Dear Leah,

Every time I drive down our hill, I stop to open our mailbox.
It was always empty, until, last Wednesday when, because our
milk supply was getting low, we were on our way to Chilhowie,
there was your letter, its envelope, charming and disarmingly
addressed to Gramma and Yoyo, instead of the stuffy Dr. and
Mrs. Ernst J. Meyer. - The mailman must have smiled. And so did
we.

It is a wonderful letter that you sent us, with news about all 
the family members, and especially yourself, and especially the
satisfaction you derive from playing music. Doing rather than
making, so said Aristotle, is our true function; because when
we "make" something we value the product, which is alien, outside
of us, whereas when we "do" something, we value the activity 
which is what we are.

Two weeks ago today, Grandma and I were in Belmont, packing the
duffle bags and the boxes to put in the car, trying not to forget
anything important, - as indeed we didn't. Two weeks ago tomorrow
we drove out of the driveway at 8 a.m., an hour later than we
had planned, first to Sharon MA where Grandma's sister Janet lives
who wanted to give her another box with old family letters for
which there was plenty of room in the cavernous van, all of whose
rear seats I had folded into the floor.

We left Sharon shortly after 10 a.m., drove Interstate 95 and 495
to the Massachusetts Turnpike, and as is our custom, through
the Berkshires, turning south on the Taconic State Parkway at
the Canaan exit. Across the Hudson at Newburgh, through the
Poconos to Scranton and then down Interstate 81. We reached
Pine Grove PA, as I had calculated, as darkness fell at about
7 p.m. but the unassuming "Econolodge" where we had planned to
spend the night was almost filled. Only one room on the second
floor, at a correspondingly high price. I thought, unwisely,
that we could do better. Three motels in the vicinity of
Harrisburg at which we stopped were filled. Margaret considered
negotiating poorly marked side roads in search of a motel was
more hazardous than continuing on the Interstate toward our goal.

Earlier on the trip, driving through the Berkshires and the
Poconos, I had periodically become quite sleepy, had stopped
several times at Rest Areas to close my eyes but had not really
gotten the rest that I needed.  Finally twenty minutes of deep sleep
at the Mile 26 Stop on Interstate 84 left me with a steely unwavering
concentration on nothing but the steering wheel, the road, the
trucks in front and the headlights visible in the rear view
mirrors, a disposition which I believed, wisely or otherwise,
would make it possible for me to drive safely into the dawn.
Such a demonstration of resilience, however, turned out not to
be necessary.  As we approached Exit 302 at Middletown VA,
I saw immediately adjacent to the highway a promising new motel,
whose large illuminated sign "Super 8" pierced the darkness.
The parking lot, as yet unpaved, was crowded with motorcycles,
cars and trailer-trucks. A youngish, scrawny, unshaven clerk,
no model for Saint Peter by any stretch of the imagination,
muttered that he had only two rooms left, one a suite with kitchen,
bathroom, and a bedroom with a "Queen-size" bed, the other ...
I didn't let him finish. Whatever was least expensive, I said,
would do, and he seemed to get the point. For 70 dollars plus tax,
he put us in what I suppose will be marketed as the bridal suite, -
where the size of the bed suggests that the architect contemplated -
or dreamed of - a polygamous society. I lost no time testing the
"Wi-Fi" Internet access, which turned out to be superb. At 12:34 a.m.
I e-mailed Klemens to tell him Margaret and I were safe, sound and
exhausted in a Super-8 bridal suite. At 9 a.m. I had an e-mail from
Helmut to which I could immediately make a sketchy, tentative reply
before we availed ourselves of the free "Continental Breakfast" in
the lobby. Outside, the stand-in for St. Peter was smoking a
cigarette. Obviously still hadn't had time to shave, but he was
pleased when I told him we enjoyed the sumptuous accommodations
and would probably be back, without specifying a date. 

The following day's drive began under a heavy cloud cover, but no rain,
To the east, the summit of the Blue Ridge was shrouded in fog.
The traffic, which had been light in northern Virginia, became
progressively more dense as we drove south, but continued to
carry us at the speed limit of 70 m.p.h. all the way down the
Shenandoah Valley. Just north of Roanoke we passed a traffic jam
many miles long, fortunately in the other direction, such as I
had never seen until I drove in Germany, and which, when I encounter
it now, provides me with the satisfaction of finally having a
"European vacation" at home. By the time we drove into the Food City
parking lot in Chilhowie to stock up on groceries, the clouds had
parted and the flat roofs of the now empty ungainly block-like
buildings that line the old Main Street reflected the rays of the
gentle autumn sun. The 13 mile drive across Iron Mountain as always,
was buoyed and weighted with memories beyond counting.

As on the surveillance images which I had faithfully obtained every day,
we found the house intact. I set up the feeder for the song birds.
It wasn't long until Chickadees, nuthatches and cardinals showed
up to sample the new bird food from Food City. They thought
it was so-so, but better than nothing. To the hummingbird feeders
there came not only the ruby throats, which should have been on
their way to Mexico by now, but also a larger dark, less colorful
hummingbird, of a western species who, like myself had gotten lost,
whom I would rather not try to identify since I'm not a licensed
ornithologist.

Soon after our arrival I had an e-mail from my friend Helmut, telling me
not to pretend to be a house painter, not to pretend to be an electrician,
not to pretend to be a plumber, but to pretend to be a writer and add
to my novel which is already much to long. I followed Helmut's instructions
and started to write and kept on writing and writing and even now, like
the sorcerer's apprentice, as you can tell from this letter, I can't stop.

In less than a week I added to my novel "Die Freunde", Chapter 47, the
13th of 14 chapters, (35 through 48) satirizing my Nantucket experience.
My three protagonists, Maximilian Katenus, Jonathan Mengs and Joachim
Magus have been capriciously and arbitrarily "detained" by the Chief of
Police who is the only judicial officer on the Island. They have been
locked up for the night in the bugged jury deliberation room of the
police station, and each of them has had an intricate dream. Chapter 47
relates the dream of the youngest of the three, Joachim Magus, who before
he fell asleep had discovered in an unlocked cabinet the court records
of the appeal of one Dr. Selbstmacher - translated into English,
Dr. Doityourself - who had been prevented from completing a house he was
building on the Island by an order that the plumbing he installed
without a permit should be destroyed. Joachim is haunted by the account
that he has read, dreams that he himself is Selbstmacher. Symbolic of
the anarchy on the Island is the related case of Joachim's friend Katenus
whom the police chief Martin Brandes has condemned to death so as to get
his hands on Elly, Katenus' live-in housekeeper.

In chapter 47, Joachim dreams he is in a romanesque cathedral,
which is also a law library, and that he has unsuccessfully scoured
a large pile of lawbooks on the table at which he has sat down,
in a desperate last minute attempt to save Katenus' life. Katenus,
incidentally, has lost his appeal because he insisted on representing
himself. Joachim who is despairing of finding legal arguments or lawyers
to save Katenus, is assisted by two librarians in succession. When the
first, whose name is "Justitia" forbids Joachim use of the law books
because he is not a lawyer admitted to the bar, he mocks her by saying her
prohibition is too late, since he has read the law books and has found
them contradictory and full of nonsense, and has discovered that the
judges who endorse them are "deceived deceivers" (betrogene Betrueger).
Joachim inadvertently repeats his scurrilous arguments to the second
librarian, whose label gives her name as "Anadyomene" and who praises
Joachim for his honesty and gives him the low-down on the corruption of
the legal system. Anadyomene will help Joachim save Katenus, because she
is in love with Joachim. Anadyomene is able to help because she is also
on very intimate terms (read: sleeping) with all the judges. She gives
Joachim documents certifying his admission to the bar and rescinding
the death penalties both for Katenus and for the plumbing. By the time
Joachim reads the documents, the beautiful librarian has disappeared
and Joachim sees that they are all signed: "Venus Anadyomene, Chief
Justice of Human Nature." The name, Venus Anadyomene, is an allusion
to The Greek-Roman goddess Aphrodite - Venus, who according to the myth
is forever re-arising (anaduomenein) from the seas with which the
islands of Greece are surrounded.  Joachim relieved that his legal
problems have been resolved now falls into a deep sleep. When he awakens
not in the romanesque cathedral but in the (bugged) jury deliberation
room, no librarian and no documents, he laments: Ach, Anadyomene,
Oberbetruegerin der Menschheit.  Oh, Anadyomene, Chief deceiver of 
mankind.  While the three prisoners are having breakfast of bread,
margarine and cold coffee, the door opens and in its frame stand
police chief Martin Brandes and next to him as if his bride, Katenus'
housekeeper Elly.  Katenus, who has become pale with rage and despair,
has to be supported by Joachim and Mengs while Brandes gives a
speech telling them that for his studies on Nancy Drew (the popular
girl detective) the Swedish Academy has awarded him the Nobel
Prize for literature, and that he has invited Elly to accompany
him to Stockholm to receive it, and that because he is the only
judicial officer on the Island, his prisoners would have to be
transfered to the Mainland where the Island Court of Equity
is not recognized. Therefore he has no choice but to release
all three prisoners threatening them however with re-arrest if
they are still on the Island when he returns from Stockholm.
Once on the street, Katenus who has streaks of the clown in him,
sings the dungeon aria from Fidelio (In des Lebens Fruehlingstagen,
ist das Glueck von mir geflohn, Wahrheit wagt ich kuehn zu sagen,
und die Ketten sind mein Lohn...) Elly of course has declined
Brandes' invitation to Stockholm and walking up Main Street, the
four of them join in the Prisoners' Chorus from Fidelio. O welche
Lust, in freier Luft den Atem leicht zu heben ...

I stopped pretending to be a writer and went unauthorized into the
plumbing trade, yesterday morning a week ago when we awoke to find
the floors both of the blue and of the pink bathroom flooded with
water. Water had leaked through the floor into the basement which
even today is left with pools of water on the concrete. Fortunately
the oak floors were spared. In fact the only significant damage was
to the sixty page chain saw instruction booklet, which now
interleaved with pieces of paper towel, is still drying out.
My first thought: inferior workmanship by that unlicensed
plumber. Water from a broken pipe which seeped from one bathroom to
the adjacent one, a thought that occurred early in the morning when
my mind wasn't ready to think straight. My first move: into the
basement to turn off the power to the submersible pump in the well,
presented me with the surprise that the needle on the pressure gauge
pointed to "0". How could water be pouring out of the pipes if it
was under no pressure at all? I threw the switch nonetheless, and
observed the needle retreating. It had in fact moved "around the clock",
and had been registering a pressure not of 0 but of 100 mm Hg or higher.
The entire system, the pump, the pressure tank, the hot water tank and
all the pipes had tolerated the pressure, only the plastic connections
to the two toilet tanks had leaked. I've replaced the pressure switch
with no interference from any Mr. Ciarmataro, and now my plumbing system
is again functioning normally.

Dear Leah, at this juncture, I must confess to you that I have not
this morning composed all 209 lines of this letter. Much of it is
"original", addressed only to you; much of it is "pasted" from what
I had written before. But at least I spared you the German. Grandma
and I are planning to leave here on Saturday October 8, to resume
haunting the School Street neighborhood the following Sunday afternoon.
Give our love to all the family; stay well, and live it up with Mozart.
Jochen