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Allen and I took off work and made the looooooooong drive and the loooooooooooooooooonger walk up the hill to 'wordsman's place.

It was mid afternoon today and we still hadn't heard from him. And none of us had heard from Beverly overseas.

Neither of them believe in phones. Or, only sometimes.

We worry.

'wordsman and Beverly live in what would be called a cabin, if it didn't contain a city's worth --- a lifetime's worth, two lifetimes worth --- of curated culture and erudition. It's a profound North Woods knowledge castle.

'wordsman and Beverly are "old hippies."

'wordsman and Beverly are not "old hippies" at all.

They breakfast on clouds.

They talk with Keats and Goethe.

They convince all the snakes in the woods
to spell words in their front yard.

They walk around naked if they want to.

They read aloud to each other in French by the kerosene lamp.

'wordsman and Beverly laugh and won't open the door.

They have the most varied and cool and international
e-mail friendships of anyone I know.

Anywhere in the world they go, the stay for free.

Anything you've just discovered, they already have a collection of it.

'wordsman and Beverly give the best advice ever

(if you coax them).

and cook the best food ever

(without making a fuss)

They've been everywhere

and done everything

but they always wind up listening with sparkly eyes

as you rattle on and on

about your own adventures.

We knocked, we yelled, we hollered.

We didn't find him.

We left him a note

and took the path back down the hill.