Thursday, December 31, 2015

This River's A-Raisin It's Dead

The Clare Sentinel, December 3, 1903
Love knows no bounds and neither does cruel fate. Allow Boreas the reigns of your heart and he'll drop you into a ditch to die. Or a river as it were. The River Raisin in this instance. The grand La Rivière aux Raisins. So the French called it for the wild grapes which lined its banks.

Perhaps Henry Hazlet (no, not that Henry Hazlitt) was of the brotherhood of the grape and imbibed too much of the dark drink. After all, the Raisin is no middling stream, and falling into it isn't exactly easy without the aid of age, infirmity and poor judgement. We know that Mr. Henry had several of those traits to his detriment so perhaps it was a migratory blunder.

In any case, he never finished his 30 mile trek from Monroe to Eloise to see his beloved wife, whose name I have not been able to establish as of this writing.

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