My Precious Beulah,
Your sweet and consoling letter of 15TH January came today and brought such joy and comfort to this poor, weary heart of mine. Oh, the bitter irony that such lovely words should arrive on a day filled with darkness and woe.
As I lay here in the smoldering ashes of the once majestic River Road, I recall so fondly the day we spent gathering milk curd and brie on Weehawken Hill, then arguing with the pusillanimous stewards at Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse on Harbor Boulevard over the unseasoned surf n’ turf they audaciously claimed to be their ‘Daily Special’. Your reprimand to them still fresh in my ears, “I will send wild animals against you, and they will rob you of your children, destroy your cattle and make you so few in number that your roads will be deserted!” Seems like only a fortnight ago, my lovely.
If there is any good news to come out of this raging inferno where I once lay my head, it is that we found there was a Yankee traitor living amongst us! A snollygoster named John Sterling who claimed he was the ‘Radio Voice of the Yankees’. (Spit!) “Woe unto you!,” I said to him standing amongst the rubble. “I will break down your stubborn pride and make the sky above you like iron and the ground beneath you like bronze!” His bewildered countenance was priceless, dearest Beulah.
I must close now for fear of not getting to send my letter off, precious one. Write often and I will read them forthwith… or whenever I get a chance. Do not be uneasy when you do not get letters, for I now must spend my days scouting amongst the briars and the brambles for a new hearth to call my sanctuary. But I shant pay more than $2500 per month 'cause it ain't worth it.
A thousand kisses to you, my love, sweet Beulah.
As ever, your beloved,
Thaddeus B. Hargrove III