Ludie as in Ludlow, we think
In Which Your Humble Blogger gripes like a big gripey griper.
In Which Your Humble Blogger gripes like a big gripey griper.
In Which Your Humble Blogger shrugs his shoulders, throws up his hands, and shakes his shaky head.
In Which Your Humble Blogger is still here, only, well, I’m still here.
In Which Your Humble Blogger is weary, lord, I do get weary, wearing this same old shabby dress.
In Which Your Humble Blogger heard a story from someone who used to work at the library where it happened, although not until after the bloodstains had been washed out.
In Which Your Humble Blogger is not really soothed by the knowledge that the assholes wouldn’t put my Perfect Non-Reader on one of their fucking signs, because to them she doesn’t even exist.
In Which Your Humble Blogger, perhaps surprisingly, does not make the connection to the Jewish tradition of the Merit of Isaac (or sometimes Abraham), or even to the intercession of the saints.
In Which Your Humble Blogger notices that this report is kinda rambly and incoherent, but instead of saving it as a draft and then going back later and editing the bastard, just puts it out on the web like, well, like a blog post.
In Which Your Humble Blogger is probably the only one around here who has finished this one. Anyone? Come on, now, don’t be shy? Well, then. Points for me.
In Which Your Humble Blogger likes the book less and less as it went on, but that was because as the century progressed, I moved from anticipated unfamiliarity to unexpected ignorance.