Margaret– Ain’t No Alex Jones

Margaret, in another age, would have been a nun. Maybe a Mother Superior.

If so, that would have been in the Middle Ages.

Here she was HERE AND NOW, HIC + NUNC, in Nebraska, which is supposedly Mid. In the middle. That’s only because the USA goes coast to coast. You know the drill– Atlantic to Pacific. Nebraska is far, far from a coast. It doesn’t even have access to the Great Lakes.

As it was, her Nebraska “home” didn’t, at this moment in time, have a church. Not even a protestant one. Protest seemed in order– no church? Is this even a place?

Margaret became a fixture, an instituition, reliable, “old grey mare who ain’t what she used to be, many long years ago”. Okay, a Mother Superior can absorb some good-natured jiving, joving, roving…

Roving. So there Margaret is, working the counter of a Grey Hound Bus Station. The station is immaculate, if anyone would take the time to observe. The plains are ablister. Dust blowing off a sod should ne’er been busted.

Margaret looks over at Adair, there with her parents, citation-picketed, printemp, to Gotham. Her parents, known to have vast wealth, play out, from her father’s pocket, some crumpled bills. Cash. Paper. High quality paper, but paper, nevertheless.