My dearest Fenway Bartholomule,
I flew American Airlines last night and I regret to say that they have a weight limit of 97 pounds per overhead bin. You would not have fit, even had you sucked in your shining barrel.
I had hoped to report, after my flight, on the millions of acres of delectable grasses spread out beneath my wings, but they're all dead and brown. Washington State and Virginia—my point of origin and my destination, respectively—are both relatively verdant. Virginia, in fact, is lovely! I think you'd find these conference grounds delicious, and I've got a picture of the lawn to bring home for you. It's a wonderful shade of green.
There are no equines at the conference center but I did have lunch with a rider just now. We talked of you and of her five horses. I expect I shall see some hoofbeasts tomorrow when I go on a tour of historic mills and farmhouses—If I meet any beautiful old mares, I will ask them if they are your mother.
I plan to meet a mule on Sunday but I promise to save my ear rubs for you.
Look after FarmHusband and the children for me, and don't let Missy boss them. You know she'll try.