Dear Mister Ed

Dont know that I ever told you Darrol, but theres part of The Widdows island that still belongs to the govamint of Brutish Columbya.

Its on the south side, so handy the U.S. boarder you can hear the wind whissle Dixie in the trees.

Turns out thats where Bruce the gardiner takes hisself off to when hes in the mind fer a sulk.

I ain’t sayin’ I been trackin’ the lad, but if you was to say it yerself you wud’nt be that far off the mark.

A few days back I was walkin’ in the woods kinda soft, when I seen Bruce a ways off in a clear patch. Leastwise it was clear of trees, but not what you mite call empty.

In fact there was a cupple hunderd of the biggest tommata plants I ever seen. Taller’n Bruce even, with nary a flash of red in site.

I dont mean to be critickle, but I’m jest sayin’ if a feller lets his plants get that big without a single tommata fer his pains, he cant be all that good of a gardiner.

I reckon his plants must of bolted in that wickid hot spell back in July.

Anyways it was kinda sad. There was Bruce hackin’ away like a maniack with one of them big jungle knifes.

He cut down about 50 of the dang things whilst I stood watchin’ from behind a tree.

But you wont beleave what he done next.

He drug ’em off to this long shed all covered in what looks like green garbidge bags and hung ’em upside down from the rafters.

Now what in the Sam Hill is that sposed to do? They can hang there till the cows come home, but he wont get so much as a bottle of catchup outta that lot. I’ll tell you that fer free.

Way I figger, the poor lad must of snapped a gasket in the old brain pan. I’d best keep an eye out, lest he takes a noshun to send us all to our Maker whilst our backs is turned.

Speakin’ of growin’ things, I got a reel nice letter from my Anny Lake naybors, Wilferd and Merna. OKay, from Merna. Her Old Man ain’t much of a one with words.

Thanks to my garden, she says, they saved a bundle on grub this year. But next time cud I plant a tad less zookeeny? Even the Food Bank has said enuffs enuff.

The spuds are grand, the punkins are comin’ on strong, and the chickins are poppin’ out eggs fit to beat the band.

Sunnyside up or down, boiled, scrabbled, pooched or molly-coddled, sliced fer salad or chopped fer sandwiches, no problem.

But when Merna seen Wilferd all set to slather Holidays sauce on a slice of angle food cake, she figgered its best she lay off the eggs a spell.

Letter says there was chickin on the fambly table that nite and three more restin’ in the freezer.

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