The Cargo Goddess has done Dr. Omed great kindnesses on many occasions, but this is a notable occasion. I have an unreasonable fondness for postcards. I like to buy them, write odd messages on them, do collage on them, and occasionally even mail them to friends and e-quaintances. I certainly like receiving them as well. Yes, indeed I do. I've been thinking about postcards of late, and have mailed some, scribed with assorted barely legible obscurities, to various victims.
On the way home from work not too long ago, I stopped by a small thrift store run by some off-brand Fish People sect that I visit occasionally, looking for the old magazines that provide the materials of my scissor dances. I did not find any suitable magazines that day, but I did find a little packet of old postcards, wrapped in one of those flimsy plastic sandwich bags, sealed with scotch tape, price: 50 cents.
I bought it without really looking at it closely, and when I got back in my car and unwrapped it, I found I had acquired four French cartes postale that had stamps and post marks dating back almost a hundred years. Tres joli, tres, tres joli. The images above are of the front and back of one of these cards.
If one was so inclined, one could invent a novel length narrative as to how this packet of postcards arrived in a thrift store in Tulsa, Oklahoma from their points of origin in pre-WWI France. But Dr. Omed is not that one; I am not a novelist. So I Ieave it to you, dear pilgrims and seekers—how did those cards come to Tulsa?
