Scrapbook One Hundred Thirty Seven…




Dear Forest Fenn,

I wanted so very much to tell you how deeply your autobiography touched me. I would write more but my words and lack of eloquence would just embarrass me. Suffice it to say I truly understood your words as profound as they were and it was a blessing to be able to, in some small way, meet you.

I was very sad to have finished reading The Thrill of The Chase and wanting to read more as if there was so much more of the story left unsaid. I quickly ordered your other book, Too Far To Walk and inquired if you had written any others. They told me “only two coffee table art books that were very expensive.” lol

I read that you have written a biography and placed it in the chest as well as a few other places. I would very much like to have a copy of your biography, more than words can say. I am not sure if you put any clues in them but perhaps you can just delete those parts. I am interested in the treasure, the chase really, but I am much more interested in your words. You are from a world long gone and reading your words was like being able to touch the past and those who were there. Not many people can share that, it is as a lost language.

I guess I could share with you that I recently found my great great great grandfather, Beddingfield’s,history and his sons and their sons. He is buried just outside Gwinnett, Georgia in a small unknown grave within the family graveyard of his wife’s family, the Kilgores. There is a man who lives near by there, a photographer, who while jogging past, took a picture of the little grave site now sitting all alone on the side of a road and posted it on-line saying meet my neighbors from 200 years ago. He did not know who they were or who was lying beneath the now eroded and broken headstone.

He did not know he, meaning my ggg-grandfather, had fought in the civil war, that his younger brother had died in the war and he had been held prisoner at Vicksburg. He was unaware that he and all his six brothers and sisters had been born in the house that use to stand a few yards away and his father was buried out near the old mill. That his sister had chased away Sherman’s men down the long dirt road swinging her broom. Their farmstead was now long gone. No picture of him remains, no name. But I knew and that meant the world to me. To travel out to the grave site which no one understood and thought was foolish was like touching them, seeing what they saw, being closer if that makes sense. Kinda like touching George Washington’s painting.

Well, it’s after 1:30 in the morning and I will be heading to work soon. I don’t sleep much perhaps I can get a little more time by only sleeping 18 years. I would share much more but I do not wish to bore you and think of my letter waded up lying next to The Great Gatsby in a waste basket. (I never liked that story much neither.) and I suppose it is of little meaning that I tell you how much your book meant to me and how I truly enjoyed every word. But it means a great deal to me; not sure why but somehow it does.

With kindest regards,