Rothfeather Letter #2

Dear Phyllis,

Your response to my first letter raised quite a stir on my homefront. My father was absolutely livid. And he railed for days about my inability to win your love--as if I had not tried! What little he knows. I wrote some three hundred words professing my belief that it would be in the interest of both parties and both families if we were to tie the matrimonial knot. While you disagreed, you definitely could not have made it less subtle than by saying, as your too concise telegram read, "Go fish in another pond, bucko."

I hope you do not think I am being rude, but my father is quite persistent we marry. In fact, his paternal insistence took its typical path with threats of disinheritance. (I am beginning to believe that disinheriting me is the only tool in his arsenal.) "Son," he said to me the other night, "if you cannot win the hand of some foolish girl, how are you going to win over million dollar clients in the real world of business? Marriage, Charlie, is about finance, social status, and a hot dinner ready when we return home from the club." (He knows I don't like the club, so he said it only to annoy me.)

You know, maybe we would make a good couple. You don't agree with my father; I don't agree with my father. We already have common ground. Perhaps we can overlook the other petty differences, such as your being Baptist and my being Methodist. Dad said that your family's fascination with bible-thumping, shrill-shrieking evangelicals is a remnant of your family's Southern days. But, with disinheritance hanging overhead, I was convinced that it was a small matter.

The only really important matter is that the dowry is sufficient for my family's honor. Dad said he will refuse anything under $20,000 and assurance of that spacious territory when your own father kicks the bucket. As I believe that these terms will not convince you in the slightest and your father does not seem as anxious as mine to get rid of you, I have his permission to dicker over the dowry. I can cut you a fifty percent reduction deal if the wedding would include the governor, an archbishop, and three foreign aristocrats. The aristocrats I can easily find as there are dukes and duchesses coming over from England all of the time. They're always looking for some exceptional treatment as in their mother country they are a dime a dozen.

Of course, we could always re-consider eloping. I have a good friend who just did that and got quite a deal on wedding costs from the Justice of the Peace. Regardless of how we go about it, Mother has given me strict orders not to break your heart. Is that possible? I don't know as I am unfamiliar with these sorts of scenarios. I would much rather go golfing.

Dictated to my secretary, Alice, from a tent on the green,
Charlie T. Rothfeather

Your Don Quixote

Let me be your idyllic knight
Who ranges rough, unruly roads
That you may call me a worthy wight
For following the ancient codes.

Then I would from a rusted sheath
My battle-battered sword withdraw
And stand the hero on the heath –
Like Samson with an ass’s jaw.

And though my squire’s a foolish man,
My armor’s scuffed, my clothing’s mean,
My weapon’s blunt, my helmet’s a pan –
It’s granduer when you are my queen.

These all I’d wear, and worse. For you –
And all shall think myself insane –
I’d see a hundred men as two;
A sty with pigs, a rich domain.

I’d roar a challenge by your name
To any heathen hoard or drove
Of bleating sheep – they are the same –
Who mock the lady of my love.

I’d glare in death’s deriding eyes
And laugh aloud in merry scorn
At foes who keep with cackling cries
Some weak, unworthy oaths they’d sworn.

And with my horn, a tarnished toy,
I would defy each bragging star;
And, laughing, I’d the moon annoy,
By gloating o’er each well-won scar.

A fool – but let me be your knight
And walk the wild untempered hills,
Playing the fool for your delight
And tilting lances at the mills.