The Letter

Earl Johnson was one of those rare people who acts from principle. And to him, the underlying principle that governed all else was clarity: communicate so everyone is on the same page.

Earl had something on his mind. He felt that if he didn't take care of it, it would tear him to pieces.

"Liz," he said evenly, "I gotta do this thing."

That spoke volumes to the half-Indian, half-French-Canadian mother of five. It said he wouldn't be around "for a spell," meaning indefinitely. Not until he'd worked out what bothered him.

So Earl loaded his snowmobile sled complete with four-season tent, catalytic heater, five gallons of gas, thick sponge mattress, and two duffel bags of food. He also packed his ice-fishing gear, chain saw, 30-30 rifle, and the most important tools of the trip, a spiral notebook, two ball-point pens, and a brown, stamped envelop.

Earl putted down the frozen Mazenakzing River, his eyes keen for signs of deer crossings, activity of beaver, and rabbit droppings. As he skirted the shoreline his eyes searched for level ground to pitch his tent. About seven miles from home he found the spot he was looking for: close to the river, flat, and protected by pines trees.

Winter nights come early in Canada and he wanted to establish camp before the sun bowed behind the snow-laden evergreens, so he placed logs at the base of the A-frame tent and kicked on snow for insulation. He knew minus-twenty degree nights were ahead. He gunned the chain saw and cut enough wood for two days. When that was gone, he would cut, haul, and split more : he found it a great way to warm himself during the frigid days.

Now he built a crackling fire and edged a can of beans close to the welcomed blaze. He boiled water for tea. After eating, he chopped a hole through the ice with his axe, a hole big enough to take his four-quart pail. It was enough for two nights and a day. He found water didn't freeze at night in the tent as long as it sat on top of the heater. He kicked the snow

off his thermal boots, tucked his clothes into the bottom of his Arctic sleeping bag, and, just as the Winter darkness set in, fell asleep.

In the morning Earl turned off the heater. Sheltered by trees yet with an opening to the sun, he could save the fuel for the bitter nights. His goose-down parka and leggings were certified for minus fifty, his boots to minus eighty, and with the body heat he radiated and had been trapped in the low-ceiling tent, he was perfectly comfortable. He sat in the tent, removed the spiral notebook from his duffel bag, placed the pens in his armpits to get the ink moving, and focused on the purpose of the trip.

Three years ago the man had met at the Trading Store a beautiful, intelligent woman who was down on her luck. After speaking with her, he found that her entire life had been a downer because she was an alcoholic. She was smart, possessed an incredibly strong will, and most of the time conversed coherently. She was a good listener and found in Earl a source of wisdom. When the trapper went to the village on his monthly run for supplies, he found himself chatting pleasantly with the woman.

Earl saw in Jenny Lightfoot a battered woman, one who needed and wanted help. Their conversations at the corner table of the Post's dining room stayed there; they never became intimate. But he sensed some confusion. It was his need of clarity that drew him to the retreat on the Mazenakzing. When he'd finished nibbling a half-frozen Cadbury candy bar, he began writing.

"Dear Jenny,

It was great seeing you the last time. Hey, it's great every time.

I've been holding off telling you something for some time now. I've thought why add to your pressure, why not wait until you're on your own. But what I've got on my mind keeps coming back so I decided to write. Maybe it'll do some good.

Earl sipped the boiled, black tea he'd tucked in his sleeping bag. He looked at the notebook and pen and knew what he was in for. The man was not a writer but an outdoors man, a trapper and hunter.Guess I might as well just come out and say it.

I sense that your real problem is not your drinking but a fear of intimacy. A fear of love coming in and fear of expressing it, too.

That wasn't so bad. A lot easier than telling it to her face!

You know I'm not a psychologist or psychiatrist or trained in any way except in the School of Life, so you can toss this in the waste basket if it gets off track. But if it makes any sense, I hope you check it out.

You said you suffer from disassociation. I don't know exactly what that is, but you've said enough that I sense it doesn't occur any ole time but when intimacy closes in. Could your spacing out be a way to closeness away? Like I say, I'm no expert, so the problem is probably is very complicated, but I know when I feel people are getting too close, I need to escape.

I wish I knew how she reacts to that.

Hey, I think we've all been burned in love. So it's perfectly natural to close up and protect ourselves. Even refuse ever to love again. Who wants to get their heart tromped onagain? Isn't that why we turn to pets? It's easier to show them affection because they don't dump on us. I've found that when we don't give or receive love, we suffer. Maybe even disassociate.

God, I wish I knew how she would take this! But, then, that's none of my business. My job is to get it out in the open.

It might even be that loving animals is a way of making up for the human love we've closed out. But that never takes on the problem directly. So how can you face your fear of intimacy, your fear of being loved and loving, if you turn only to pets?

This is harder than I thought.

Earl needed a break. He put his notebook down, slid out of his Arctic cocoon, and perked up the fire. A tuft of snow fell from a pine tree as a Chickadee landed. The bird sent its name-song through the clear air: Chick-a-dee-dee-dee.

After eating, the man searched the forest for the best spot to catch a rabbit. He found a low log where the Snowshoes jumped over. He set a wire hoop and walked away.

Once outdoors, he couldn't retomb himself. So he picked up his 30-30 and started walking. He searched for fresh tracks. A small deer would easily last him the time he needed to finish the letter. Besides, Liz and the kids would be happy to see him return with frozen venison. He saw tracks but all were old. Only one set seemed recent, but they skirted the campsite. Deer knew when to detour.

Earl checked his wood and water supplies. All was well. He perked up the fire, ate a hearty supper, and crawled into his Arctic bag just as the sun set. The next morning he warmed his ball-points and returned to writing.

Jenny, I wish I knew that you feel I am worthy of trusting. You should know I'm not a threat. Still, it'd be good to reaffirm that trust.

As you know, I think our relationship is special. You may not see it the same, but I sense we-re like two hearts that beat like one. Nottowardeach other, just simultaneously. To me, we're like everyone else: we need to relate and not fear being open.

Having said that, let's face reality. I'm married, am definitely in love with my wife, I have kids, and consider family very important. And you are recovering from all sorts of things and don't want a man in your life. Well, that makes it easy, doesn't it? We don't have to sweat over intimacy.

God, how do you tell a lonely woman you want to talk about love but still keep your distance?

I heard somewhere about dependency and co-dependency. I think it's when one person loses his ability to stand on his own and uses the other as a crutch. Or the two feed each other and neither can stand on his own. I don't know about you, but I've found that standing on my own is very important. So with your heart opening, please know that realize that I'm not what matters. You don't need me. I'm convinced that your heart will heal whether I'm around or not. So I hope you never think that I'm necessary for your cure or that I will ever make any advance.

There, does that clear up my intentions? That I'm here only to help?"

The reason Earl felt he had to write the letter was that he sensed the woman was falling for him. Or that she saw him as her savior. Maybe the notion was the result of cabin fever. Ithadbeen a long winter already. If he was right, it was better to set things straight so the relationship wouldn't get out of control. So no matter how hard it was for him to say, he simply had to put his feelings on paper. And it was difficult enough that he needed a break.

Earl checked the snare he'd set out the day before, and true to his trapper's instinct, he'd placed it in the right spot. He skinned and prepared the animal and set it in the pot he'd hung over the open fire. He stoked the wood and applied his patented method of beginning a blaze: what he called an Indian Match. It consisted of splashing gas on dry wood, touching it with a match, and ducking. The explosion did not singe his eyebrows like the first time, but it certainly created enough heat to set the wood ablaze. Earl put water in the pot for his evening tea, then enjoyed his rabbit stew. Maybe tomorrow it'd be venison.

Earl took the axe to the river. He rechopped the ice hole and lowered the four-quart pail.Thank God the water is pure. Whoever heard of drinking straight out of river anywhere but the Mazenakzing?He readied

himself for the long, cold night by slipping into the Arctic bag, made sure his ball-point pens were inside, and fell fast asleep.

The next day he was back at his writing. He sensed that he'd said enough that he could be bold. So he went straight to the heart of his relationship with the beautiful woman at the Trading Post.

Jenny, let me say everything now so I won't have to write another letter to explain. If I wasn't aware of the nature of our relationship, I'm sure I could have fallen in love with you. Of course I do love you, but in the special way I've explained, as a fellow human. And it's this awareness that's allowed me to talk to you about love. If I wasn't aware of our separateness and was younger and not married, I might have made a fool of myself. But knowing it and being who I am, I've been able to remain centered. Have you felt that if the circumstances were different, you could have let yourself go? Anyway, I feel we're both protected. Isn't that a horrible thing for a man to say to a woman: I love you but I don't?

Earl needed air. Cold, clean, fresh Canadian air and lots of it. He'd never spoken like that to any woman other than his wife. He grabbed his deer rifle and headed for the forest.

After two hours of climbing over fallen logs, slipping into covered holes, and getting snow down his neck, Earl Johnson finally sat on a Hemlock log. He knew he needed to let off some steam.

Back at camp, he went about his afternoon chores. He cut enough wood for two days and went to the river for water. He didn't know how long it would take to finish the letter. The timing was okay with Liz: she knew he would be gone for an unknown length of time. So all that mattered was that he explained his feelings clearly.

The next day Earl was back at the letter.

So, Jenny, about your move from the Care Center to your own apartment. I hope you let me help if you need it. Not just the physical move, but after, because I want to do whatever I can. If you need to chat, we'll chat. If you want to go your own way, hey, I know when to back off. My point is, you have nothing to fear: I'm not going to impose.

Well, I think I've said what I wanted: any more and I'll just repeat myself. But let me check: the intimacy thing, how I see our relationship, and that you don't have to fear that I'll get too close. Maybe I could have said it in a lot fewer words, but you know me. By the way, don't feel that I expect you to answer this letter. You're not obligated at all.

So, Jenny Lightfoot, beautiful woman that you are, I suspect we'll bump

into each at the Post. And if you care to talk after you read this, you know my monthly routine. It would be nice as it always is. Respectfully, Earl.

Earl folded the letter, placed it in the brown envelop, and tucked it into his duffel bag. It hadn't been easy, and now he felt the pressure.

The man hoisted his axe and fishing gear. At the river, he chopped the water hole wide enough to land a lunker. He set up his folding chair and simply sat. It took two hours for him to cool off in spite of the minus-twelve degree temperature. The wind was not strong so the chill factor held steady. He caught nothing, but that was okay because he didn't need fish, he needed to settle his mind. Already he'd walked many miles and sawed an ample supply of wood. He was glad it was Winter.

The next morning, just as the sun sent its penetrating rays over the pine needles on the far side of the frozen river, Earl built a roaring fire, cooked his breakfast, and kicked the snow from the base of his A-frame tent. He rolled up his Arctic bag, tied a clothes line around the extra-thick sponge mattress, and loaded his sled. He saw he had more than enough gas to get to the Trading Post and back home.

Earl putted onto the Mazenakzing. He reached the village before noon. He wasn't due for another week so Jenny would probably be at the Center. The man dropped the brown envelop at the Post Office and headed up the frozen river.

How beautiful, the Canadian Winter! Chickadees, Woodpeckers, Blue Jays, the occasional Raven and ever-brave Crow. How they enliven the crisp, clear air of the North!

Liz had heard the snowmobile come up the lane between the sentinel-like White Pines. She met him at the door with a child hanging from one hand and a loaf of fresh-baked bread in the other. But arms were free, and these she opened to embrace the man she loved and who loved her.

Neither had to say a word. Because both knew Earl had finished what he'd set out to do and was back where he belonged. Husband and wife spent the cold night warmed by their love.