Having occasion to peruse an old letter from a father to a daughter I happened upon a litany of excuses for parenting behaviors.
There was talk of voluntary poverty, a sort of activism spirit, and a comment about being nearly artists.
What the?
Nearly an artist?
Hilarious.
Listening to a friend of mine going on about how he could spend 365 days a year under an oak or he could spend 365 days a year working his butt off and either way wind up with nothing prompted a response.
I said, yes, but you forget the huge sense of satisfaction derived from. . . .
Sitting under the oak.
He was pleased.