∙ Paid
The children in our town returned to school this week, including our granddaughter, who ended her summer with a trip to Mount Rushmore and the Black Hills with our son, who has always resented us for not buying a ranch before he was born so he could indulge his fantasy of becoming a cowboy. Instead, we bought a house twenty miles west of Indianapolis and bought him six chickens when he turned ten. Three days later, a lady from the town hall phoned to tell us livestock weren’t permitted in town, so the chickens were replaced with two guinea pigs—Wilbur and Pancake─who now reside in the pet cemetery at our Quaker meeting.
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