A Pioneer Divorce

Back in my day, when a couple decided that marriage no longer fit, it wasn't always prudent to go before a judge and ask for a document stating that the two were no longer legally bound in matrimonial bliss.

Sometimes the judge was in the next county and the couple couldn't afford the trip. Sometimes the lady just ran off. Sometimes, war or the search for riches took the man to lands faraway.

In cases like these, a notice such as the one below would be posted in the local paper:

My wife, Nellie, has left my bed and board. I will not be responsible or will not pay any bills or accounts she may make. Alfred Pembroke.

Of course, notices such as these were rare and usually the subject of gossip for years to come. To this day, poor Alfred Pembroke cannot walk into the gospel mill without hushed whispers following him around. Then again, most people speak like that in church...

More'n just a gullywasher!

We had quite a storm yesterday at candle lighting. The wind howled like Pauline Medbery when she had the twins last summer. Glory be! I never heard a woman pitch a conniption fit like that and with good reason. Those boys were as big as bear cubs.

The rain poured down on our little clapboard house so fierce, I swore we'd be washed away come morning. Pa went out to inspect the damage and came across Postmaster Reeves walking down the lane to town. His barn was stuck by a bolt of lightning and lost 11 head of horses. I reckon the Lord was none to pleased with his recent dealings. The scuttlebutt is that he's been sending letters to a certain lady whose husband lately went back East to find work. I've heard tell those missives are hot as a whorehouse on nickel night.

Pa being Simon pure, plans to help the Postmaster get his barn in apple pie order. More than he deserves, I reckon, but it might get our mail to the right places.

Who is Aunt Mabel?

Someone recently asked that I fill in a questionnaire regarding myself. Below are a few of the answers which should enlighten the few of you who read my random ramblings.

Job: Works in a shirtwaist factory. Used to be a librarian, but was laid off when the place caught fire back in ought-five and was suspected of being the cause when Harry Griffith told his wife while closing up the butcher shop, he saw me in my skivvies running from the back of the building going east on Main and Clifford Dreblow in a similar condition, but heading west.

Birthday: January 1, 1876 Fort Dodge Iowa - at least that's what I've been told all my life.

Life Motto: Love and be loved.

Likes: The wind through the prairie grasses, that cozy holiday feeling you get in mid-fall (a mixture of anticipation and memories), the scent of Aunt Tomasa's freshly baked peach pie, the shade of an oak tree on a hot summer day in the baking golden hills of California