Dearest Love,
Mark Twain and I will be roughing it for the next six months. Riding the overland stagecoach out west. We’ll meet with many strange adventures, savage indians, Mormons, and Slade the outlaw. It will be misery without you. Would you like to come along?
We’ll make the most of it.
Bring your pantaloons and a bonnet. I’ll supply the tobacco and silver. We’ll watch for the pony express from atop the hired post-chaise. When we see him riding in a cloud of dust like a Tasmanian devil we’ll hoot and holler, you can wave your parasol.
The coyotes are howling, the rain pours down like sheets of lead. We pull the curtains on the coach and wrap ourselves in muslin. Your beating heart is a hairsbreadth away. Twain is over there smoking his pipe.
When the way clears, the purple crags of the Rockies can be seen on the horizon. Blessed be thy name and the names of thy forefathers. This ride is a trip.
We change horses and mules every twelve miles. There’s not enough time to get out. We watch the commotion and wonder what the next stage driver will be like. Will he be a stick in the mud or a character from Little House on the Prairie?
When we finally reach Salt Lake we stay for two days. Every child has several mothers. We have a wonderful meal with Brigham Young. He hands you The Book of Mormon. We spend the next three days reading a phantastic tale about Nephi and the Lamanites.
And it came to pass after many tribulations that we meet and fall in love.
Then we go to Tahoe and witness the splendor of a crystal clear expanse ringed with pines in the majestic mountains. Twain lets the campfire get away and burns down several hundred acres of pristine pine. No worries. Nobody is around but us.
Next on the trip is Virginia Nevada. We go there to make our fortune from the newly discovered Comstock silver lode. We strike it rich, travel to Europe, build a brownstone, hire several handmaids and manservant’s, and spend our time creating new religion of love.
We go to the Sandwich Islands- Hawaii. It’s so romantic. Our purity melts the volcanic rocks and coral beneath our feet. Your salted skin glows like golden honey, your tan lines are missing.
I can’t stop thinking of you.
Rouging It by Mark Twain Book Review
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