A Letter From Hudson

Hudson, you newer readers may be interested to know, is the eldest of my five younger brothers. He is one of a number of black sheep in our family. He roughs it up north in a green and wild place. We write letters. Long, almost indecipherable letters. 

(These excerpts were the best I could do. Hard to translate, ya.)

::::::::::::::::::::

Making coffee involves an ongoing mutiny among the ranks -- of a course colander, a fine screen and a scrap of t-shirt -- tastes great with condensed milk but makes a scalding mess first. Or can become so unless cap'n is severe (after aussie bad-boy Russell Crowe fashion, right?) yet patient. I wonder why I don't just buy a dag blamed french press... "This isn't Thailand" I often mutter around puddles of caffeinated, spilt mud. Shucks.

I now have Toby for going around and the like (my little red toyo-truck), a triple feature duo (one of each) Chuck Norris and Bill Murray, a portable chimbly, a dozen sundry splinters (for a while at least), some firewood, an egg (chkn) connection, no mustache, poison ivy (barely, at this point), a good solid though not windproof outdoor shower screen and three magnets.

I love you sisterwoman
Hudson
P.S. I can't read it either, sorry.

::::::::::::::::::::

I'm not sure what pleases me more here, that he got rid of his mustache or that his outdoor shower now has a privacy screen. Either way, a visit is more likely than before.

These are pictures taken by (most likely) Ali last summer. Used without permission.