My apprehensions for June have been happily soothed by a bunch of guys in hard hats whom I don't know. Twenty-four hours after Memorial Day they started wrecking half of our five-block avenue in South Fargo built around 1958. When they've finished, yards of over 50 homes will be drastically changed. And I'm, sort of, enjoying it. We're in one of the city zones that's under a massive street, sewer, gas, gutter and water main repair. Oh, new street lamps and sidewalks as well.
A nice surprise was waiting in our mailbox this week--a letter from the vice president of the United States. That's not a common occurrence, and I first felt fortunate that of every mailbox in Fargo--indeed in all of America--Mike Pence chose mine. But maybe not mine exactly, because it was addressed to my wife. That's right, Mike Pence, vice president of my United States of America, was writing (behind my back) to my wife--the mother of my children, the grandmother to my children's children, the woman who every day feeds my cat.