Historic postcards of Hannibal, MO -- that's Mark Twain's hometown, y'know! -- discovered in the bottom drawer of a chipped n' rotting wardrobe at a junk store in Baldwin Park, CA. I paid $8 for the lot, which is entirely too much -- I try not to pay more than $.50 for my postcards, especially in little places like this. But the lady wouldn't budge, and I kind of had to have these.

Wonder if Huck knew when he lit out for the territories, this is where he'd end up:
 

Honestly, I often wonder the same thing.

Of course, it's entirely a nostalgia-act for me to invest a silly, mass-produced postcard with such meaning. However, I'd be lying if I didn't admit that, to me at least, there's something disquieting about finding vestiges of the "old America" tucked away like this. Punctures my notions of sanctity, I guess; the things I've held holy and that have shaped my life, relegated to a dustbin like this.

More on this later tonight, I think.