Vox Meditantis

Brookings High School, 530 Elm Ave, Brookings, South Dakota
15th October 1941

My Dearest Walter,

Oh, what torment you have unleashed upon this poor prairie schoolmistress! Here I sit, supposedly marking arithmetic papers, yet my treacherous mind refuses to contemplate anything beyond your last letter—that magnificent epistle which has quite undone my carefully constructed composure. I fear I shall award young Raymond Swenson full marks for declaring that seven times eight equals “Walter Kelly,” for that appears to be the only mathematics my addled brain can manage.

You write of mountain sunrises, and I confess myself positively green with envy—not of the sunrise, mind you, but of those fortunate peaks that witness your daily presence whilst I am condemned to endless vistas of wheat stubble and the occasional bewildered cow. How dramatically unfair that geography should conspire to keep us apart! I’ve half a mind to march into Principal Gunderson’s office and demand he relocate our entire schoolhouse to Idaho—surely the children would benefit from studying glacial formations firsthand?

But oh, how you do make me laugh with your philosophical musings about tree rings and temporal permanence! Only you, my darling surveyor, could transform dendrochronology into poetry. I’ve been positively wicked—reading portions of your letter to my mirror whilst practising my most scholarly expression, pretending to be a learned professor discussing your “theories.” The mirror, I’m pleased to report, finds me quite convincing.

Your question about whether I truly believe love can transcend physical distance has haunted me for days. The melodramatic answer? Yes, absolutely, for my very soul has apparently sprouted wings and taken permanent residence somewhere between Boise and your wilderness camps. The practical answer? I’m testing this hypothesis nightly by addressing lengthy soliloquies to the North Star, which I’ve decided must be our official celestial postmaster.

I await your next letter with the patience of Job and the dramatic sensibilities of Lady Macbeth.

Yours, in geographical frustration and boundless affection,

Mary

P.S. I’ve copied out a particularly scandalous passage from Whitman’s “Leaves of Grass”—consider it homework for your romantic education.

Bob Lynn | © 2025 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved.