Friday Everlark: Wyoming, 1870

Things are so wild and Godforsaken out there in the Wyoming Territory that Peeta has to resort to finding himself a mail-order bride.

The ad he puts in the local newspaper (For some reason, the author did not specify a city, maybe there were none in 1870? Self, you silly thing. Of course the ad was put in an Omaha, Nebraska paper! DUH!) says:

Mr. P. Mellark, age 26, Baker, Wants a Wife

Isn’t that just adorable? Peeta had self at . . .

Never mind.

Spinster Katniss (age 26) responds to the ad like so:

  • Several months ago I saw an advertisement in the local newspaper. Mr. P. Mellark, age 26, baker, wants a wife. She must be under 30, amiable, and a hard worker. The address was a town in Panem, Wyoming. No one has ever called me amiable but I am under 30 and a very hard worker.

Naturally, P. Mellark, baker, falls hard for the enticement buried in the letter (Subtext is all!) Katniss responds that she accepts his proposal and sets off for Wyoming.

But Peeta never gets that letter (LOL) so he doesn’t greet her at the train station and she has to ask for directions to the bakery from a drunken man who says he is Haymitch Abernethy and nearly has a cow when she introduces herself as “Peeta’s fiancée.”

“Does he know about it?” Haymitch asks Katniss.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.

Face: The Daily Post Photo Challenge, 13 May 2016

FACE is the theme of this week’s Daily Post Photo Challenge.

Gave self an excuse to go back over her thousands and thousands of archived photos and indulge in a nostalgia trip.

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Abigail !!! Oxford, England, July 2015

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Londis, Tyrconnell Road, Inchicore, Dublin, 2014, across the Street from the Church of the Oblates. When this woman learned self was a writer, she paid $2 on-line to read self’s novella, the one that became a finalist for the 2014 Saboteur Awards.

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Receptionist, L’Fisher Chalet, Bacolod City, Philippines: Self’s Dear Departed Dad was born and raised in Bacolod City. She hasn’t been back since 2013, and L’Fisher Chalet has been remodeled. Who knows when self can visit again.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.

 

Theroux: “I drove off the main road, Highway 71 . . . “

The day was dusk-dark but there was still no sign of a storm. I drove off the main road, Highway 71, and took a dirt road up a steep slope into the woods, past shacks and trailers. At the summit, where the road became a muddy track, I came to a ramshackle house — a spectacular ruin at the edge of a field littered with cast-off shoes, rags of clothes, old rubber tires, hubcaps embedded in the earth, children’s faded toys twisted apart, plastic bags tangled on bushes, areas strewn with bottles and jugs, and shards of broken glass — a hovel with junk heaped against it.

Deep South, by Paul Theroux

Two days in Cork, one afternoon on the train to Dublin, morning in the Irish National Portrait Gallery, and the end of Theroux’s Deep South is in sight.

In the intervening time, she’s learned about: Faulkner. Erskine Caldwell. Gun shows.  Clinton’s boyhood. Poverty. Segregation. Dying Towns. Activists. Meth labs. etc.

She read the reviews on Amazon. One woman says she wishes Theroux had focused on the “nicer” parts of the south. Instead, he stayed on back roads, and focused on talking to poor people.

That is who self wants to hear from! The poor people! The ones who make some parts of the South resemble a Third World country! Because — that is reality.

Keep going, Theroux.

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Reading DEEP SOUTH in the National Portrait Gallery, Dublin

Earlier, she was in Hodges Figgis and bought yet another book to weigh her down: My Brilliant Friend, by Elena Ferrante.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.

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