Bossy's Drawers

In the days before email...

As a landowner, employer and community leader, my Dad received a lot of correspondence.

A lot. 

I know. He used to send me or one of the other kids uptown with A PILLOWCASE to retrieve it.

True Story: I would dump the pile on his desk, wait while he went through it, then ask, "Anything for me?"

To which he invariably answered, "What's your name?"

To which I invariably replied, "Diane."

To which he invariab... you get the point.

Back to my main point. 

Daddy (not me) got a lot of mail. From all sorts of people.

One letter stands out...

One day, he came into the kitchen holding a piece of paper.

Mom looked at him. "What is that?"

"Oh, something interesting."

She looked at him expectantly.

He grinned, then beckoned her to the table.

I came too because... 'something interesting'.

Daddy: "This is a letter from a woman protesting the naked state of the animals in the fields."

Mom, frowning: "Do tell!"

Daddy: "She proposes that we start a push to clothe said animals."

Mom: "Sooo...cows and stuff."

He nodded.

Mom: "Ummm...."

Daddy: "My thoughts exactly."

Mom: "So what are you going to tell her?"

Daddy: "Oh, I'll think of something."

Mom: "But you aren't going to encourage her?"

Daddy, waggling his eyebrows: "What do you think?"

Mom: "Mark!"

Daddy did respond.

His reply was somewhere along the lines of, "Dear Madame. What you propose would be interesting, indeed. But sadly impossible from both a logistical and a practical sense.

For example, once Bossy has dropped her bloomers out there in the field to 'take care of business', how, exactly is she going to get them back up again?"

Yours, truly, Mark R. Stringam DVM

She did reply, somewhat put out by his response.

But the whole matter was dropped there.

Kind of like Ol' Bossy's drawers.

Daily Mail