gloriousclio
99 bottles of beer on the wall, 99 bottles of beer...
Well, they probably weren't all beer, Robin thought, picking up a hammer. Still, they all violated Prohibition.
"Ready?" Robin asked his partner.
"Mind the glass," John said, before laying waste to an entire row.
Robin grinned and joined him.
Guy had grown up loving America- how could he not love it, when grandfather had come over as a 48er (in a pickle barrel, no less). Guy had been born and raised in Minnesota, on a farm outside of New Ulm, and it had all been well and good...
Until war had broken out in a country he had never been. The only things Guy had known of Germany was the food, the Catholic faith, and a little bit of the language that was only spoken in the kitchen.
But his loyalty to the American government was put to the test, and instead of making him more loyal, he became less so, pushed away and distrusted by a country he had loved so much.
After the war, the crop prices dropped, and the only he could make any money was from moonshine,
and then they, the Federal Government in their all knowing goodness,
made that illegal, too.
Robin was growing to hate this country. His resolve against alcohol melted as he instead fought against the corruption it left in it's wake. He'd been shunted from coast to coast, trying to prevent the sale of alcohol...
Trying to prevent the further decay of this once great nation.
He'd rather be a gin drinker than a prohibition agent, now.
Coast to coast, Marion had wanted to see it all. She wanted to put her feet in the Atlantic, the Pacific. She wanted to eat lobster in Maine, try Chinese food in San Francisco.
Someday,
she thought
looking at a brochure for the Great Northern Railways.
She put it away and went down to help her mother with the laundry.
With a growing sense of dread, I'm getting ready to leave work for class tonight, I completely forgot my snack (Junior Mints). At least I remembered dinner, I guess.
I'm just so burned out after this very stressful week that five hours of class are not going to be very easy for me.
Still, sleep tomorrow.
Salesman? That's the word of the day? I can maybe talk about Alfredo from Pushing Daisies? They're not very relevant anymore. In my opinion.
Claims to this job. I have one. I hope I get this job, so so badly. My current job is fine, but I really want the step up. And I can't stand working with the woman upstairs any more. She's terrible. I can't pretend I don't hate her for very much longer....
I think too much. And it makes me worry. I try and stop and then I'll start thinking of other things. And I circle back. It's not very good if I'm panicking about something.
Which I do. Often.
Sometimes I can logic myself out of a panic, but not often.
What a boring concept, when writing. I'm not interested in reading about people who are married, generally speaking. I just.... don't really care. Unless it's the final Betsy Tacy book.
I suppose tomorrow's word will be wife. What a disappointment.
I hit a wall with St Paul Sinners, writing wise. And yet, I still think of it. A lot. I see an exit sign for Hastings and think how I can work it into the story. I see Landmark Center and think what a great setting it is.
Maybe if this keeps up, I'll go back to it.
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