[I
can just hear you asking, “Is anything ever going to happen in this story?” To which I say, maybe not. Perhaps this December is a time of quiet contemplation. And
if you’re like Mike, you wonder where fiction leaves off and fact begins.]
Jack gave a sound that was half sigh, half groan as he refolded the newspaper and tossed it onto the table. The news out of Washington D.C. was terrible, and he had just finished reading dire predictions for the years ahead. The depression would deepen, they said. Across societal lines, men would be without work. Many had lost their savings. The good thing, thought Jack to himself, was that here on the farm, they would at least have enough to eat.
Meanwhile, thought Jack, womenfolk everywhere were preparing for Christmas as if nothing had changed from the more prosperous years, but he was on board with Ina’s plans. As he saw it, they needed the diversion. Ina was capable of making somethings out of nothings, and it was not more than they could afford to have a Christmas Eve meal and celebration with friends and family.
And on that note, Jack took himself out to the barn. KW
[In real time, it's a balmy 61 here today. Wind is predicted but hasn't happened yet.]
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