Member-only story
Weaverville
Where small down America lives and thrives
This essay brings a change in format from my previous work. If you like it, please let me know. Self-help topics have their usefulness, but I find I need a break.
Chugging into Weaverville, Ca, the scoper and his wife headed for the oldest and biggest hostel this little corner mountain town could muster, not the grand hotel, but something close to it. Reservations were in hand though not needed, as the place was empty, surprising for a summer month. A junk jewelry shop was on the first floor; more schlock than could be imagined in a bad dream, more tastelessness than could ever be found in an abandoned time machine. The objects seemed an embodiment of the material world at their lowest level. No depressive sight could be worse than the displayed goods’ confusion, mundanity, and sheer silliness.
The husband-and-wife hosts had spent a fortune fixing the place up, but it was for sale already as they were ready for retirement. For a remote enclave, the traffic was scant, and the cheapo motels on the edge of town captured what little there was of the overnight kind. The prospect of a quick sale was not bright. To find a buyer in a city with so few amenities was difficult to conceive.
Our charming hosts led us to our grand suite, a double room with a sitting area; this allowed for an imposing, airy look…