Sunklands

It was a beautiful house, but quite prim heavy at 195li. And that’s unfurnished. Impractical, most likely, to set up in present day Collagesity except on a temporary basis. And Mabel wasn’t going to go *back* without it, I don’t think. So it looks like they’re stuck in Heartsdale for a while longer.

Although well beyond its glory days, the town still retained some interesting landmarks. There was the coffee and sweets shop on the corner of Blown Apart and West Anglia. This is Mabel and Buurb’s favorite table within they’re sitting at here, with the great view toward their house (their house??). Mabel usually only drinks coffee. Buurb sometimes gets a whole wheat danish roll, like today. Mabel knew there wasn’t any use in trying to change Buurb’s mind over leaving, so she instead talked about New Island and how they got here. She sometimes read her associated diaries to Buurb late at night while they, let’s say, sipped cognac and munched on taffy popcorn.

It all revolved around the vinyl version of “Sometime in New York City” and the void in the center of Lennon’s solo career it represented. Slavery? That’s what they often discussed, and, yes, occasionally argued about. Very occasionally. For Mabel was against slavery of any kind in any fashion. Buurb made some qualified exceptions.

“Take the South after the Civil War,” he said today after taking the first bite of his roll and then setting it back on the small plate.

“No, don’t go there,” his wife demanded, also wishing her husband wouldn’t speak with his mouth full.

He chewed and swallowed; lightly smacked his lips. “Given 5, 7, 8 years, don’t you think President Lee would have freed the slaves himself? And the South might have been better going that route. Take carpetbaggers…”

“I *said*, I don’t want to hear it.” She ‘d have nothing negative spoken about Stove Top Lincoln. Andrew The Tailor Johnson, however, was often open for potshots. But she wasn’t in the mood this morning. She kept thinking about the house across the street. It was and wasn’t their house; another quandary. They were married there, true. But they also still lived in the trashy alley that followed from Old Church Street beside it across St. George Street at its front. The sale hadn’t been finalized. And the yearly mortgage would be 2 full months’ wages between them (!). Could they really afford it? Were they digging a financial grave they would never emerge from? But the house! So perfect. If I could just get it to Collagesity, Mabel thought, we’d have a piece of property with no attached tax, no attached anything; that’s how things work there.

“Look at Pitch Darkly,” she said to Buurb another time on this subject. “Look at Woody (Woodmanson). Refuges… like us. The Bakers take them in, make sure they’re wanted and provided for. You’d like The Bakers, Buurb.”

“I knew Baker Blinker,” he corrected. “Or I at least knew someone who claimed to be her.”

“Oh yes,” Mable said, a pang of jealousy crossing her heart. Her Heartsdale heart. “Precious Snowflake.”

Because she was still around. We’ll revisit her soon and find out more of her story.