The Mission

 

Realizing he is the only one to appreciate the significance of the situation, a soon-to-be-teenager ascends unto a vantage point atop the rusting apparatus of swingability.

He is there because he cares. He cares, as no one else could possibly dare to care, about the harvest taking place in the corn field south of his GPS point of reference.

Thwarted by combinal activity commencing under cover of darkness, he has already missed the start of reapage.

NO MATTER! He will see what he can see. No one can stop his unbridled enthusiasm for all things agrarian. He lives and breathes the land's life cycle. Whispered amongst the chaff he hears his name...

"Call me...Agricola."
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In the realm of reality, I've finished the rough draft of the Christmas letter. And it's only 1.5 paragraphs over the limit!

Now to fiddle with margins and font size. Then it's back to the text, combing and combing for errors, word repeats, dull patches and most importantly, not enough stuff about me.

The final stage--after approximately 10 editings--will be to send each individual blurb to the respective parties for their approval/correction.

Then we try and find a printer with acceptable toner qualities, after which we do a test printing and have each person in the household read through for mistakes.

After that I pretty much start over and write whatever I want and send it off quick before people see the real thing :-D
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Loren had another little trip up Mayo-way, today. Checking on something to do with his throat, but it seems to be of little to no consequence to los doctoros.

Ahhh, toast is up...the turkey bacon done....the scrambled eggs congealed.

Time fer supper...er...as soon as the combine sweeps by, anyway.
 

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