in the interval since I last worked on an unfinished, research-heavy newsletter about the Blockley Almshouse, UPenn, and the long history of grave robbing in West Philadelphia, it seems that the Buttondown newsletter platform has deleted all my drafts. Punishment for my sloth! Just as the burn on my upper lip is punishment for succumbing to the temptations of the drive-thru menu (hot grease splatter from a very fresh McChicken sandwich). Minor sins, minor hells.
Starting Monday, I will be at the Weymouth Center in Southern Pines, NC for two weeks of focused writing, so perhaps I'll have the time to recreate my lost draft while you hang out with Granny and Grandpa at their new home in Greensboro. Maybe I should even try to write as a real essay. Part of the piece involves the People's Townhomes, and one reason I've had trouble finishing is that the story keeps changing every day. Yesterday we thought the encampment was going to be broken up this morning, but the cops never came. Likely I'll be at the writing residency when the tents finally come down.
In the meantime, I have reproduced here a short historical treatise I snagged on my daily library catalog fishing expedition, keyword surfing on the history of British wool production. Just like the lost newsletter, it involves burial rites, plus Jesuitical Tricks, drunken good-wives, and Bowels that yern [sic] like a red-hot oven. Line breaks added at my discretion, as I'm sure the printer would have done in his day if he were laying out the page with an email inbox in mind.