That, my friends, is the kind of heart throb we are gradually learning to ignore in these days of financial struggles. There are those among you, who by denying yourselves, have given your wives, sons and daughters saddle horses, pianos, automobiles and even farms—and at great sacrifice—and there are also those among you who have given your families their first iron stove, a candle mold, calico dresses, and perhaps a little straightback wooden chair.
Therefore, today let us go back. Let us forget the things to which we have applied ourselves too assiduously, the things that modern conditions have forced us to adopt and strive for. For the day, at least, let us turn back to the days when you were young and this community was young: To the days when you courted and were courted in the chinked log house before the stone fireplace; back to the time when catnip, tansy and peppers hung from the rafters; back to the days of the smoke-house with its pungent tang of hickory bark and corn cobs; when tomatoes were grown for ornament and thought to be poisonous. Let us again go down to the spring house and get a bucket of water to set under the gourd on the kitchen table. Let's stir up the fire in the fireplace, hang the pot on the crane or test the heat in the Dutch oven; carry the ashes out and put them in the hopper. Let's you and I and all of us go up and see how the dried apples are holding out, and then look the hams over to see if they have any worms in them. Let us hie back to the days when all debts fell due at Christmas time; when mortgages were useless and practically unknown, and when every man's word was his bond. Let's eat a dinner of bacon, corn bread, milk and honey, and other wholesome things of those days, on the back porch or in the summer kitchen, while the younger girls shoo the flies off the table and the chickens off the porch. And then tonight, after supper, let's gather around the candle on the table, with Mother in the little chair knitting and mending with her hands, and rocking the cradle with her foot, while Father takes down the family Bible and piously reads a verse. Then, on our knees, and with heads bowed, let us hear that hallowed voice of Father, from whose nerveless grasp have long since dropped the working tools of life, rise in fervent prayer to Almighty God to protect us and keep us all safe from harm.
GRANDPAP'S BOURBON COUNTY BILL
By Everett A. Mahrug
Pap took a pen name—his own rearranged in a "sort-of backwards" fashion—to tell a story based on an ill-fated attempt by his grandfather, Jacob Durham, to form a new county, with Russellville as the county seat. According to family lore, Jacob intended to place the court house on a parcel of land he owned in the center of town, surrounded by other property he owned, including a store. Years later, Frank Durham gained sole title to the "courthouse" property and deeded it to the town.
Grandpap, Jacob Mahrug, had come from Kentucky in an "early day", and located his new domicile equidistant from four surrounding county-seat towns. He laid out a new town and named it "Mahrug."
In the center of his town plat he carelessly left a large
"Square."
As a boy back in Kentucky, Grandpap learned the blacksmith's trade, and followed that vocation for a while. . . At his new place of residence he started a general store, the first store in Mahrug. Both he and it prospered. He sold lots in this coming town. The town grew. He bought and cleared, and sold and rebought farm lands roundabout. He became a "Squire," and administered justice without fear, but probably with some favor. He journeyed on horseback to Cincinnati and Philadelphia to buy goods, transporting them overland by wagon from the closest navigable point in the chain of rivers. His store came to be the trading point and social center for miles around. He extended "store credit" anywhere and everywhere, and it was universally understood that Christmas Day was pay day. . .
In this environment, Grandpap started his family of four boys and one girl. . . He had the first carriage and the first piano in the county, even though Darter was the county seat and center of culture and population.
His mother back in Kentucky signifying her desire to visit him in his new home, he sent the carriage, the two older boys and three "hands" back to bring her to Mahrug in State. The trip took over two months, and she had to wait until the next summer to find weather and roads suitable to make the return home. Back in Kentucky, she advertised him and the new country so extensively that two of her neighbors bought enough land of Grandpap that Fall to make back to him all the expenses of her pilgrimage, and then some.
In somewhat less than due time, considering his status as an immigrant from another State, Grandpap got elected as a Democratic member of the House, in the State Legislature. Early in the first Session, he introduced a bill to substantially increase the Governor's salary. . . By a mere coincidence, it was referred to the Fees and Salary Committee, of which Grandpap was a member. It was unanimously reported favorably to the House by the Committee at its first meeting after introduction. Passing the House and Senate intact, it was reluctantly signed by the Governor, and became law.
At the next roll call, Grandpap introduced another bill which came to be known as the "Bourbon County Bill." Its purpose was aimed to accommodate the people around Mahrug with a nearer court house and closer county seat. Without trace of partiality, it would simply carve a new county out of the four existing contiguous counties to Mahrug, make Mahrug the county seat thereof, and give the new county the name of "Bourbon", (a name most likely suggested by scenes from Grandpap's nativity). True, it did provide for the bonding of the territory comprising the new county to procure funds to acquire land for and construct the court house, jail and other county buildings, and "other necessary expenses," but these things were naturally incident to the formation of any new county.
Through another coincidence, the Bourbon County Bill was referred to the County and Township Business Committee, of which Grandpap was Chairman. It was promptly reported favorably to the House by the Committee. After some delay and a little explaining, it passed the House by a very substantial majority and went to the Senate for its action thereon. . . The Senate's County and Township Business Committee in turn named a subcommittee to "examine thoroughly into its merits" The subcommittee was composed of two experienced and dependable members of the Majority party and a Whig member who had a bill pending for a separate judicial court for one of his counties. . .
Within the next two or three days, Grandpap's Bourbon County Bill, in some mysterious way began to take on the ear marks of an "Administration measure." Therefore, it was not lightly to be cast aside. The subcommittee, in their earnest desire that justice and fairness be done, sought first hand and unbiased information and facts, wherever they could be found. . . and was soon ready to report. However to make assurance doubly sure, it was deemed advisable to finish its labors by interviewing the Governor. . .
The Executive Chamber's heavily-upholstered, plush furniture and cushions were done in deep red. The windows were heavily curtained in the same color. Prismatic glass pendants featured the oilburning lamp chandelier, with three circles of 8, 16 and 24-lamp capacity, the whole suspended from a liberally-adorned ceiling ornament by a gilt rod of considerable tensile strength. The walls were patriotically hung with pictures of former Chief Executives in immense velvet-lined gilt frames of a uniform character, arranged chronologically. The majority portrayed a pioneer soul of stern and earnest demeanor. Some had struck a Daniel Webster pose, thus straining and disguising themselves. Others had cherubic countenances, and were men such as slept o'nights. All wore magnificent whiskers. . .
The Governor's Secretary announced the Senate County and Township
Business Subcommittee, and discreetly retired from the Chamber.
His Excellency, that stalwart adherent to Jeffersonian principles, slowly arose from his desk and greeted the subcommittee with outstretched hands. Following the usual formalities, they got down to business, and the subcommittee chairman asked the Governor his opinion on the Bourbon County Bill.
"Uh—m! Well, first let us see what your investigation disclosed.
What have you found out?"
"We find they're pretty much for it. I've talked to a good many, and so have these other gentlemen here, and about all we talk to, or see, want it. . ."
"Yes, I know! But is it geographically sound?" the Governor queried.
"Why-y, yes! They've never had an earthquake anywhere's around there that I . . . ."
"No. No!", interrupted His Excellency. "I mean do you find the country around there needing a court house at that particular place? Geographically speaking?"
"Oh—h, that way! Yes, I think it does. Mahrug is over 20 miles from the nearest court house. And as luck would have it, there's a 'Square' already laid out there in town, ready and waiting . . ."
"And what do you learn, Senator?" The Governor turned to the other Majority member of the subcommittee.
"I find they're all for it down there. Mahrug is over 20 miles from Darter, the county seat. Three big creeks separate them from it. You can't ford them in high water. And one or the other of them is nearly always high. They're all mud roads and hard enough to get over in dry weather, and when it's wet or raining you have to take to the sides. Nine months in the year you can't get over them, only on a horse."
He paused. The Governor was leaning forward in his chair, beaming at him.
"Go on, Senator!" the Governor urged. "You are stating some very salient and important facts. Those are what I want to hear if I am to be of any assistance. Facts that go to the very heart of the question! Go right ahead!"
The Senator was both pleased and encouraged. He wanted the Governor's good opinion. He desired to "stand in" with him. He had a little bill up himself that his County Chairman was interested in getting passed. And if it got past the Senate and House he wanted the Governor's signature without any quibbling. Governors sometimes vetoed bills. He had heard it said if you knew a Governor rather intimately, there wasn't so much danger of a veto. Governors were that way.
He cleared his throat and proceeded. "There is considerable litigation over around Mahrug, from what they say, from horse stealing on down. An apple jack still house down on Muskrat Creek causes considerable trouble. Most of it is only hand and club fighting amongst the boys and men there in the neighborhood, but there's coming to be more cutting and shooting lately. The authorities down at Darter are so far away they don't pay much attention to it, or just don't care."
"They are coming in from Kentucky and other places, and land trading is pretty brisk and on the boom, and every time they make a trade they've got to go to the county seat to get the deeds made. . . My investigation shows me the people down there want a court house, they need it, they ought to have it, and I say give it to them."
"That was a . . . most enlightening and instructive dissertation on the very meat of the question," said the Governor. "And you Senator?" He swung around a trifle to face the Minority member. "Well," he began in a hesitating way, "Some say they need it and some say they don't. . . Some of the boys on our side say there's politics . . . ."
"We can't help what some of them say," interrupted the Governor with a slight frown of annoyance. "What do you say."
". . .As I started to say, our Floor Leader is dead set against it. The counties they're cutting this new county out of are kicking like bay steers," (He noticed the Governor learning forward) "but the people in the new county want it, no doubt about that a-tall . . . ."
"There you are!" triumphantly exclaimed the Governor. "That's it exactly! The people in the new county want it just like the people in one of your counties want a separate court. And the people in the counties it is being taken away from don't want it, just like the people of your other counties, from which this new court district would be carved, don't want your one county to have it. Don't you see these two bills are alike? One is about one thing and the other is about another, but the principle is the same in both?"
A dawning sense of the similarity of the two bills swept the otherwise expressionless face of the Minority member. The whole thing unrolled like a scroll. He resumed, "As I was saying, the people, down there want it. The community needs to be developed, and those people want a court house of their own. They need it. That's why I made up my mind so strong when we first started out to help them get it. We're not up here for politics. The people don't send us here for that. They sent us here to do the right thing by them. I'm for the bill! Don't forget that! I'm strong for the bill. I've done a lot of talking over on our side. They can't bring politics in this thing while I'm around . . . ."
His Excellency arose majestically. He fondled his beard, adjusted his waistcoat, cleared his throat and began, . . . "This conference has been a mental stimulus for me. Your unerring logic has been a revelation. Your arguments have convinced me beyond the shadow of a doubt of the absolute merits of the bill. . . I glory in your decision to push, er, I mean pass, this bill. It must pass. You and I shall see to it. . . I am particularly pleased with the fearless and unwavering stand on the bill your Minority member has taken. As he has so well said, we are here not as partisans, but solely as the representatives of the people. God forbid that politics should ever enter Legislative Halls, or the Executive Chambers during my Administration! . . ."
His Excellency excused himself momentarily, and returned with a decanter and four ample glasses. Filling them generously, he handed one to each of the conferees, raised his own and said, "Let us drink in the old bourbon to the success of the new Bourbon."
The toast was enthusiastically drunk without the aid of water or other pollutive non-essential. . .
Following the findings and advice of the subcommittee, a general Committee Report recommending passage soon followed, and was adopted by the full Senate, over a very scattered chorus of "No" votes from the Whigs.
The bill had successfully hurdled its first major Senate hazard. There still remained plenty of time for trouble. Second reading was in the offing. It was then that bills were open for amendments, which could, in one minute, absolutely undo almost a whole Session's hard thought and planning. Just such an amendment as the dour Minority Floor Leader had prepared. . .
The Bourbon County Bill was put in the direct and personal charge of Senator Winker. . . He was a "steering committee" of one. . . He thought and planned. He cogitated and mused. The Majority Whip was a promising young fellow, a good mixer, and the Minority Floor Leader had taken a liking to him for some reason. The two had a habit of disappearing somewhere about the Spencer Tavern at night.
Senator Winker was cognizant of his Whip's ability, and somewhat familiar with his habits and associates. He sought him out and had words with him. . . The Senator, having laid his plans and fortified himself accordingly, determined to hazard the Bourbon County Bill for second reading the next time that order of business came around.
According to rules, the members called various House Bills assigned to them during an alphabetical roll call of the membership. . .
With his ear to the roll call, then approaching the S's, the Majority Whip strolled casually past the Minority Floor Leader's desk, and with a knowing wink, whispered to him, "Come out in the corridor a minute. Four of your friends from over in the House want to see you."
The Minority Floor Leader knew instinctively who they were and what they wanted. He followed his young Judas into the long corridor to face the four gentlemen he had expected to see. The conference was merely to pledge a mutual presence at, and arrange the minor details incident to, a friendly poker game in Room 232 of the Spencer Tavern at 8 o'clock that evening.
The whole thing took less than ten minutes, but the timing, with reference to the specific thing to be accomplished, was perfect. When the two gamesters returned to the Senate Chamber, the Bourbon County Bill had passed second reading without amendment, or offer of amendment, and the Senate was on another order of business.
Thus, was the second major leg of the Bourbon County Bill's flight negotiated safely. . .
The bill had been posted for third reading for more than two weeks. The Session was nearing its close. Senator Winker had purposely passed several calls wherein he could have had the bill handed down for passage. The times had appeared inopportune. He wanted to give the Governor and Administration authorities ample time to work on the recalcitrants. The bill was known to have stubborn opposition, and the Democrats a bare working majority. Speaking generally, the Senate had shown itself in a surly mood lately. Several sharp clashes among the Majority members had accentuated that mood. They were not functioning smoothly. A wild idea to license the sale of intoxicants had just been fought out —and strange to relate, passed—leaving some serious political scars in its wake. There was no personal liberty left any more. The mere thought of a fool legislature trying to legislate what a Sovereign People could eat and drink was showing what the State was coming to. Many spoke of the "Oregon Country," where they still had a little liberty left. And as always happens under such circumstances, the Minority were all the closer knit and serene.
It was not their fight. They were not in the saddle. As a result of all this, several near-Administration measures had been killed summarily, and apparently for no particularly good reason. Just another quirk the legislature had about it.
Eventually there were signs of a change. The Legislative atmosphere cleared. The Solons became more tractable. . . The time was ripe.
The bill was called. The roll began. Something was wrong! Senators here and there, who had been counted on to vote affirmatively were voting "no." The Minority member with the separate court bill voted, "Aye." The rest of the Minority seemed to be voting "no" solidly. Senator Winker glanced at the Minority Floor Leader. He wore an inscrutable look. No, on second glance, it was—sinister. Why? The Senator looked roundabout for the answer. It slowly dawned there were several Democratic seats vacant.
He rushed the Whip out to find and bring in the absentee brethren. Some came. Others could not be found. They might be in hiding. A tally was showing a considerably greater number of "no" votes than "ayes". . .
A motion to "excuse the absentees" prevailed. . .
Grandpap's Bourbon County Bill was killed, by one vote. . . Senator Winker plumbed the depths. Back of it all, he could not forget the fact, he had nine good Majority votes unaccounted-for in the tabulation—somewhere in the Legislative wilderness. . .
Next day the separate court bill met a similar fate—only more directly. The Minority helped do that.
The death of the Bourbon County Bill was a crushing blow to Mahrug's future and Grandpap's dream. But it did one thing. It fixed, once and for all, his and our family politics, if by any chance our politics needed any stabilization. It is true that Uncle Ben turned to be a Republican during the Civil War. But that was to preserve the Union, and incidentally a considerable amount of U.S. Bonds he had acquired at most attractive discounts. Thereafter Pap and Uncle Ben studiously avoided all mention of politics until the first Cleveland campaign. By that time all of Uncle Ben's evidences of Federal indebtedness had been retired at par and accrued interest, and he was free to return to his first political love. . .
STICK WITH THE ARTICLES
September 8, 1936
Curtis Publishing Company
Independence Square
Philadelphia, Penna.
Gentlemen: Please let me congratulate you on this week's Post—what reading the Sharkey, the Harding and the Dizzy Dean stories made!
I realize love stories must always have the big pull, but speaking for one who has reasonably recovered from that phase of life, surely there must be hundreds of thousands of your other readers who sort of skip love stories for the ARTICLES.
As a staid country lawyer, I actually stayed at home Tuesday, September 1st, until after the Post had come to the house in order to finish the "The Way I Beat Joe Louis" story—and I've never seen, or expect to see, a prize fight either. I liked the unusual subject and the style of the telling of the tale.
Therefore: as a member of the probable great and unwashed minority, I trust you will increase the ARTICLES, although I'll be glad when the Election is over, and Mrs. Republican and Mrs. Democrat can stop, and political stuff generally, although the recent Allen (or White) story on Landon was a masterpiece of shrewd political propaganda—and I'm no Republican, or Progressive, or Coughlinite, or Landonite, or much of a New Deal Democrat, by a hell of a sight. Very Respectfully,
IN THE WILD WEST
May 1, 1937
Mr. Henry H. Miller, Atty.
Title & Trust Building
Phoenix, Arizona
My dear Mr. and Mrs. Miller: Back home again in Indiana, after a considerable of a sojourn for a Hoosier. The unsuspecting Public, viewing me as I flow up and down the main thoroughfare of Greencastle, little suspects that only lately have I reveled in orange blossoms, irrigated yards, camel-back mountains, Pima Indians, featherweight grapefruit, rattlesnake Pioneers and OVER-STUFFED lemonades. Said Public is not cognizant I have dined (and wined) at the Arizona Club with the flower of Phoenix Society, made a complete and minute survey of the entire northeast section of Phoenix and contended with a western sirloin at the Sip and Bite grand piano table, semisurrounded with nasal singers and aesthetic dancers who would find their acts uncomfortably chilly on an open air platform in the environs of, say, Duluth. And further, it does not know I have met the Great and Only S—, and been permitted in his office, from whence emanates 80% of the Arizona corporations, about all of which have probably lost money for the gullible investors.
After leaving Phoenix, my first stop was Los Angeles. Thence to San Francisco via "The Daylight," a beautifully-appointed train but woefully short in the extreme speed. Thence to Grant's Pass, Oregon, and two days with my erstwhile Putnam County political advisor, Dr. W A. Moser—his son, Dr. C. J. Moser and wife and three boys, about 7, 9 and 11, go to Tahiti for deep sea fishing in June; the young Doc showed me his fishing outfit, with reels about the size of the reel on my John Deere corn planter—Thence to Portland. Then Seattle, where my old "frater" at Indiana 32 years ago, Adam Beeler, has just gone off the Supreme bench of Washington (thanks to the Democratic uprising)—Adam drives a '37 Packard (which petered out on us about 30 miles from town), his wife sings all over the Northwest (exclusive of Democratic Conventions), his daughter is divorced, and none of them seems to be on relief—Thence to Spokane, to Wallace, Idaho, etcs., etcs, home. . . Very Respectfully,
AND SHE'S GOOD LOOKING TOO
June 5, 1937
To Tri Kappa State Scholarship Committee
Subject: Betty Broadstreet
Members of the Committee: Careless politicians and businessmen of easy integrity have tended to bring the present-day letter of recommendation into the class of questionable literature, but at rare intervals each of us has an opportunity to make a recommendation whole-heartedly, and without the slightest mental reservation. Such is the subject of this letter, and I am happy to recommend Betty Broadstreet of Greencastle, Indiana, for the Tri Kappa State Scholarship. I do this freely and with the knowledge that I can forever remain at peace with my own conscience.
Your Committee wants facts. Upon investigation, I find from authoritative sources that Betty led her Class all the time she was in High School. This school year she had sufficient credits for graduation at, or about, Christmas. Much to her credit she dropped out and got a job, to help continue her education in College. Last Friday night she graduated here.
I have known this splendid young woman since early childhood. She has about all the qualifications any young American girl can have —honesty, health, ambition, modesty, neatness, gentility, industry and a mind that absolutely qualifies her to take a College education. All these are pretty hard to find combined in one person, but Betty, in addition, is positively a stunningly beautiful girl.
And so, in my opinion, she is exactly the type and character any father would be proud to say of her, "She is my daughter, that red-headed one over there with the blue eyes."
I therefore recommend her most earnestly for your serious
consideration.
Respectfully,
MISTAKEN FOR DILLINGER
Greencastle, Indiana
August 27, 1937
Mr. George E. Pitts
United Paperboard Company
171 Madison Avenue
New York, NY
My dear Judge:
The writer is the fellow who was in your office about three weeks ago consulting you concerning the transfer of some Paperboard stock, and for whom you so kindly and generously prepared an affidavit for the surviving widow to execute.
I thought you might be interested in the trials and tribulations of a hill-billy clean out of his environment, trying to make his way about town with a minimum of errors.
After inquiring of about every policeman in New York where 171 Madison Avenue was, my trusty grip and I eventually came to your door. . . And say! You folks aren't wasting the stockholders' money on any elaborate waiting-room. There she was, 6 by 12, three chairs, one settee, one high-up electric fan doing a noble job stirring up that hot 7th floor atmosphere, three Sawmill journals and a 2 x 2 peep-hole, like the ticket window of the B&O R.R. here at Russellville, my old home town. The grip and I both got in, but every place I tried to set it down it looked like it would take up the space for a second customer if he happened to come in just then.
A girl looked through the ticket window at us—especially the grip—and I realized my mistake. I had the knowledge that John Dillinger was raised about 30 miles southeast of here, and that he had sometimes carried grips, and that maybe she had gotten us confused. She asked what I wanted. I told her I wanted to transfer some stock and wanted to see the head of the Legal Department. She told me she could take care of the stock transfer. I started to explain, and she started to explain, so we both explained. Finally, either due to the altitude or the heat, or something, I was supplementing the fan with the new $7.50 panama I had just bought at Macy's in order to get a New York label to show my admiring friends when I got home, and I begged her to just let me see some official of the Company. She relented, and a first class fellow came forth, not to the peep- hole, but right to where the grip and I were. I started to explain, and he started to explain, so we both explained. By that time I had the hat synchronized with the fan. Eventually, he got my idea—but the President was out, the Vice-Presidents were on vacation, and the attorney might get in around 3:30 p.m. or he might not, and would I wait or go out and come back later. If so, he would do his best to get a conference for me. I told him if I got out, I'd never find my way back, and that I would wait.
By that time my curiosity was at a maximum and I was wild to get on the other side of that ticket window, because I knew the place had to be lousy with red leather chairs, air-conditioning, ice water bottles, Chinese rugs and baled-up currency.
All things must come to an end. In due course I passed the forbidding door and was ushered into your office—after first having my grip taken away from me and deposited at the peep-hole girl's desk. And that grip is an inoffensive grip. In fact, it was given me by the members of the Legislature one time when I was the alleged Floor-Leader of what was then God's Chosen Minority—the Senate Democrats. Since I left, they—the Democrats—have perked-up and now have a big majority themselves.
But, to be serious, I want to thank you for the way you handled my case. You certainly know how to size up a situation quickly. I realize big Corporations must use all reasonable precautions when it comes to transferring stock, etcs., but there's reason in all things. You have been almost more than fair in your demands. You are not our conception of what a New Yorker is, and especially a New York attorney. Why, my-God, man! We've always been taught to first come to a full stop before going up the ramp at Grand Central Station, and sew our modest currency rolls on the inside of our underwear.
I hereby extend you an invitation to come out and rabbit hunt with me this Fall, with the reservation that you furnish your own blister medicine and liniment. I'll furnish all board, bed, guns, dogs and ammunition. Again, I thank you. Very Respectfully
THE HOSPITAL NEEDS A CHECK-UP.
The following two letters relate to Pap's experience at losing more money than he had counted on during a visit to the hospital.
August 10, 1939
My dear Mr. & Mrs. Cunningham: You are probably slightly interested in knowing how I came out in my run-in with the Methodist Hospital over my hospital bill and some money I lost. I am therefore enclosing Benson's letter to me and a copy of one I just mailed him.
George, I want to thank you for being willing to say just what you knew and saw about my having any money on me at the time of the accident, because by reason of what you saw and knew, I just had to have two $1 bills and some other money in a bill or bills. Those facts helped write the enclosed letter to Benson. Then too, you know how a jury goes in a hotel run-in with somebody who isn't worth much, or anything. You don't have a chance. Same way with a hospital or a railroad. It's too bad it is that way, but it is.
And now Mrs. Cunningham.. . . I don't know what was the matter with my mental processes last Tuesday noon when I was in the hotel and called you. I knew I was going straight in to eat with Ike—I'd much rather have eaten with you—but I never thought of asking you to come along and break bread with me. And now listen how I thereby missed an opportunity to advance my social standing. When I got in, there was our Labor-loving Democratic State Chairman feeding his brother and some other "loyal Democratic worker" off of our famous 2% Club money, over on one side, and John Frenzel over in the corner feeding himself off of usurious interest money he had wrangled out of some unfortunate borrower. We'll cut out the Organized Labor-loving State Chairman and get to Frenzel, who is somebody—as a man and every other way including a whale of a good Banker with a whale of a good Bank. Now just suppose I had been escorting you into the dining room—you and your stately and dignified walk and manner, and Frenzel had looked up through a cigarette smoke fog. He wouldn't have believed his eyes. He'd have said to himself: "My G—, that can't be her with Andy Durham from that little jerk water bank down in Russellville. Yes it is, sure as I'm of German extraction! W-e-l-l, next time he comes in my place I'll not have the police lead him out like I wanted to do last time he was in. I'll bring him right back behind the rail to my desk and get better acquainted with him. He just has to be somebody—although he sure doesn't look it, and I'd never have guessed it."
See what an opportunity I missed if I could have had you along
I'll never do it again, even if I have to pay for a rum sour or
whatever it is you get to go with your meals.
As ever,
August 10, 1939
John C. Benson, Superintendent
Methodist Episcopal Hospital
Indianapolis, Indiana
My dear John: . . . Your adjustment offer on my hospital bill, under the circumstances, would seem fair to any disinterested person. You offered to reduce the bill by $24.35, and I insisted my loss was either $27 or $32, not knowing which myself—which looks rather bad on its face, for me.
But John, as sure as Meharry Hall is in the middle campus, and the Democrats are God's chosen, some low fellow (I'd ordinarily use a four-word combination we use and thoroughly understand over at Russellville to characterize certain men folks) there at your hospital rifled my clothes—and got either $27 or $32 in bills. The last thing I did before leaving Mooresville the night of the accident was to pull out my modest roll and give Doc White a $5 bill, and he gave me back two $1 bills, that I folded with the others and then put in my little watch, or ticket pocket, in the upper front part of my britches. Mr. George Cunningham, manager of the Claypool Hotel, saw that, and so did Doc White of Mooresville, I think. Then Mr. Cunningham and his wife and I got in his car, Mr. Cunningham in the front seat driving, and Mrs. Cunningham and I in back, and went direct to your place. Mr. Cunningham couldn't have robbed me, and wouldn't have if he could (there's some wording for you); it would be heresy to think Mrs. C. would (if you know her); anybody would have to be a hell of a sight worse off than I was to go broadcasting $1 bills enroute to a place like yours, knowing full well if he had any sense at all that if he stayed there a week he'd have to mortgage the back 40 to get paid out. So that last theory is plumb out. And all that remains is the aforesaid "low fellow."
The weak spot in my whole story is expecting the other fellow to believe me, and me alone as to just how much I had in money. I don't like to be in that position. I wouldn't want the other fellow to expect me to take his word for what he had. That's something like our railroad troubles. I've been attorney here for the New York Central since about 1916. In all that time we've never killed any live stock that wasn't a thoroughbred. All railroad attorneys get used to that and expect it. So four or five years ago the Springfield, Ill., Division of the B & O that runs through my farm at Russellville (and whose trains on that particular division run more by the compass than on the rails) killed my registered Hereford bull with one of its passenger trains. I knew their General Attorney at Cincinnati quite well, so I wrote him the facts and ended by saying, "and as is usual in railroad cases, he was a thoroughbred." Right back came his answer: "Your thoroughbred bull has nothing on us. We want you to distinctly understand ours is a thoroughbred train". But he paid me on a thoroughbred basis.
As the man on the farm says when he starts to give me advice: "Now, I don't want to tell you how to run your business, but I'd do so and so", so now in like manner I want to urgently request that you check up on everybody who handled my clothes from the time they took them from me in the X-ray room, or whatever it was, until the clothes got back in my room, and keep a watch on him or them. . . Whoever did it to me will try it again.
And now, I do have a request to make, and it's for my own benefit. Please call Mr. Cunningham at the Claypool and see if my story about the money is in fact true insofar as he knows. Then question Doc White next time he comes in. . . Anybody who is anybody would want to furnish as much outside proof as he might be able to get. Now John, don't come back at me by saying you don't have to ask Mr. Cunningham and Doc White because you believe everything I say, like Mr. Hess did over the telephone. Somehow that sort of nettled me. Mr. Hess doesn't know me from Al Capone. I'm serious in what I ask, and I'm going to check-up on you, old timer . . . Respectfully, Andrew Durham
ASKING HELP WITH MONEY
September 25, 1939
Mr. Wilbur O. C—,
Lebanon, Indiana
My Dear Wib: I was in Lebanon the other day and called you, but your good wife said you were in Lafayette.
Wib, here is what I wanted to see you about. Frank is in Law School and needs new clothes. I am in need of some money badly, and want you to help me out all you can. I am enclosing a copy of your note, with all the credits on the back. I am also enclosing a blank note. I had Ward Mayhall, down at Central National Bank figure out the balance of principal and interest as of Sept. 21, 1939—$157.55 on that date. So please send me a check for all you possibly can, and if you can't pay all, then please date the blank note, make it payable in thirty days like the old one, and for such sum as is the difference between what your check amounts to and the sum of $157.55; sign and send to me along with the check, and I will be greatly obliged. The old note is simply covered with Intangible Stamps, with no room to put on any more credits. . . Cordially,
October 30, 1939
Mr. Wilbur O. C.
Rochester, Indiana
Care of Barrett Hotel
My Dear Wib: I am enclosing the note dated October 1, 1939 which you sent me some weeks ago, for the reason it does not seem to be drawn properly. The figures show the amount to be $160, but the writing shows an even $100. The former seems to be right.
I have been getting ready for Joan's wedding in New York next month, and have not had time to make this explanation and get a letter off to you until now. And anyway, it has been a month now and perhaps you can send me a check for something at the same time you execute the enclosed new note and send it back to me. The Lord knows I am in need of cash at this time—in fact I have been needing cash about all my life it would appear. . .
When I get the new note back in the correct amount, I will cancel the old one that is all gummed-up with Intangibles. Respectfully,
IT'S NO PICNIC
November 15, 1939
My dear Miss Robbins: About the time you are perusing this tender missive, we and our oversized family will be on the "Southwestern" en route New York City and Joan's wedding, which latter will occur at St. Bartholomew's at 4 p.m. on the afternoon of the eve of Lord's Day next.
Let me tell you about another trip on the same Southwestern that happened about 14 years ago. Joan was 13 and Sugar Foot still getting regular eye doses of boric acid, and Ann Drew just out of the boric acid period, and so on up the line, when the Fair Calantha, as was her custom from time immemorial, started on safari via New York to Milford, Penna. She had passes—but what passes! Not good on Number this, and not good on No. that. In desperation I went to the General Superintendent, good old B.C. Byers, told him my troubles, and asked if he would make them good on the Knickerbocker. He looked at the passes, then at me, and said: "Why, you've only got walking passes." He thought a minute, then: "A woman with six little children has no business getting into New York City at 3 or 4 p.m.—then across town and the ferry to Jersey City, then by Erie to Port Jervis, N.Y., and then by auto into the mountains. Give me those passes. I'll make them good on No. 12. I'll make your reservations, and I'll have No. 12 stop at Greencastle and pick them up." All the which he did.
The train stopped, and old man Keith happened to be the conductor. He was in a huff about having to stop his long heavy train at any town like Greencastle. He stood to one side and the patrons started climbing up the steps: Mother, nurse, kids, boxes, suit cases, bird cages, more kids, grips, violin cases, dolls, milk, kids, a kitten, lunch boxes and more kids. He turned to me and asked, "Is this a picnic or a family?"
I said: "It's a family—and they're no picnic by a d— sight."
Yours,
AUNT MARGARET'S SPLASH IN JOURNALISM
December 3, 1939
My dear Julia and Anna: I saw a couple of "features" written by Joan and published in today's Indianapolis Sunday Star, so I clipped them, and here they are. One uses her own by-line, and the other "Betty Clarke." If I get the story right, some Betty Clarke wrote for the Associated Press on cosmetics, etc. Her successors have used that same name in turn. When Joan writes on foods, she uses a by-line of a "Mrs." somebody—I don't know the name—because a younger unmarried woman now-a-days knows practically nothing about foods and wouldn't be believed, or taken seriously. . .
Well, as you know, Joan was married in St. Bartholomew's Church (Episcopal) in New York City Nov. 18 last. She married a William H. (Taft) McGaughey, as you may already know if you read Walter Winchell's column of Nov. 5th, I think it was. "Bill" is a former DePauw boy, a Phi Gam., graduated here about 1932. Was a reporter for the Indianapolis News after leaving school, then to the New York Herald-Tribune, I think it was; then on the Wall Street Journal, and now is Editor of the American Automobile Manufacturers Association Magazine, or some such name. Heretofore it has been edited in New York, but after January 1st next, they move him and the magazine, and Joan, etc., to Detroit, Mich., where the magazine will continue to be published. Therefore, if I understand it right, Joan will lose her job with A.P, and become a housewife—Good Gosh A'mighty!!—Giving up a job like that to become anybody's housewife—I don't care who, or where he comes from—and just when she had struck her stride. Understand I'm not kicking—he's a fine young fellow and alright in every particular, so far as I know and can learn. I'm just thinking out loud. . .
We were all at the wedding—the whole family, including Aunt Margaret, Sarah Jane and her husband. We stayed at the Waldorf- Astoria, just across the street from St. Bartholomew's . . . and otherwise disported ourselves as Russellville blue-bloods. And that reminds me of Aunt Margaret's splurge in the realm of journalism (Aunt Margaret lives at Russellville). Well, when Aunt M. learned Joan was to be married, she wrote Joan a real homey letter about it, including therein a recital of what she did in preparation for her own wedding years and years ago; that she began preparations a year ahead, made towels, spreads, dish cloths, muslin garments (I don't know what she meant by that) etc., saying she had some of them yet and about as good as new. You know the secret, if it was that—Aunt M. tried to "learn" the girls to be economical. . . She went on to say she hoped Joan and her husband would be well and happy, and would try to make home their chief object in life. And so on, in that sort of vein.
What do you suppose Joan did with that letter? She turned it over to another A.P Feature writer, and he sent it out over the whole world about as follows: "A very charming young woman I know here in New York is about to be married. Her old-fashioned aunt out in Russellville, Indiana, wrote her a letter about marriage, which in view of the present day stress and strain and disregard of marriage vows, we think deserves a wider publicity. Here it is." Then he quoted the letter. The Greencastle paper got hold of the release and printed it. Aunt Margaret got hold of the Greencastle paper and almost swooned. When she got to New York for the wedding, she found she was a famous writer and almost swooned again. Then she got sort of tickled and concluded it might make some of these young persons think, and eventually do some good. I have no copy, or I would send it. At the time, I was so busy rigging up my own treasseau, or however you spell it, I didn't take time to save any copy.
I think I should tell you about my wedding-clothes troubles. Joan's was my third wedding. When Sarah Jane married two years ago she wanted an evening wedding at Gobin Memorial Church here. That called for a dress suit for the old man. Mine was of the 1910 vintage. I thought that wasn't so terrible bad, but when I got it separated from the moth balls and camphor, I found that one or the other of them, or both, had tended to shrink it tremendously. Whatever it was seemed to have centered the attack on the waist band of the pants. Then too, some "low comedian" here at the house said the lapels looked like those of an "end man" in a Russellville home talent minstrel, and another said the tails were too short and seemed blunt and worn off, like an old feather duster. Now that couldn't be, because practically the last time I wore it was at my own wedding. I had put a telegram in an inside pocket—and there it was: "Veedersburg, Indiana, November 24, 1910. Sorry we can't be there but we're with you to a man. Congratulations. Fred S. Purnell." Well, we wound up in a one-sided compromise—a new dress suit from Bro. McMurray, 201 Board of Trade Bldg., Indpls, Ind.
Along came Joan wanting a 4 p.m. St. Bartholomew's wedding. That called for a "cut-away." So again I went to interview Bro. McMurray. He was delighted and thoroughly in favor. When I went up for a try-on, while Bro. McMurray was chalk-marking here and there, I took a hurried look in the glass, and Holy Nellie! What I saw took me back instantly to "Old Prince" at Russellville. Old Prince is a 26-year-old faded-out black work horse I own, spavined, two splints and stiff as Mrs. Stuyvesant Fish. In that cutaway, I looked like Old Prince in a set of track harness.
I hope Margaret marries before the Japanese take the country, and that Ann doesn't decide on a grass dress.
Somehow, somewhere, sometime, this family will have to go into a huddle on these wedding signals, or I'm going to find myself with a lot of uniforms—and no clothes. Yours for more clothes and fewer costumes,
RUSSELLVILLE HAS GOOD CREDIT AT THE WALDORF
March 17, 1940
Mr. B. C. Byers
1150 Oakwood Ave.
Dayton, Ohio
My dear B.C.: Well! Well! Well! I'm threatening to do a thing I've been threatening for about a year—write you a letter. . .
Joan was married Nov. 18th, 1939 in St. Bartholomew's Church (Episcopal), corner 51st and Park Avenue, New York City, across the street from the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. Her parental father and his family retinue, large and small, married and unmarried, were hosteled on the 12th floor of the Waldorf. And you can imagine what a stir among the employees we simple country folks made. They had seen nothing like us in that place since its corner stone was laid, and they haven't since. . .
Dr. Oxnam's (now Bishop Oxnam, stationed at Boston) wife and daughter were to be our guests at the Hotel in our suite of rooms count them, 8 of them. The Bishop was to have been present to give a prayer—Joan had graduated at De Pauw when he was President there—but old St. Bartholomew said: "No. No Methodist, or other cult, can pray at an Episcopal Church wedding. We run the Church, and incidentally the wedding, and what praying is done, we'll do." So the Bishop got sort of miffed and went on to Arizona ahead of time.
The wedding was at 4 p.m., the reception immediately following. Joan was a feature writer on the Associated Press in New York City—a splendid job. Naturally her associates were newspaper folks and writers, mostly men, who knew Kentucky Tavern from Coca-Cola. The wedding reception was to be held in the New York Newspaper Women's Club in the Midston House (hotel near Rockefeller Center). It had a bar, and Joan somehow got the silly idea it was the duty of the bride's father, for this occasion, to stock that bar with tools having an alcoholic content. . . So we brought along the main feature of the reception refreshments: 8 quarts in my grips, 8 in Frank's, 4 in Munny's, 4 in Margaret's, and Sir Walter Scott Behmer brought 3.
Mrs. Oxnam was to know nothing about it. She didn't—until she stepped into the Club rooms. Then anyone would know it, unless he had spent a lifetime refereeing skunk-squirting contests.
Old man Thomas, I think his name is, formerly Editor of the New York Times, now a sort of newspaperman head of the Pulitzer School of Journalism, and who had Joan in his classes when she went to that school, got tight and went all around telling the guests his great grandpappy was half Indian. His good old wife stayed sober, and as a result sprained an ankle on the scuffed-up rug. The woman Editor of Vogue, or else one of its principal writers, kissed me because she said I looked like her cousin who had his leg shot off in the Spanish-American War. In the excitement I kissed Mary Beth Plummer—top woman writer on the Associated Press and incidentally about the best looking—just to show my good taste.
Early in the game, Munny saw what was coming. So she shepherded Mrs. Oxnam and daughter away early. They put the daughter to bed. Then went out on their own, and in some unaccountable manner got into the bar of the Hotel, saw what they had done—and ordered lemonade. All Munny needed to complete the picture was a basket of eggs on one arm and a fresh dressed chicken under the other.
My Gosh! But we had a time.
What with buying extra booze, taxi-cabbing everybody all over Hell's Half Acre, eating in the "Cert Room," which was named for some famous Spanish painter, or paperhanger, and tipping hundreds (it seemed), I thought I might run low in cash. So I slipped quietly around to a room labeled "Credit Manager," walked in and saw this woman sitting in the big chair. She saw the surprise on my face, smiled and said: "I am the Credit Manager. Are you looking for me?"
"My name is Durham. I live in Indiana, and they're taking it away from me around here faster than they do back home on Thursdays at the main gate of our County Fair. I may run out of money, and I want to know how I'd go about getting a draft cashed, if I had to."
"May I see the draft?"
I pulled out the bill fold, fetched out a $50 draft, and sure enough there it was in big letters, RUSSELLVILLE BANK, payable to me.
She looked at it, then at me quizzically, and said: "Are you the father of Joan Durham, the Feature Writer who was married yesterday over at St. Bartholomew's. I read her AP features."
"Yes mam," I said proudly, "I'm her Pap."
"Have you any sort of identification card, letter, driver's license, or something to identify you?"
"Yes, mam. I have a bad note on Peter M— back at Russellville for $20 I wish somebody would collect, a membership card in the Putnam County Farm Bureau and a New York Central pass"— cautiously saving the best for the last.
"The pass will be sufficient." She looked at it and then at me and said: "We will cash the draft any time you want it cashed— now, if you want it."
"No," I said, "but if that won't run me, is there any way to cash checks?"
We talked quite a bit—about Russellville (which she never heard of), the wedding, the Hotel, farming, cattle and hogs, etc.
Eventually she said: "We'll cash checks for you up to $1,000, Mr.
Durham."
Well. By that time she was far, far ahead of me, so I tried to catch up. "Miss", I said, "how long have you been Credit Manager here?"
"About six years", she said. "Why?"
"Because you won't be Credit Manager very much longer, giving out credit that way."
Then she did throw the witty bombshell. She said:
"Well, Mr. Durham, no one from Russellville ever gave this hotel a bad check yet."
And after a little more talk, in which she bragged, for my benefit, how she could tell people who wouldn't give bad checks, I left and went upstairs and bragged to Munny how Morgan, Loeb and I could cash checks at the Waldorf—just like that. . . Yours,
HAVEN'T YOU EVER HEARD A RADIO?
March 19, 1940
My dear Mrs. Cunningham: After the very kind and considerate treatment received from you, Harlan and his wife during my rather short stay in Miami, you must be thinking I am an ingrate for not writing sooner, but the fact is, I've blamed near been sick all the time since leaving there. Coming home I was a trifle dizzy for a day or so, but I attribute all that to those two singers who broadcasted from your music room that Sunday night. Good old Walter sized up my trouble in his efficient way, and knowing my background, realized those girls coupled with Miami's metropolitan hours and night life would make any native of Russellville dizzy. And so, he drove practically all the way home. . .
Passing through Jonesville, a town about like Waverly, Walter saw a sign, "Home Cooking." Of course we stopped and went in. A hill-billying radio in the kitchen made the dining room hideous with its squawking. The Old Brakeman asked for grits, fish and sea food. He got boiled side-pork, boiled cabbage, boiled beans and corn bread. And later he was to get what was advertised as pie, but looked like unto no pie I had seen in my 58 years of active pie viewing.
I asked the waitress: "Where is that terrible noise coming from?"
With a puzzled expression, she answered: "Why that's the radio."
Then something dawned, her face lighted and she asked: "Haven't
you ever heard a radio before?"
"Is it a bird or an animal," I asked.
"Neither one," said she. "It's a little box you turn on and the music comes out. Ain't you ever seen one? We turn it on of a mornin' and it plays all day."
"No. But if we came this way again and brought company, would you turn it off while we're eating?"
"I shore will," she said—and she meant it.
The foregoing was among the lesser highlights of our trip straight home. . .
Was in Detroit last week. Saw Joannie, husband and apartment. The husband is as big as the apartment is small. It's an up and downstairs affair. Little stairway from living room upstairs. The whole thing is about the size of a smallish hen-house, the upper floor representing the roosts. As ever,
CHAPTER IV: THE WAR YEARS—1942-1945
Pap was way too old for active involvement in World War Two. He had to be content watching his children play their parts (Frank and Margaret both joined the Armed Service, although the latter had to be consoled after being initially turned down for a commission). Pap's sideline role did not deter him from making wry observations about professed patriotism on the part of the legislature ("political hooey") and the effects of war on the home front (shortages, black market activity, travel restrictions and inflation).
He also kept in touch through the mail with his scattered children and his wife. Despite the difficulties of wartime transportation, "Munny" insisted upon making her annual summer excursions to Milford, Pennsylvania, to attend to property inherited from her parents. This caused Pap a bit of anxiety, as he feared for her comfort but did not wish to take undue advantage of his railroad pass perquisites. He also felt lonely at home alone, as his youngest daughter, Aura May, left for college. In some of his strongest letters, he expressed concern, usually with humor but sometimes quite poignantly, that family members should not interfere with each other's pending marital plans.
Otherwise, Pap tended to the farm, his lobbyist duties, and wrote a newspaper ad celebrating the 50th anniversary of the Russellville Bank.
NOT TRYING IS WORSE
Advice to a daughter turned down for a naval commission.
Sept. 3, 1942
Dear Margaret: I was sorry to hear you hadn't made the grade and didn't get what you want, but I would have been much sorrier if you hadn't tried. That's what gets me—this not trying. And while you may be quite a bit disappointed, you tried all the same, and that is the thing that counts much, much more.
Of all things, I never thought I would have a daughter in the Army or Navy, but now that things have happened as they have, and women are going into the War, why, I'm getting used to most anything. . .
I'm not saying that you should be in the Navy, not at all, but if I were you and I wanted in, I'd keep pecking away until I got in. . . . You said something about them wanting you to try for something like a job as a "private" in the Army. I am rather inclined to think you did right in not accepting that offer. You have an education, and better still, you have an ability that should rate you better than that of a private. It is true all of us can't be "Generals," but with your ability, your common sense and a world of other good qualities, you, if you want to, and will stick with it, will be able to get in WAVE, or whatever it is, from some other State—Indiana, for instance. There is a lot of bologna in this War, like all others, and I am told on good authority that it takes a political set-up to get the best. . . Honestly, when I heard you were trying Pennsylvania, I rather thought you would not be in the running. It just don't make sense for an Indiana girl to get a job like you wanted in the face of women (natives) in the second most populous State in the Union. . . Now above all things, don't repeat what I have said, and by no means give such as an excuse for missing the boat at Philadelphia, just keep mum, keep your own counsel, profit by your experience and keep on trying in every way you can. If I get a chance I'll get to Indianapolis and try to learn what WAVE is doing in Indiana, if anything. I have been so busy, I haven't had time to go any place or do anything except keep the farms going, which is a big job. Let me hear from you. Pap
HELPING THE WAR EFFORT
Aug. 2, 1942
Dear Frank: There is not much news to tell you. We are more than busy at the farm. . .
I should tell you about an experience I had yesterday. The rain stopped us combining oats on No. 43 shortly after dinner. I came home early in the afternoon. Stopped in the Post Office to see if there was any mail. Doc. Sigler the Veterinarian was in there. Maybe you know him. If not, then you should. He is windy, used to run a saloon here years and years ago, and therefore is an authority as he thinks on all things alcoholic. Doc was in a talkative mood. "Have you tried the new beer, Durm?" he asked. I said I had not, and what was it. Then he proceeded to tell me. It is really old time keg beer put up in bottles—half gallon bottles. It is unpasteurized, and it saves caps and thus helps win the War. He was insistent that I try just one bottle. It was to be had at Robert Hoffman's storage plant—this unpasteurized beer has to be kept cold.
Naturally I wanted to help win the War, so I went outside, got in the Mercury and headed for Hoffman's storage plant on North Indiana Street. There was Robert and his helper, Jim Allen. . . I asked their opinion, and they both agreed it was the Wonder of the Age.
If one bottle was good, then more would be better, so I bought three. Then, as a sort of hedge, and to be on the safe side, and being that I was already there, I bought a case of Cook pints, as I knew what they were, and came home, put the case on the kitchen radiator and the three half gallon bottles of Doc Sigler-recommended, unpasteurized Champagne-Velvet beer in the ice box and awaited developments.
Later I went to the Lincoln for supper, then tarried downtown a bit and started home. Pearl O'Hair was on her front porch and called to me. I went down and courted her until after dark, then thought of my Champagne-Velvet Doc. Sigler-recommended unpasteurized beer in half gallon bottles that help win the War, and came home. I reached in where we used to keep milk, pulled one out and it looked bigger than a blockbusting bomb. I got the biggest glass in the house and poured it full. It tasted rather alright, so I took another sample. Then others. The bottle stood the drain unusually well. Then I found a rubber stopper, inserted it, put the bottle back in the ice box and came in the front room to read the News. Then back to the half gallon bottle of unpasteurized amber fluid. That bottle "gave down" like a six- year-old Holstein with a new calf. . . Another round or so and we called "recess" for me to go out on the front porch for air. But duty called me back to the bottle. By that time I could see I was gaining slightly, and would eventually win if I kept up my morale. But it was a horse race with bets about even. Then back to the front porch for more air, then back to the half gallon bottle of unpasteurized that helps win the War. On one of these trips to the front porch I noticed the Electric Light people had inserted a bigger light bulb while I had been gone. But my patriotic duty called me back to the pantry and the rubber-stoppered half gallon bottle. In desperation I again went to the front porch to bring in help, any kind of help, but the streets were empty. Then back to the kitchen, and then to the front porch where I was seized with a desire to go calling, anywhere, and anybody who could talk, or rather listen, because at this time the gods were unfolding to me a quick and brilliant scheme in which I was to outshine MacArthur and tip the balance to win the war—just like that. The plan was simple and should have been thought of before now. It was to furnish all enemy soldiers with half gallon bottles of Doc Sigler-recommended unpasteurized Champagne-Velvet beer, make them drink it and thus cause internal drowning. Simple, isn't it? But suddenly it became unnecessary, because back at the bottle and just as I was draining the last drop, there came through the ether, the short wave fuzzy joint and unconditional surrender of Hitler, Sitting Bull and the Pennsylvania Whiskey Rebellion. As Ever,
AVOIDING A STATE OF NATURE
Aug. 4, 1942
My dear Aura May: (then visiting in Worcester, MA) . . . I took time off today to go to Reiner's at Indianapolis to test out fur coat prices. They are high, but nonetheless, my offer stands provided you want one at this time. Your letter rather indicated you would as soon wait a year or so. That is sensible and also thoughtful, and it might be a year in College and an opportunity to look around and sort of study fur coats might be better than to jump in and buy one hastily. . .
Sarah Jane has her sights raised too high, I think. She says $419, exclusive of fur coat, undergear, socks and I don't remember what else she excepted. . . You are fine looking, well made and therefore can wear grass dresses, sarongs and Russian Sable with equal grace. In other words, clothes don't have to make you. And thank God they don't have to pinchhit for your scholarship. Still, you should have good clothes, and you are going to get them. Sarah Jane must have smuggled you into Worcester after dark, because, according to one of her letters, you were naked, or practically so, when she took you to Canada. I hope your ears were clean.
However and nevertheless, Sarah Jane is doing her level best to help us all out in these, your clothes troubles. She is taking her time and effort, and all for the good of the cause, so let's all be appreciative. She thinks we are losing time, back tracking and creating a state of confusion—which we are. . .
I am therefore enclosing a draft for $300 and telling you you are free to do as you please in the selection of your clothes. After all, you will have to wear them, you are 18, an exceptional scholar, and you should be pleased and satisfied. This is not all the money you are to get for clothes, etc., this year, but God knows I think it is enough for you to start out on this Fall and Winter. If not, then we'll sell some shoats . . . and rustle up some more.
Ann has to have a few duds, you know. Margaret is in a state of nature as to clothes, and . . . Munny surely needs a new bustle and pair of arch-supporter shoes by now . . . .What I'll be needing is a pair of new corrugated rubber-soled shoes and plenty of cinders .. . .
"Pap"
CROSSING THE RAILROADS
March 17, 1943
Dear Chilluns: Back from the Legislative Wars, pretty well battered but gradually recovering. We took one bad licking. Under present law, generally speaking, municipalities and county commissioners may . . . "order in" grade crossing warning devices or watchmen . . . whether the railroads think them necessary or not . . . all at the cost of the railroads. . . We tried to change the law so the unit so ordering them in would have to pay 50% of installation, repair and maintenance. . . But the Senate voted us down 26 to about 18. The mayors got in their work.
There was absolutely nothing unfair about the bill in my opinion. It just would have stopped a lot of grafting mayors and city councils. For instance, a councilman in Anderson last summer introduced an ordinance requiring 44 crossing lights in Anderson. The ordinance was so worded . . . that only one manufacturer could fill the specifications. A brother-in-law of the introducing councilman was the agent for that factory. It was so raw the ordinance failed to pass, but it took a lot of lawyers and time and expense to run all that down. Just such things as that happen all the time. Some "worthy party workers" start a manufacturing plant up in Lake County on a shoe string. Maybe they can't get a site on the right-of-way. But they start. Then come to the railroads and want a switch put in to the factory. . . The railroad investigates—the set-up doesn't look permanent— and declines to extend a switch. Then, the "workers" go to the mayor and council with the tale the railroad is stifling business in that town, and so on. A big howl goes up. . . The railroad makes another check and refuses. Then the mayor sends word they will be wanting some more crossing devices in that town, to "protect the children," and there you are again. Those crossing devices cost an average of $2,500 per set. Maintenance averages $50 per year. These are only two of a hundred rackets worked on railroads. . .
NOT IN THE FDIC AND PROUD OF IT
On the 50th anniversary of the Russellville Bank, in 1943, Pap, as Chairman of the Board, took out a sizable advertisement in the July 30 edition of The Daily Banner (motto: "It Waves For All") of Greencastle. The ad proclaimed in large bold type that the venerable Russellville institution was "A Private Bank, not a member of F.D.I.C." The "Old Bank", as it was referred to, had been started in 1893 by some 30 citizens of Russellville, including Pap's father, James, and older brother, J. Ernest Durham, and had grown to have capital stock of $15,000 and a surplus of $50,000, according to the ad. Excerpts follow.
TYPE OF BANK
Russellville Bank is a Private Bank. It is UN-incorporated. Therefore the individual liability of its stockholders for its debts (and your deposits are its principal liability) is not limited merely to the extent of the value of the stock owned in the bank—whatever that value may be—as is the case in Banks incorporated under Indiana law. Incorporation, among other things, means limitation of liability for debts. . .
DEPOSIT GUARANTY
We are NOT a Member of Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation (F.D.I.C.). We were invited to join. We declined, and, being an "A" Bank, were not compelled to join. We have been asked why we declined. Here is the answer: Many of you have been told the Federal Government guarantees all deposits up to $5,000 made in Banks belonging to F.D.I.C. If that were the case, we would probably have our application in for membership in the morning. But nothing is farther from the truth. The Federal Government does NOT guarantee one cent of anybody's deposit in ANY bank— National, State or Private, anywhere, anytime—whether a member of F D.I.C. or not. But it does require ALL Banks belonging to F.D.I.C. to guarantee one another's depositors' deposits up to $5,000 for each depositor—A SORT OF MUTUAL INSURANCE. We are a small Bank, but mighty for our inches in a financial way. And we want to put all the force of all of our resources solely back of the deposits of our own depositors. Therefore, we thought then, and still think, it would be unfair to our depositors for Russellville Bank, with its comparatively overwhelmingly superior resources, to join-up and guarantee the depositors of a bank in the Rockies, about which it knows nothing and over whose management it has no control. So, excluding all other Private Banks, we assert we have proportionately more resources for the payment of every dollar of our deposits and other liabilities than any F.D.I.C. Bank in the State of Indiana has in proportion to its deposits and other liabilities. This is no idle boast. We mean just what we say.
CONSERVATISM
In our 50 years of banking we have bought millions of dollars worth of securities for ourselves and our customers without loss of a single penny of Principal or Interest. However, during and following the "Bank Holidays", in a few issues—three we think, "to keep the record straight"—some bonds and some coupons were not paid promptly at maturity, although eventually all were paid.
OUR CUSTOMERS
Our customers are the salt of the Earth. Some have been with us during all, or practically all, of our existence (In that time we have, to be sure, lost some good customers, and we sincerely regret those losses.) During the April, 1943, drive for the sale of 2nd War Loan Bonds, the patriotism of our customers was immediately evident. The amount of approximately $29,000 was sold in and credited to Russell Township (our township), and of this the amount of $23,218.75 was subscribed by our customers and paid for with funds in Russellville Bank. We are proud of our customers in their War efforts. If peace should be dictated by the Axis Powers, it might conceivably happen our 50 years of careful, conscientious banking would all go for naught and that Russellville Bank, in spite of its enormous resources considering its size, might not be worth the price of this advertisement. It pays to be patriotic.