Because I’m trying to be a nice person, I let my priest saddle me with the task of writing as detailed description of my hometown life. You see, there is this fellow in CA that’s on his deathbed who has always wanted to visit the Midwest (I don’t know why….) and he’s asked for essays, of sort, about the lifestyle. I’m finding it difficult to be diplomatic.
While this place, more specifically my property, has been something of a paradise, the town and community as a whole is far from my ideal locale. They’re nice, lovely people, honestly, and the town is nice enough — simply not my cup of tea.
Plus the poor fellow is asking for a lot of details on farm life. It’s a misconception that if you live in the midwest you’re a farmer. The most we have is a few chickens. I mean, we have a single farmer either sides of my family. And even then it’s part time. And he raise cows. Not, like, corn or wheat or alfalfa.
Then he’s requesting to know what sorts of food we eat. What? It’s Missouri, not India! We eat McDonalds and cake and coffee and chicken salad sandwiches just like the rest of the nature. I’ve said something about the rush of people to bake you casseroles in time of tragedy. Hopefully that’ll cover it.
I’m afraid I’m going to thoroughly screw this up. It’s hard to lovingly describe a place you’re been waiting for so long to leave.