Two Months On THe Clock

Hey there,

I am checking in once again from the Author’s desk. The calendar pages are turning at a rather brisk velocity over here; by my calculations, your countdown has officially dropped from 113 days down to exactly two months on the clock. In that span of time, the local chronicles have been so thoroughly saturated with chaotic variables that I felt it my solemn duty as Assistant to the Author to provide a comprehensive, unified intelligence brief before the timeline completely gets away from us.

The baseline energy readings of the house are definitely missing your specific comedic output and high-volume hugs, but I assure you, the local elements have done their absolute best to keep the theater of operations lively.

First, an update on the agricultural front: the old lawnmower deck was officially declared deceased. Zeke was initially in mourning over the loss of his “mower theology” laps, and the Author executed a monumental, system-wide eye-roll when your Dad attempted to bring home a broken “project mower” to cobble together. Thankfully, The Higher Power intervened, and for under $100, a working zero-turn mower was secured. The Gentleman is currently living his best life executing high-speed laps across the yard, though Zeke is still monitoring the apparatus with a healthy dose of clinical skepticism.

The yard reclamation is moving at a frantic pace because the Author’s real-world countdown is hitting critical mass. We are a mere handful of days away from the big graduation open house, and the entire control room is operating under high-pressure navigation parameters to get the perimeter secure.

But the true operational hazards of the last two months belong entirely to Frank.

He managed to completely bypass the laws of physics and common sense by climbing an oak tree to get an “eagle’s eye view” of the yard, resulting in a structural failure of the branch and a direct, dazed descent into the parked boat. He survived with only minor bruising, but the subsequent environmental threat was severe. Covered in dirt and what Miss Mabel classified as “catfish-stench rubbish,” he attempted to cross the domestic threshold. Mabel immediately initiated a high-intensity decontamination protocol, deploying a standard household broom with such vigorous velocity that even the Author had to intervene and request a ceasefire on Frank’s behalf. (True to form, once the threat was neutralized, Mabel immediately shifted into mother-hen mode, burying him under a blanket with a hot pot of tea).

Steve also reported a “Frank moment in the wild” that I deeply lament missing. I must note, however, that watching Steve retell the saga was an event in itself. He recounted the tale with such wild, unbridled enthusiasm, practically vibrating with joy, that I could nearly picture him standing in that parking lot with a clipboard, ready to document the madness. As Steve told it, Frank spotted a camouflage Jeep containing a full-sized, glow-in-the-dark green skeleton. He immediately infiltrated the vehicle, placed a straw hat on the specimen, named him “Richard,” and demanded a photographic record before subjecting everyone to ninety minutes of intense speculation as to how Richard met his demise.

According to Steve, The Gentleman utilized advanced tactical evasion and completely ditched the entire party inside the store until it was time to leave. This level of avoidance has also been observed in Colt, who has been giving The Kindred Spirit an exceptionally wide berth lately. Ever since the refrigerator died and he witnessed her painting the dining room walls, brandishing a paint roller like a weapon, and declaring with stone-cold, Tommy-Lee-Jones intensity that the roller’s name was “Earl”—as in, Goodbye Earl—Colt has kept his head on a permanent swivel. If he so much as catches her eye, he vanishes into the background data.

Amidst all of this, the Inkwell has been filled with a beautiful, grounding light. The Plaid Prince has finally arrived, and he is a darling little gem. He had known the Author for a mere twenty minutes before he decided they were absolute best friends and fell asleep right in her arms. It was a fabulous, peaceful moment of magic in the middle of a very loud month.

Which brings us, finally, to the great Welcome Home Soirée Theme War.

A council was called to brainstorm ideas for your eventual return. Miss Mabel aggressively pitched a “Lone Star Soirée”—a highly sophisticated, budget-shattering affair involving white tablecloths, gold runners, cowboy hats, and custom ballgowns. The Author immediately ran intervention on the corporate budget, reminding everyone that we are not funding a high-society ball in the dead of summer, even if Harmony discovers hidden treasure in Indonesia.

Frank then countered with a full-scale carnival theme, complete with fireworks, a live tiger, a rollercoaster, a fire-breather, and a squirrel-powered dunk tank. A dunk tank, mind you filled with  where he volunteered to wear a cowboy hat and yell “Yeehaw!” every time he was submerged.

As Mabel’s face began to turn a dangerous shade of purple, Zeke calmly stepped in to pour her a cup of tea. From my vantage point, I noted that the cookie he selected for her plate was a chocolate chip. Mabel accepted it with regal dignity, noting that out of strict solidarity to the Author’s severe peanut allergy, she has graciously decided to tolerate her second favorite cookie. She declared she would absolutely not expose the Author’s environment to any unnecessary, hazardous legumes, showing that even in the midst of a tactical dispute, her maternal safety protocols remain online.

Once she was fortified by tea, she calmly informed Frank that we are not hosting a carnival. The Author then firmly decreed that this party will be a small, intimate, and entirely cost-effective gathering. The suggestions needed to be creative, not costly.

Unfortunately, using the word “creative” in proximity to Frank is a severe tactical error. Alli May was sitting right there when his eyes lit up, and she claims she had a terrifying psychological vision of Frank directing a synchronized troupe of local squirrels wearing tiny suits fashioned out of old underwear, tap-dancing with mini canes made of twigs…

And right there—in the absolute middle of recounting this psychological trauma to you—Alli May suddenly shouted something about Dan Aykroyd, dropped her pen flat on the desk, and literally ran off to a roller disco in Chicago circa 1978.

Best regards,

The Weaver Scribe

(Assistant to the Author)