Dearest readers,
I write you from my modest house at the edge of my more modest wheat fields. My mood, drained for days by an unkind sun, was significantly lightened when my mailcarrier (you remember, the well-muscled and steadfast beauty I mentioned in my last letter) brought a delightful little package to my door. It was a curious book, called Grandpa's Farm, put together by some folks I new before I moved out to the prairie.
Let me tell you, after just a few minutes of reading, the sun's persistent stare was all but forgotten, and I was reminded why I planted this wheat. This little booklet contained inspiring ideas of constant (albeit often slow) progress, blossoming friendships (like mine with the thick-limbed mailcarrier), and the brief & wondrous payoff that comes after years of work.
And the illustrations! Delightful, ephemeral, yet somehow containing the sweat & devotion seemingly endemic to these toiling prairie folk around me.
Looks like I've gone and rambled again. My apologies. Not many folks to talk to out here. But it's my sincerest wish that, if you find yourself similarly longing for a friend who'll listen raptly to your chronicles of labor, you'll get yourself a copy of Grandpa's Farm. And do let me know how it goes.
Truly yours,
X