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Dear Department of Motor Vehicles:

It was nice of you to write to me today.  Your letter arrived in a timely manner, and has filled a void in my life that often appears on the heels of the holiday season.  Knowing that my driver’s license was current, my vehicle’s tags all up-to-date, and that I had no outstanding speeding tickets or other infractions, I could only imagine that you had written simply to wish me a happy and prosperous new year.  For that I was most appreciative.  I believe I was even smiling as I carefully opened the letter.

So imagine my surprise when I see that your letter’s intent is not to wish me well, but rather to scare, frighten, and intimidate me into action.  The paragraphs, filled with threats and promises of punishment, seemed to go on and on forever.  I could hardly take it.  As a compliant citizen of the state of Oregon, a peaceful and rule-abiding man, I was devastated.  What had I done, I thought, to deserve such a verbal pounding?  Have I somehow given offense?  (As a struggling writer, however, I found myself more then a little impressed with the letter’s ominously effective syntax.  But I digress.)

I could assure you that I never received the “previous attempt” your letter assures me was mailed some months ago.  But what would be the point?  Your letter has opened my eyes to the fact that our relationship isn’t built upon assurances and trust at all.  We are nothing more then a balance between money and desire.  You are transportation’s whore, and I am weak. 

So I have enclosed the paperwork you required.  Yet another bean to add to your staggeringly high pile of unnecessary work, which leads me to my last and final question: if you complain when I don’t send in the paperwork, do you also complain when I do?

Sincerely,

Keith

Work has grabbed me by the scruff this morning and will soon drag me off.  I’m growling and shaking, but its a tight grip.  I will continue my tale as soon as I break free.

There once was a real, live hermit in the family.  I never met him.  He was my grandpa’s brother, and lived in a small, one-room cabin somewhere in the middle of a Minnesota woods.  He died, I think, before I was born.  I was led to the cabin once, but could only see it from across a partially frozen pond.  It called to me like an empty place in need of company.

If I ever get a graphics tablet and pen, I will return to that cabin for the remainder of my days - provided hermits are allowed electricity.  And internet access.  And hot water.  And their children.

Everything is easier these days - even being a hermit.  I even believe long, dirty beards are no longer a requirement.