"Where the Hell is Orwell?"

Lessons gleaned while buying eight hundred pounds of beef

I woke to see the thermometer read 0° and I called my father.

“Hey, I wanted to remind you I can’t go to the dump with you today. I have to pick up our beef.” It is rare we disrupt our weekly ritual of bringing our trash to the dump together, but I needed to pick up a butchered steer to fill our freezer. We had never bought half of a cow before and I was excited.

“Oh, that’s right. Where is it?” He asked.

“The butcher? Over in Orwell.”

“Orwell?! Where the Hell is Orwell?!”

A good question.