For well over a month, I would pull my November edition of Flying from the pile on top of the porcelain tank in my library to skim, read and re-skim. Each time, I skipped the story "Oshkosh or Bust," saying to myself, "Not another Oshkosh story." Then I placed the magazine in a pile to go to my grandson. My wife, for some reason, returned it to the pile on top of the porcelain tank, and today I picked it up again and was about to flip past "Oshkosh or Bust".
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