Pa was hard at work at his moonshine-still turning cotton into cotton gin. Grandpa was reading the paper. The paper was also Southern.
“But what on earth are you doing?” cried the vexed Rapunzel. “Why, developing and toning my bipeds and quadrilaterals, of course.”
In the office of your old English professor, the one who took arbitrary points off and wrote "doesn't work," with his lifeless body as a footstool.