The last time I posted here, I was mired in a mystery. I promised I would tell you if it solved it. So here it is.

The letter in question was indeed written by my great uncle, a man we affectionally called “Uncle Hoboo.” He was a little man who loved to tease and whose face beamed “mischief.” One of eight siblings born around the turn of the century, he lived in a house that had log cabin bones, a stream running next to it, and bevies of ducks, geese, dogs and cats—the kind of farm that city kids like us found irresistible. When my brother was 7 or 8, Uncle Hoboo sat him in the driver’s seat of his truck on a box and let him drive all over his farm. And when my sister and I were involved in a small fender bender with our Granny, he took a bullwhip to the roof of her black sedan and declared that the police were coming to get Granny. (They weren’t, of course.).

When I first read the letter, I suspected it might be Uncle Hoboo. At the time, he was in college at William and Mary. It would be a brief stay for him, but the timing was right, the sentiment was right, and the familiarity felt just right. 

After a cousin sent me a bundle of old family letters, I was finally able to match the handwriting. I was right and the mystery was solved. The letter had indeed been written by Uncle Hoboo to his parents, “Mama and Daddy.”

I’m sure I’ll come across more and more rabbit holes. Such generate the kind of curiosity that makes writers crazy—and good at what they do.

So bring on the rabbit holes. I will happily hop in.