All Quiet on the Midwestern Front

As promised...here is the 2007 installment of our Christmas letter. This is my favorite letter that The Colonel has written...he is a great writer and very creative, and he really out did himself this year. I did not change a thing to post it here, so this is exactly how he wrote it. Enjoy, and have a very Merry Christmas!

All Quiet on the Midwestern Front

The Colonel sits in the drawing room, chomping a dead cigar, gazing out the window o’er the homestead. Two furry corporals patrol the grounds, alert and anxious to quickly dispose of any intruding fowl; three so far this year. All is quiet.

Closing his eyes, The Colonel painfully reflects on his declining golf skills in puzzlement. How can his mechanics suffer so, after having walked the fairways with Woods and been within spitting distance of Mickelson earlier this year in Tulsa? The Colonel had hoped beyond hope that some of their skills would rub off on him, to no avail.

Now The General enters, barefoot, bearing a tray of yogurt and fish oils. She eases down beside The Colonel. Sighing, she nibbles the snacks.

The furry corporals bay loudly now, having spied a ferocious feline on the adjacent grounds.

The General looks on at the noisy corporals in disapproval. “Those corporals need remedial training and more discipline,” she states. “That racket will be unacceptable soon.” Absentmindedly she rubs her belly.

The Colonel pats her hand understandingly. He knows The General has had a trying year. Two “buddy” conventions, four scrapbook festivals, numerous bunko bazaars, several girlfriend ‘business’ cross-country trips, and 590 hours of aerobics have left her weary.

The corporals return from patrol, having successfully driven away the dangerous feline intruder. They track mud across the fresh carpet to sit at The Colonel’s feet, seeking approval for a job well done. The General wrinkles her nose in disgust, glancing accusingly at The Colonel. The Colonel rubs his forehead and sighs. Where has he gone wrong with these two rowdy corporals? Perhaps they should be banished to the cellar.

The Colonel reflects on the numerous aspects of this year’s lackluster performance of the battalion: out-of-control corporals, failure to break par, a larder stocked only with yogurt, fish oils and sunflower seeds, squabbles with a crotchety neighbor, a brother-in-law unwittingly hooked on cigars, injuries sustained while falling down the stairs and a slippery driveway (medic!), a niece in dire need of remedial toilet training, fighting words exchanged with a dirty sailor at Chipotle, a spouse prone to giving pointed feedback to inattentive drivers in parking lots, stray canines roaming in and out of the manor, a spouse stricken with reality television-itis, and to top it off, dismal performance by the hometown Chiefs. The Colonel is unsettled. A change is needed.

The Colonel rises from his seat. The cigar is in tatters now and he pitches it toward the rubbish bin. Glowering, he paces the floor, the furry corporals in tow.

The General silently looks on, nibbling fish oil tablets.

Fresh from his 20-year class reunion, the Colonel paces slowly – it’s not the years, it’s the mileage.

But then he stops.

He has an announcement.

“I’ve got it!” The Colonel shouts.

Now the furry corporals are excited, baying loudly, bouncing to and fro.

“What we need is some new blood! We need an infusion of new young talent brought on board,” The Colonel proclaims. “Perhaps a young, new, lieutenant will jumpstart this battalion!”

The General listens in amusement. “A young new lieutenant?” she asks. “I already have that covered.” She smiles to herself, rubbing her belly.