Hay and Ink
When I arrive home from the newspaper office, my wife Sharon occasionally tells me that I smell like ink.
This is not a bad thing. It's just a fact resulting from my close proximity to the giant press that cranks out tens of thousands of newspapers each week. About five thousand of those weekly newspapers are copies of the Chiefland Citizen.
The fragrance of ink permeates the building where I work and it follows me home every now and then. This odor serves as a reminder from being part of the local press corps.
When I step out from the house, which my kind and gracious landlord and lady rent to me and my wife, I smell the sweet aroma of hay and cattle. My colleagues have never told me that I smell like hay.
Despite my buddies' never mentioning the wonderful aroma of hay, which must emanate from me daily, I like to believe an air of living on a ranch surrounds me as I saunter through the metropolitan areas of Chiefland, Fanning Springs, Bronson and other nearby cities.
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