So hows yer Janwary goin’, now its almost gone?

Dont know about you, but evry New Years I get to ponderin’ on what happens to the old year once folks is done with it.

D’you suppose them old years cud be stashed in back of some big cosmick wearhouse somewhere, waitin’ to be used again?

Evry now and then the Boss Man takes a look around and says “Have’nt seen many bell bottoms and Nayroo jackits around of late. Lets bring back 1969 jest fer fun.”

If folks start gettin’ a tad uppity, maybe He says to Hisself “Time to hit ’em with a nother Grate Depreshun, or 40 more days and nites of rain.”

Or maybe the years is all layed out like theme parks in Florrida, so’s when we kick the bucket we get to pick where we spend the rest of time.

Speakin’ fer myself, I wud’nt mind takin’ a nother crack at ’52, with our shiney green Pontiack Pathfinder and that new Kellvinator ice box that did’nt need big froze-up blocks dug outta the sawdust and drug in from the ice house.

Mind you, if I had my druthers, it mite be fun to spend a billyun years on a pub crawl with Shakespeer round about 1610, or flyin’ kites with Ben Franklin in 1752. Or maybe take a winter boat ride in the South Seas with Captin Cook a few years later.

But what if we dont get to choose? Imajin gettin’ stuck in 1974 fer all time to come, with ‘Seasons In The Sun’ playin’ nite and day, Tricky Dick still in the White House, and nothin’ on TV but Little House On The Prairie.

Thats some kinda hell, I tell you.

Anyways gettin’ back to earth, the new year hereabouts started out much the same as ever.

I did’nt get round to makin’ any resolves. That’s jest as well, seein’ as how I never keep the dang things anyhow.

Rite now I’m up to my eyebulbs in seed books, tryin’ to figger how to fill up 20 ackres worth of rock garden with politickly correct veggies fer Evas plan to save the world.

Unkle Walt took an aweful turn a few weeks back and spends all day in his lazy chair with a bad attack of the gout.

To my way of thinkin’ its on accounta all the port wine he drunk at New Years, but The Bride says its from the walnuts he warshed it down with not bein’ certifyed organical.

As fer Eva, she’s took to gettin’ herself tied up to a big old spruce tree a few hours evry day.

With the Prime Minnister puttin’ padlocks on the House of Commons, and all of BC bein’ took over by the gang that runs the Olympicks, she says a body never knows when a little civvil disobeyin’ mite be in order.

I cant ritely say, but she may be onto somethink.

Yer pal,{