Guestward Ho! (32 page)

"Then promise to call her first thing in the morning, Bill," I said.

Ordinarily, I have such a funny feeling about long dis
tance calls and the cost of them that if I were on my deathbed I'd undoubtedly say, "No use telephoning
Mother, Bill. A post card will do just as well." But not
tonight.

"First thing in the morning here will be about right,"
Bill said. "If we call at nine, that will be eleven in New
York."

"Then my Christmas present is as good as bought and
paid for?" I asked.

"Bought," Bill said, "but not paid for."

The next morning we both got on the telephone to talk
to Connie. Connie was disappointed, naturally. But Connie, also being Connie, was understanding and forgiving and she had been thinking that, after all, maybe a honey
moon trip around the world would be rather fun before she settled down to anything permanent.

No sooner, had we hung up than the telephone rang again. It was The Dreadnought.

"I understand, Mrs. Houghton," she said, "that you and your husband are planning to give up Rancho del Monte."

"Do you, now?" I said airily, but with a kind of venom
in my voice that even
she
must have sensed.

"Well, uh, my People have given me to understand that, uh, certain ne-go-see-ay-shuns have, uh, beeeeeen under-
uh-way, and, uh . . ."

"You'd better get some new People," I said. "We have
no intention of selling out. We never
did
have. In fact,
we're not leaving unless we're driven out by the sheriff."

"Well,
really!
I
do
think that you might have—"

"Good-bye," I said, "and Merry Christmas!"

Christmas was wonderful last year. We had a full house with lots, of our summer people coming on for the holi
days. Bill and I worked like slaves, doing everything ourselves and loving it. The most beautiful tree ever to grow
was cut down, dragged into the lounge, and decorated. Piñon wood burned continually in every fireplace.

We celebrated Christmas Eve by attending a Mass that
wasn't actually a Mass at the Tesuque Indian church and
then watching the dancing afterward with the orange light
of a giant bonfire playing on the snow.

Christmas Day is a day I never will forget, with all the
dining tables put together to stretch out into one long banquet board. We were joined by our guests and by
friends who drove out from town who all sat down to the
best Christmas dinner ever cooked—and all of it cooked
by Bill and me. Everything was perfect.

The work nearly killed us and, right after the New Year, when our guests departed, Bill and I collapsed for
a solid week. But we got up in time to take care of the
weekend skiers, who descended on us in droves.

Easter came and summer followed.

At the beginning of June the Hammond electric organ
arrived, followed shortly by our old friends and guests, the
Boyers, who brought this time not only eleven friends, but a brand-new son-in-law.

Joe and Ronnie were back on hand to help us and Ollie
returned to the kitchen for her "peaceful summer."

Every guest still means a new adventure and almost
always a new friend. We still look forward with anticipa
tion to every new arrival and with joy to every old friend
who returns. Every picnic is still a lark, every ride an exhilarating experience, every sight-seeing tour awe-inspiring in its beauty.

Summer is coming to a close now and, as I write, I can hear Mrs. Boyer at the electric organ—this one fitted out with a kind of carillon—playing "Tea for Two" in the adobe cottage they have taken again for the season. It's beautiful music.

It's also a beautiful life with never a dull moment spent in some of the most beautiful scenery God ever created. And as I look across our mountains at one of our super-glorious Technicolor sunsets, I thank God, with some fervor, for showing Bill and me to this wonderful, wonderful land.

Rancho del Monte

Labor Day, 1955