I received a nice package of information yesterday from Publisher's Clearing House, material that made it crystal clear that I was literally on the verge of becoming a multi-millionaire - free money so near that I could almost reach out and take it.
The thing is that I have never, ever, in my entire life bought anything through Publisher's Clearing House nor, at this late stage of my life, am I likely to do so. Yet they keep writing. When I move they find me with alarming speed and the junk mail resumes. Eventually their desperate entreaties wind up in the wood stove in my garage where they help to ignite the kindling. Thanks for that, PCH!
And the crime bosses over in Bentonville also keep in touch - through weekly flyers in my mailbox and the ubiquitous plastic bags blowing across my yard and becoming tangled in the highest tree branches where they wave like the evil Chinese flags they actually are. It has been nearly twenty years since I was last inside a Walmart, and quarter-of-a-century has passed since I regularly shopped there, but they still keep in touch.
Approaching senility, one must suppose, motivates these corporate slugs to keep reaching out to poor old Pa Rock. Sooner or later he will forget where he is - and who he is - and then he will shop with us. Until that happy day, we'll keep cranking out the junk mail and roadside litter lest (or until) he forgets.
Weather Update: It's 31 degrees in West Plains, Missouri, according to Alexa. The maple tree in the front yard has a thin coating of ice, but the red birds and woodpeckers are clinging tenaciously to its branches as they dart to and from the bird feeder. There is no current precipitation, but the forecast calls for ice and rain through tomorrow. Traffic on the road out front is sparse, but what there is seems to be moving at normal speed. There is a fresh batch of chili in the crockpot, and the dogs are snoozing contentedly.