Memories of the valley |

Memories of the valley

Dear Editor:

It’s nearly been 10 years since I’ve lived in the valley. I had been flying a lot then to see a girl who lived on a river in West Virginia. When the call came on 9/11, at 6:30 a.m., I wasn’t the least surprised, after having myself been on the death flight to hell.

I remember the Main St. Bakery one morning in June, meeting Edward for work. I sat down with a couple at a table, and when Edward showed up, I said, “Edward, I want you to meet my parents,” and after a little laugh and a greeting, I said that I didn’t tell them about the whip.

At the house in Missouri Heights, Uncle Nick came bounding down the hallway at 6:30, 300 pounds-plus. It was January, and he threw open the slider and screen, with snow blowing in, and sat on the couch, his robe half sashed and his man’s stuff hanging out over the front of the cushion. Nancy, the grown-up cowgirl, then stormed from her room, screaming about pneumonia and, “Sheesh, Nick, I’m not a morning person. Everybody knew that.”

Then after all my hard-fought alliances in business and the closest friends I’ve ever made, I got tired of the skin cancer and the lack of oxygen, the impossibility of owning a home as a small subcontractor, my truck windows shot out by high-power rifles while driving, getting shot at by high-power rifles when hunting and general disrespect by drug dealers and such.

Things haven’t changed much, but my skin is soft, I can breathe like a muther, and I own my own home, yet one can’t seem to miss the valley and having real friends.

Alan Einstoss

Pittsburgh, Penn.

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