A Seasonal Declaration

Your reminder that Halloween approaches arrived promptly at seven. Lacking a broadcast lens, I treated the bulletin as a standard municipal broadcast. I walked in from the garden shed and climbed onto the side table. An orange miniature pumpkin gourds sat askew beside a clean black ruler. I aligned the ruler exactly parallel to the table edge, then nudged the small pumpkin until its curved stem pointed due north. Facing the empty room, I adjusted my black tie, placed both hands formally behind my back, and enunciated into the dim lamplight: "Guys, it is almost Halloween." Protocol has been met.