre tree farm. So my running route is 2.9 miles, from the house down along the forest path, beside the lake, through all the oak and magnolia and hickory trees, to the pump, where I prime it and pump the old bathtub full for the horses, then start my stopwatch again and run on through the slash pines, the dragonflies racing playfully with me and the blackflies trying to bite me, up to the gate at the north. Then back down through pines and oaks, taking a shortcut I carved for the horses, to the other side of our house, by which time I’m close to half way through my run. Then up the paved drive to the little magnolia tree, where, you know, nitrogen—STOP LAUGHING! THE NURSES ARE STARING AT YOU—and on up to the main entrance, which is about the three-quarter mark of my run. Then around and back down that drive to the house. Today I ran that run in twenty-three minutes and forty-one seconds, which is okay for me. It’s one sweat of a workout, I assure you, especially since the temperature was 90° F. But that’s how I keep healthy. I’m in my fifties, you know. If my first child had lived, I could have had a grandchild your age by now. Have you ever noticed how the old and the young understand each other better than the folk in between do? I saw a cartoon once, showing three people emerging from a movie. The posters said “Great fun for young and old!” The old man and the boy were laughing their heads off, while the ordinary man in the middle was looking blank. So then I came in and took my shower and washed my hair, which is dull business, so I sing in the shower, trusting no one can hear. Those old folk songs I memorized when I was your age. “Nicodemus” and “Danny Boy” and funny sea-songs and love songs and such; I like everything if it’s folk. I don’t know if you know
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