Who would have thought a simple trip to the fast food joint would cause such heartbreak?

Living in an ag-producing part of the nation can be a royal pain sometimes.
Last week I had to work late one night, so I stopped by a fast food restaurant to pick up dinner for myself to eat back at the Gazette office.
When I got to the window, the clerk told me, “The mushroom-and-swiss hamburger will be a few minutes. Could you pull up ahead, please?”
I obliged, driving 30 or so feet forward and putting my car into park. There I sat, humming and admiring the scenery (i.e. cars and semi-trucks passing by on Highway 19/71.)
Then I heard a commotion over on the lawn. A farmer in a straw hat was leading a cow into the back room of the restaurant.
“No, Paw! Don’t take Bessie!” shouted a little boy in overalls, pulling on the rope around the cow’s neck.
“Now son, you knew this day would come,” said the farmer, gently prying the boy’s hands off the rope. The little boy stood there on the lawn, covered his face with his hands, and sobbed as the cow disappeared through the doors.
I leaned out my car’s window and hollered, “Can I change that to an order of chicken nuggets?”
“No, Maw! Not Cluckie! You cain’t mean it!” shouted a little pigtailed girl in a blue checked gingham dress, pulling at the elbow of a woman in a calico dress. The woman was striding across the lawn, carrying a straw basket containing a large hen.
“Enough of this tomfoolery. Git back to that pickup and grab me thet hatchet, like I tol’ you,” the woman said.
I leaned back in my seat. “Oy. At least the french fries will be all right.”
“No Gramps! Not Spud! How could you?! We’ve raised him from a sprout!” a little boy cried. I looked down the sidewalk to see an old man carrying a large potato, followed by half a dozen crying children.
“Awright, that does it,” I said, slamming the car into gear and peeling out of the parking lot.
I must say, old shredded newspapers aren’t that bad with enough milk and sugar.
. . . . .
With all the holiday hustle and bustle, everyone needs to take a break from thinking about Christmas every now and then.
Therefore, you will find no mention of Christmas in this column.
Sit back, enjoy an eggnog, admire the lights on the tree, and be grateful this column has nothing to remind you Christmas is rapidly approaching and you’re probably way behind in your preparations.
Not to imply that thinking about Christmas is a bad thing, of course. I wouldn’t want to offend anyone by criticizing thoughts about  this joyous season, especially when Christmas Day approaching like a fright train pulled by eight tiny reindeer.
But I thought a few minutes in which you’re not being reminded again and again and again that it will soon be Christmas in a few short weeks might be refreshing.