Dear John,
Today I was putting butter on a slice of bread and thought about the night the butter froze.

The house got warmer when we got the wood-burning stove installed. We heated the whole house with it. The floor plan was perfect, with the stairs right there so the warm air could rise and heat the upstairs. I only remember the butter freezing that one time. It also helped as we worked on the kitchen - put in new flooring and subflooring, fixed the windows, patched up the holes in the walls.
We had some adventures with that house, didn't we? Bats and bad wiring and holes in the floors. But we loved the house and were so happy to have it, and we took everything in stride. Our friends were all doing the same thing - buying old houses that we could afford, and fixing them up. There was a lot of experience there for us to turn to. We were happy there. I still love that house, still dream about it, go check on it every time I'm in Springfield. It is the house against which all others have been measured, the house of mythic proportions. I'll always miss it.
And I'll always miss those early years of happiness and unlimited optimism. We didn't know you couldn't have children, didn't know the radiation was causing progressive damage that would take your life way too soon. But the twenties are like that, and rightly so. You don't know the difficulties and suffering ahead of you. I'm thankful for those few - very few - carefree years. Even if we did have frozen butter.
Our butter is still a good thermostat. It's pretty hard now with the house at 64. When I have people over and turn the heat up to 66, the butter is lots softer. And when it starts to get runny in the summer, I know it's time to close the windows and turn on the air conditioning. It has taken over your job of telling me that it's too hot.
Know that my memories are good. And know that putting butter on bread can make me feel very sentimental. You are so woven into the fabric of my life, into my heart, into who I am, that you are a part of everything I do. Today you were a special part of that piece of bread and butter.
As Adrian Monk said, "Bread and butter!" I'll see you soon!
Joan.
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