April 2, 1943
Cribben & Sexton Company
700 N. Sacramento Blvd.
Chicago, Illinois
Gentlemen, I am herewith enclosing check for $2.75 for two oven door springs, two pastry door springs, three black door handles, two simmer buttons and ttmx (whatever the devil that is), all as per enclosed card.
Mrs. Durham has gone to Pennsylvania, and the children inform me she eventually was able to find the "number" of our gas stove so the above repairs could be identified by you. Where she found that number or identification on our stove is still a profound mystery to me. She had looked, I had peered, the children had searched, gas men and plumbers had examined and thumped, and outside the "Strand Universal" toward the lower right hand corner, the job was as smooth as an undertaker's conversation when showing caskets and gently murmuring prices therefor to the bereaved family. Incidentally, your modest demand for the above gadgets is as "chicken feed" to theirs. You must be an honest and upright firm, for Chicago. Congratulations.
In conclusion, let it be known no Nazi spy will ever be able to
report back to whoever he reports to the elusive number on our
trusty gas stove.
Very respectfully,
LAND AWAY FROM HOME
October 23, 1943
Mr. Eugene M. Anderson 20061 Hull Detroit, Michigan
My dear Eugene: Enclosed find Russellville Bank draft. . . for $550 . . . in full payment of the balance owed by Ared Shaw and wife to you for the 27 acres plus north of the N.Y. Central station here in Putnam County. I am also enclosing a receipt for $1 from Central National Bank, which . . . charged each of you the sum for holding the papers.
I tried to peddle your contract but the chiselers had this excuse and that for wanting you to discount it. This is no time for discounting, and everybody knows it. Banks are glad to get good loans at straight 6% mighty glad. I took it up with Russellville Bank and they wanted it. So they got it. . .
I expect you are glad to get the matter off your hands. It is no fun to own land a long ways from home. I have tried it—in fact I am trying it all the time—have land in Kansas and Texas I can't get rid of, and it's a nuisance. The southwest Kansas land is 160 acres, flat as a pancake—you could make baseball diamonds all over it—and never had a plow in it. Father traded a horse and buggy for it in 1893 or 94. Never saw it. It is in dry country. We have just paid taxes (very small) all these years until about five years ago I leased it for oil to the Standard Co. at $1 per acre. They have never drilled a well, but keep it for speculation, and each year pay $160. So, if that keeps up, we'll have our money back come 20 years more, or more or less. . . Very respectfully,
LET THE BRIDE CALL THE TUNE
Advice to an only son who has become a prospective groom. Note: The future bride's name was Frances Haberkorn, but Pap, who nicknamed everyone, called her "Francisco." (Undated)
My dear Frank, From your letter, matters matrimonial in our family seem on a most decided up-swing. I didn't realize you had gone so far, but right now, once and for always, you can rest assured the "old man" is with you 200%. Wife and husband choosing is for the individuals themselves. Outsiders should look on, keep out, keep mum—and worry to themselves all they want to. I did a mighty good job of picking, and I'm perfectly willing to accord the rest of you the same privilege.
Your letter said Francisco would be down to have a final say in the matter—or words to that effect. That's right. That is the way it should be. You'll find a groom is the most unnecessary necessity modern society ever inveigled an unsuspecting public into. He bears about the same relation to a first class wedding that a dust cap does to a 12-cylindered, leather upholstered Packard.
Perhaps by now you know more about when and where. Naturally, the balance of us would like to know something about that too—especially if any are expected to be "among those present". . . . If I am expected to be present, I'll have to arrange for somebody to do the milking, and get my shirt to, and back from, the laundry—both of which take varying times. But whenever, wherever and however, you can count on Munny for an absolute certainty, even if you can't count positively on a bride. Munny would be there to forestall any substitutions. If it is to be in Alaska, you can count on Munny trying on parkas tomorrow, and practicing blubber her next meal. As ever,
Pap summoned up the following allegory in advising family members not to interfere with the wishes of the prospective bride for her own wedding.
To All and Sundry of the Clan of Durham of Putnam County,
Indiana,
Greetings:
Legend hath it when the daughter of Simonides of Iulis was about to wed, a controversy arose between her and the prospective groom's kinswomen and some of his kinsmen as to what wines were to be served at the wedding feast. She contended for a wine whose grapes were grown on the east side of a mountain and facing the morning sun. His kindred strove for a less palatable but more potent wine whose grapes were grown on the south side of a neighboring mountain.
The controversy arose to political and diplomatic importance. Forsooth, she, having all the best of it in comeliness, charm, personal interest and common justice, prevailed—as all brides- to-be should, concerning their nuptial arrangements.
At the wedding feast his people were served with hemlock—thus forever ending the "in-law" question for her, and thereby reaffirming an almost unbroken precedent that in the days of your Grandfather Durham was summed-up in these cryptic words: "He who pays the fiddler shall call the tune."
Moral. It were better a volunteer of bridal suggestions to a bride-to-be were buried in the sands of the sea at low water mark where the tide ebbs and flows twice in twenty-four hours, than intimate anything, anytime to HER, and thereby court a return of the Iulisian custom.
(The foregoing went by mail, postage prepaid, to all members of said Clan whose addresses were known this May 21, 1944)
SOME SIMILARITY
Frances' father was Henry Haberkorn, a vice president and trust officer of the largest bank in Detroit. Pap was chairman of the board of one of the smallest banks in Indiana. He made the following observations regarding this "similarity."
(Undated)
My dear Frank, I wrote one letter to Francisco, and one jointly to her father and mother. This week I received replies. Frances wrote a nice, sensible, fine letter. Your pappy Haberkorn did the honors for himself and wife. The letterhead disclosed he is one of the Vice Presidents of the National Bank of Detroit. He facetiously referred to the fact we had another thing in common—we both were connected with the banking business.
Which reminded me of Charlie Buchanan, who appeared before the Railroad Committee of the House in 1917 with a bill to allow the Louisville, New Albany & Corydon Railroad to charge more than 2 cents per mile on passenger trains on his Road. Charlie was President of said R.R. and it was a separate railroad corporation in truth and in fact. He was also Auditor, Treasurer, Gen. Freight and Passenger Agent—and Conductor on their one and only train. His Road ran from Corydon and connected with the Southern at Corydon Junction some 8 miles of main track. He told us the following tale:
As do all R.R. Presidents, he went to their convention in Chicago, and there struck up Pres. Williams of the New York Central for an exchange of courtesies of passes—he to give Williams a pass on the L.N.A. & C. Railroad, and in return, Williams to give him a pass on the N.Y.C. Williams seemed to have not heard of Charlie's Road and asked him where it was. Charlie told him. Williams still was puzzled and asked how long the Road was. Charlie answered it was a little over 8 miles long.
Williams said, "Don't you think you have a hell of a lot of gall when you have an 8-mile Road and we have over 16,000 miles?"
Charlie answered, "I know that Mr. Williams, but yours ain't a damn bit wider."
He got the pass.
And also our Committee recommended his bill unanimously. . .
And so, as between the L.N.A. & C. and the N.Y.C., and the
National Bank of Detroit and Russellville Bank, I can't just put
my finger on it, but hazily, there is some similarity, of some
kind or other.
As ever,
THE CONSTRAINED ROMANCE OF UNCLE ERNEST
Pap's conviction that family members should not meddle in affairs of the heart was on his mind, and showed again in the following letter. It was written long after the death of his older brother, J. Ernest Durham, generally referred to as "Uncle Ernest," but the memory of a romance impeded by an overzealous family was still vivid.
April 25, 1944
Dear Frank: . . . Long, long ago I wanted a diamond like you want a bride. And so, I bought and sold calves, colts and horses; hauled campers to and from Eel River Falls; graded the old ball park at DePauw; etc., etc., and worked in staid, dependable, conservative, old Russellville Bank at $2 per week & board and clothes (I'll say it was conservative—Uncle Ernest started it in 1893 and had his first note loss in 1907. . . ). I spliced my money, went to Walk's (the old tune jeweler at Indianapolis) and bought myself one. They said it would be a good investment. They were only half right. It was an investment . . . Then the ring and I went on to college, and time went on.
Uncle Ernest liked the looks of said diamond—but not the price— and from time to time would borrow it. He had smaller fingers and would wrap white grocer's twine around the base until the ring about fit; then go to the Bankers' State Convention at Indianapolis, where, in trying to be a good fellow, he would eat a lot of cheese, pickles, blind robins, drink maybe a couple bottles of beer, and come home with an upset stomach and a hell of a headache. Thence to Billy Gardner's drug store for a new box of acetanilide.
Eventually, Frank Kennedy's girl went to some woman's college in Illinois to take music. Her teacher was a spinster of questionable age, named Colgate, from New York, New York. It was claimed, either by her or Frank's wife, she was a kinswoman to the dental cream and dirt-removing family of that name who have the big clock in Jersey across from New York City. Mother and Aunt Margaret were inclined to doubt it. Anyway, the teacher came home with her pupil at the end of the year for a visit. Uncle Ernest was invited down for supper next night.
That took a good deal of preparation. He spent most of the day away from the Bank getting ready. Frank Kennedy, the pupil's father, and host of the evening, was our leading barber. He cut Uncle Ernest's hair and shaved him. Uncle Ernest filled the galvanized wash tub extra full and took a thorough bath behind the kitchen stove. That took off about everything except the ink stains on his fingers. Mrs. Forgey, who with her husband, Jim Forgey, kept house for Uncle Ernest, recommended lemon juice, or maybe it was green tomato juice, for finger ink stains, but said she couldn't do anything about the ink stains on his best suit which she was cleaning and pressing. Uncle Ernest had won a bottle of cologne or Florida Water in some sort of a shooting gallery attached to Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show at the Chicago World's Fair in '93. He hadn't used much of it, so he doused a little of that here and there. . . All told they did a pretty fair job of grooming. The evening was a success and much praise was given Mrs. Kennedy's salt-rising bread and culinary art.
Uncle Ernest had a Model T of several years back. He had used it hard, and one day, trying to head-off a calf in the barn lot out at the old home farm east of town, had run through the gate with the door open. The door hit the gate post and was torn off. He had to tie it shut with baling wire. That meant he had to keep it shut and get in from the other side all the time. Most of the fenders held their respective places by virtue of more baling wire. He had also misjudged the height of some limbs on a tree up in the north pasture, and torn a hole in the rubberized textile top that leaked when it rained anything above a heavy dew. The back end of the coupe was loaded with an assortment of axes, grubbing hoes, pitch forks, spades, post hole diggers and so forth. Besides that, it had the mud of three counties plastered inside and out, and the upholstery showed sizable patches of cotton wadding. The car in general looked bad enough, and entirely too tough for social usage, but the thing that disqualified it absolutely for his impending purpose was that he had parked it overnight under a blackbird roost, and anybody who had done that in mulberry and cherry time knows what I mean.
Uncle Ernest had anticipated the visit by swapping his Ford for my new chummy little Saxon roadster—35 miles to the gallon—and wherein, a woman companion couldn't keep very far away from you.
Their first trip was decorous and above suspicion. They went to the Rockville Chautauqua to hear William Jennings Bryan, and Cole Younger the famous outlaw and bank robber, lecture on "Crime doesn't pay." They got in by 9 p.m.
Their next foray was a bit more questionable. I think they went to a box supper over toward Montezuma. In order that there be no confusion and Uncle Ernest bid-in the wrong box, she pasted a picture of that women's college on the outside of her box. Uncle Ernest bid-in the right box and got to eat supper with her. They got in just after midnight, according to Frank Kennedy's wife's timetable.
However, any necessary atonement was made next day, Lord's Day,
when they went to Crawfordsville and heard Dr. McIntosh,
President of Wabash College, read his "Shakespeare, the Apollo
Belvidere of English Letters."
Things gradually went from late to later, until one night they didn't get in at all—not until after sun-up. They had succeeded in running my Saxon off the road, sprung an axle and busted a light and fender, in a suspiciously out-of-the-way place between Deer's Mill and the Shades of Death. They said they got lost, and confused going downhill. I agree on the latter. Anyway, they hadn't crossed the state line.
Russellville opinion of the accident differed. It would. Suffice to say, no run was attempted on the trusty old Private Institution; the next reconnaissance by State Examiners showed said Bank to be in its usual sound condition; and a scrutiny of Uncle Ernest's balance sheet showed no unusual strain on his normal account.
The scene shifts to Greencastle: Uncle Ernest was bringing his "fair Calantha" to call on Mother and Aunt Margaret in the parlor of the old brick, where a solid line of Paris Green fringed the red carpet, unsullied these many months by human feet. The horse- hair upholstered furniture stood where I last saw it five years before. Aunt Margaret's painting masterpiece of 1884 still hung on the west wall, showing castle, moat and drawbridge (and the fair lady in green riding habit riding the horse down from the castle to the drawbridge hadn't made any mileage since then). On the east wall hung Aunt Margaret's effort of 1885 in paint on red velvet. It was intended to delineate our National Bird—the American Eagle—however, something had happened to her measurements at the time, or the noble bird had developed a pronounced goiter meantime.
Aunt Jennie Black, she of the piercing black eyes, who looked with suspicion on any thing or happening outside the confines and regulations of the Presbyterian Church, had been called by Mother to sit in—a job she was never known to flee from when it was her duty, which it always was.
Uncle Ernest had asked me to be on hand, probably for moral support in the event our womenfolk got out of hand.
The inquest got off to a good start. Pleasantries were passed all around until I was hoping against my better judgment. But alas, in her enthusiasm and heightened conversation, our fair caller, in an unguarded moment, dropped the fact she was a Red Cross worker in World War I, and had passed out cigarettes to the soldiers in France. Great God! I saw Mother's bosom swell, Aunt Margaret's lip twitch like it does just before she evades an unpleasant question or is getting ready to give a lecture on morality and church attendance; and Aunt Jennie's spinster chest flatten out flatter than usual, and I knew from now on the meeting was to be an inquisition in the real medieval meaning of that word.
Eventually conversation lagged, good-byes were said, the guests departed. The trio went into a caucus before I could get out of the room, and I heard Mother pronounce sentence: "We don't need any female cigarette distributors in this family." How times have changed!
That Fall, our Red Cross worker taught in Buffalo. Uncle Ernest got off for a short trip to San Antonio, but caught the wrong train and landed in Buffalo. Next Spring she taught in Cleveland. Again, Uncle Ernest headed for San Antonio, got the wrong train, but this time found out his error in time to get off at Cleveland.
Last Chapter: Uncle Ernest died in 1931. As Executor, I went through all his effects. Away back behind everything, I found a dusty Indiana National Bank canvas sack once used to express silver dollars and fractional silver coins. It was full of envelopes about the size of a two-thirds grown postal card, all addressed in the same handwriting, and all tied up in packages with grocer's soft white twine. I didn't know the handwriting, but eventually caught the full signature. I hadn't tried to read the letters—just sifted through them to make sure the envelopes contained only letters. Shortly, I came to one, the opening sentence of which caught my eye: "I am terribly lonesome tonight, Dear."
I quit reading. They weren't intended for Executors. I took off my glasses and sifted all the remaining letters one by one into a handy banana hamper. Some had snapshots in them. I took everything out and burned it. Somehow, I felt pretty bad. . . As ever, "Pap"
THE HAY AND FEED RACKET
April 19, 1944
Dear Sarah Jane: . . . While we're on the "racket" subject, I think I have partially solved the "hay and feed racket" at the Indianapolis Stock Yards. We trucked the heifers to Indpls. Sunday afternoon. The buyers (a commission firm) insisted they get there the evening before—"to rest, get a good fill and good weight next morning, and be ready to be re-loaded alive in stock cars to go to New York." I've been skeptical about ever coming out even on a feed and hay bill. . . I had too bad a cold to go up Sunday afternoon in one of the trucks and stay overnight, so I got up Monday morning at 4 a.m., and got to the Yards. I found the cattle and just about stayed with them until it was all over. Eventually the hay wagon came along. They threw out two bales for our cattle and then distributed them in the hay racks. I watched the cattle. They weren't eating any of the hay, just none at all. It was timothy. They were used to alfalfa. . . The bell rang and trading started. Buyers came and went. Our heifers were better than any I saw. Kingan's (Indpls. local packer) man bought them. He had been out to the farm to see them two weeks before. I got more than he offered me out there. I marched along to the scales, counted, and saw them weighed. My bill, among other things, read: "400 lb. Hay@ 1.45 = $5.80". The two bales they threw out for us would total not more than 120 to 130 lb. Timothy hay delivered in Indpls. would not run over $20 per ton. They figured ours at $29 per ton, as shown above. The heifers didn't eat a quarter's worth all told.
However, there are worlds of straight people. Witness Ira, for instance; the Hazlett Brothers, who started with a boot and shoe and now can get about any amount they want at staid, old, conservative, dependable Russellville Bank, the bank that only guarantees its own depositors; Mr. Whitaker at the filling station here; and thousands of others, who, like kitchen utensils at farm sales, are too numerous to mention. . . "Pap"
PATRIOTS DEBATE—THE BALLOT OR THE BOTTLE?
April 19, 1944
My dear Margaret: Munny is on one of her many pilgrimages to Milford under disguise of most urgent business. I had seen it coming on, and the final break was made when I was called to Indianapolis by the railroads for the Special Session. She left the day after I did. This time she thought she would go by coach, paying her own fare, because in this emergency I have refused to ask for passes. The day I left she told me her intentions, and knowing how trains are crowded, next day I went to the station at Indianapolis to see how she was faring. I found her standing, and she had been standing all the way to Indianapolis and was bedraggled already, and with only about one-twenty-fifth of her journey completed. . . We got back to the Pullman conductor, stated our troubles, and he made the usual reply: "I have just one lower to New York, and she can have that". . . The coaches and aisles were crowded with soldiers, sailors, baggage, dirty newspapers, pop bottles, paper cups, lunch boxes and kids . . . and the last I saw of that day's first section of No. 12, the conductor was shepherding her back through the Pullmans . . . .
The Special Session brought out a holocaust of patriotism—if I am using the right term. The purpose was to make it possible for the members of "our armed forces" to vote next Fall. Each member tried to out-do the others. The two chambers and the corridors rang with zealousness in the interest of "our armed forces" getting the ballot. Those not running this Fall and the hold-over Senators were less voluble, but in the House, where everybody had to run this Fall, or else stay out, the rafters went off center from 7 to 9 inches. I haven't seen such valiant patriotism in a legislative body since the last war, when I was in it and up for re-election. I don't remember my conduct, but I expect it was pretty patriotic. I do remember I introduced a resolution in the House commending Wilson and the Congress for breaking off relations with Germany, so I evidently had my lightning rod up pretty high. . .
People generally had a fear about this Special Session, and were afraid it would hang and hang on amidst fervent patriotic speeches and many, many glowing accounts of the heroism of "our armed forces," and not adjourn sine die, maybe for the full 40 days. . .
The Session was remarkably free of drunkenness and wild parties— some of course, but not the usual amount. . . Thursday evening we had a private dinner in the "English Room" of the Claypool for quite a number of railroad executives who were in the city, partly on account of the Session. It started a drab and serious affair. The war was on and restraint was in the air. Railroad executives are like all other people—busy, serious and worried. The railroads are carrying an enormous load. Equipment is over- used and the replacements are just not to be had under the circumstances. And so, the dinner lagged. The talk ran to the Special Session, and each speaker praised the Legislature for setting in motion the plan to allow "our armed forces" to vote, and there was gentle inquiry as to how long the Session would last. Naturally, their patriotism would want it to be short, with nothing done against the carriers. Eventually they got to me, and for my opinion.
I told them I had sensed the restraint of the dinner, but as I had no further political ambitions, and was standing no stud horses, and had no past due notes in the Bank, I was more or less of a free agent, and would try to speak the truth; that it was my honest opinion the average soldier didn't give a damn whether he voted or not out there wherever he was; that not one out of four of our armed forces out there in the trenches would try to vote unless it was more or less compulsory, amazingly easy and did not interfere with whatever he or she was interested in at the time; that not one out of four of the ballots of those who did vote outside the U.S. would get back in time to be counted in the proper precinct for State and County offices; that I'd bet 3 to 1 that three out of four of said "armed forces", if given the choice between a ballot and a bottle of beer, would select the beer; and that over 90% of all this tremendous anxiety about the soldiers getting to vote was political hooey pure and simple. Also that no adverse legislation against the railroads would be offered, much less passed; that the Session should close by the end of the week; that the Republicans were already starting to take credit for this early adjournment by attributing it to a strong new leadership and a united militant front—which also contained a good percentage of hooey—and that early adjournment, if it did come, could actually be credited to two big factors: a world of back Spring plowing and the acute whiskey shortage— especially the latter.
You could just see them softening up and relaxing in their chairs around the table. They all agreed and from then on the dinner party went along like a good dinner party should go. The Session adjourned Friday night.
Now Margaret, if I were you, I don't believe I would show this letter to anybody. She won't know Pap and she might get the impression I was making light of the soldiers and the War. The Lord knows that is not my intention. Far, far be it from me to want to deprive soldiers or any other qualified person from voting. What gets me is all this fan-fare about setting up the machinery to allow a person to do what he has always had the right to do. That doesn't take any patriotism. That is simple justice. . . Those of us at home can show our patriotism by staying at home and off trains and away from crowded cities and hotels unless it is necessary; by raising more livestock, grain, grub of all kinds and fewer orchids and "rackets" of all kinds; and above all else, by cracking down on these strikers and damnable labor racketeers and stopping this criticism of the powers that happen to be Churchill, Stalin and Brother Roosevelt. . . . I'd like to carry the rosin bag for those boys. They are the ones who have kept most of the Russellville Bank stock in my name, and old Fred and Nellie and the work harness in the old log barn. I'm fer 'em.
Keep a stiff upper lip, and your hat on straight.
"Pap"
A PATRIOTIC CANCELLATION
(Undated)
. . . All our Indiana Railroad Lobby set-up except me are
Republicans. The State is Republican. Most of the Indiana Public
Service Commission are Republicans. They got the idea of a
National Public Service Commission Convention at French Lick this
August. So two of our set-up went to Washington D.C. to see
Brother Johnson, who is the head of the War Transportation
outfit, and arrange for cars . . . They had their story ready,
and particularly "the importance of the meeting."
Brother Johnson listened attentively until they finished. Then he uncrossed his legs and spoke about as follows: "There will be no convention at French Lick this summer. I wouldn't allow you one seat in one bus for the whole damned convention. We are going to move an additional 1,000,000 men and equipment in August, and 1,500,000 in September. We don't know how we are going to do it with what equipment we have left, but I know one way we are going to help—we are going to set off every god damned railroad executive and near-railroad executive we can find wherever we find him. That will help considerably. You go back to Indiana and tell those Hoosiers there's a War on in case they don't know it, and the thing for them to do is to stay home where they belong and not be cluttering up these trains."
That combination, "near-railroad executive," is what cooked our crowd. None of us is as high as a section boss.
The National Public Service Commission Convention for this summer at French Lick has been called-off by unanimous consent. "After studying the matter carefully, we have decided it might possibly interfere with the War Effort in some unforeseen way, and the patriotic thing to do is to take no possible chance in that regard". As Ever, Pap
HOW TO SELL
March 27, 1945
A letter to all the children away from home.
. . . But let's get down to more important things. First and above all else is Ann Drew's impending venture into making matrimony. . . What Annabelle Lee wants in the way of a husband is what I most surely want her to have. Besides that, Ralph is a first class young fellow, if I am any judge. Under the circumstances, I'd like him if he wore spats and drank tea. . . I do hate to have her get married away from home, but that is all right under the circumstances, if she does decide to make the jump away out there by herself in California. They tell me a marriage license issued out there (maybe I should have said a wedding ceremony) is still good here in Indiana.
Frank's young calf, of course, is a more serious problem. I don't know how to answer his inquiry about feed for a stray young calf, except to say that cow's milk is the solution. . . Incidentally Frank, you can get original first hand information, together with some startling dialog relating thereto, if you will ask Jim Anderson's wife at Russellville how she raised "Old Nellie"—the old sorrel mare we now have at the farm—when her mother died when she was born. I can write the details but it takes Stella (Jim's wife) to give the matter the proper wording. (It is a story for men only. Women crimp Stella's style). . .Well, the facts are these: There was that tiny hungry little helpless colt. They got her dried off and away from her dead mother into a box stall with plenty of straw. Then the food question arose. Jim drove up one of the cows; they milked some milk into a small crock; Stella stuck two of her fingers into the colt's mouth and down into the milk crock, and eventually Nellie got the idea. And so, from day to day, they repeated the scene. The leggy ambling colt waxed sleek and gained flesh. She got so she could drink, but preferred to suck Stella's fingers. One evening Ernest was there, and the usual performances were had, and everybody admired the colt and thought it very cute . . . when all of a sudden and all unexpectedly, Nellie backed square behind Stella, got the exact range and let fly with both feet, hitting Stella squarely on the axis and knocking her about six feet flat on her stomach. The air took on a blue tinge as it does in Indian summer, and no stevedore ever out-stevedored Stella's utterances, which were both long and loud. . . They started feeling for broken bones. Everything appeared to be in perfect alignment, but to be sure they started raising and lowering various garments until the bare truth unfolded before their anxious eyes. There, 'neath the warm, shimmering rays of a setting sun, in high relief from a grass bordered background, were two sizable red lumps soon to turn a darker hue—one on either cheek.
. . . I deposited $5 to Frank's account at staid, dependable, old Russellville Bank, a Private Bank, with more back of every dollar of its deposits than any other Bank in Indiana. As of this date, its capital stock remains at $15,000; we upped the surplus to $55,000 and upped the undivided profits to about $15,000. The deposits now run considerably over half a million. This increase . . . is not all money we made last year by a whole lot. It represents recoveries on real estate the Banking Dept. ordered us to sell back there when land was low. We just charged that stuff off out of earnings and undivided profits as we went along, as the Dept. ordered it sold or charged off. One piece the Dept. recommended we sell for $1,500 and take our loss we sold last fall for $3,300. Another they thought should be sold for about $3,000 brought $6,750 this January, cash in hand. Couldn't loan the purchaser a cent. That was bad. We've made money on every piece we took over, and have sold to date. And every property paid more than its way as we went along. . .
I really should tell you about the oldest piece of real estate we had on hands—at the extreme northeast edge of Russellville, east of the Carter house. . . It consisted of five little lots, as lonesome a five lots as you would want to see. Away back there, 20 or 25 years ago, Uncle Ernest loaned a fellow $300, and as a precaution pure and simple took a mortgage on those five lots. The fellow paid the loan down to $150 in drabs, got sick, moved away, and eventually deeded the Bank the lots and called the loan square. Time went on. No one thought much about those lots. Uncle Ernest died. The panic came on, and every once in a while, Mr. Boyd, our President, would suggest we sell "those lots up in the east part of town." In the meantime he rented the grass here and there. . .
About two years ago, Bill C— got drunk one day and offered Mr. Boyd $75 cash for the five . . . to pile junk on. I said "no", as they were too near the Carter house for one thing, and not enough money for another. Time went on. Finally George joined Mr. Boyd in wanting them sold, and they pretty near had Mr. Fordice in the notion of selling too. . . We were just adjourning when Bob Whitted walked in the front part of the Bank. I said to my brother Directors, "Let's sell those lots to Bob Whitted. He lives up in the east part of town." They said, "Let's see you do it."
I tackled Bob. He asked, "What do you want for all five?" I said "$350," just like that, and he didn't wince. He asked, "How do you want me to pay for them?" I said, "How do you want to pay for them?" He said, "By the month, and not more than $10 a month, and I wouldn't want you to squeeze me if I run behind sometime." I said, "Well, we're selling them to you at half price, so let's make the payments at half price—$5 a month, you to pay the taxes next Fall and from then on, and get possession today, and the deed whenever you make full payment."
He said, "How much intrust are you goin' to charge me?" I said, "We've made everything else at half price, so to keep everything balanced up, we should make the interest at half price too—3%."
He jumped up, ran his hand down in his pocket, brought up a $5 bill, and said, "I'll take you up—here is your $5 for a starter." The others were up front, but heard a good part of the talk. I called George back and we solemnly gave him the data, Bob stating the terms, and asked him to draw up a real estate sales contract. Then followed the shortest, quickest real estate sales contract it has been my privilege to view. It would have been still shorter except that I insisted George describe the real estate as "those lots up in the east part of town," not even mentioning the town's name. Mr. Boyd signed in behalf of the Bank, and Bob signed in behalf of himself and wife, saying he wanted "Grace's name somewhere on it." Bob went out. We all, including the book-keeper, looked at one another. Mr. Boyd shook his head and said Bob would never finish paying. I said, "It's a mighty easy thing to sell when you have good stuff to sell AND KNOW HOW TO SELL". . .
Saturday, George told me to get ready with Bob's deed as he was about to get paid out, and was asking about his deed already. Bob had paid away ahead of himself. Coping on his ownself. Must have sold his fox pelts. . .
Joseph N. Fordice once was in a serious quandary preparing a deed to two lots in Russellville where livestock entered into the consideration. He decided it was best to tell the truth. This resulted: "That for and in consideration of $300 cash money and two hogs mutually agreed on (etc.)". . . As ever,
COPING ON HIS OWN
May 2, 1945
Dear Familee: I spent the day at home. Yesterday and the day before I went to the farm and spent the days, easy like, grubbing and sprouting the fence lines inside the field west of the old house at Russellville. I thought I was going along pretty easy, but yesterday I must have gone at it too much in earnest because last night and this morning I had a very sore right arm, and it made me think of the pickle I got into last summer when that spell of rheumatism hit me. It was raining today, so I didn't miss much. It is a hard thing to do to go up there and just sit and loaf around. . .
Tom Walden, the "dynamite king of Russellville" is retiring from the business after 40 years of active duty. He and old man Ferguson were out near Russellville dynamiting some stumps, or rather trees, last Friday. They had set two charges and gone away about as far as they thought necessary. One charge went off, and after a reasonable delay, they went back to see what had happened to the second charge—and got there just in time. When about 8 feet away, she let go. Both are here in the local hospital. I went to see them Sunday. Tom's eyes were bandaged and at that time they did not know whether he would be blind or not. Otherwise, his face looked unusually free from abrasions or swelling, or anything in fact. It must be the charge had spent itself getting through the wrinkles. Old man Ferguson was a total mess about the face. Terribly swollen, and blue, red and black. One of his eyes may be gone. He was so swollen you couldn't see one eye a-tall. .
May 6, 1945,
I got interrupted the other day while writing this letter.
In the meantime a fine package of cigarettes and chocolate bars came from Margaret. I hid them in the left door of the sideboard —the one that is hard to get open, and every once in a while I open the door, take a look and a good sniff, then gently close the door after a hasty glance around to see there are no eavesdroppers thereabouts. With one exception, it has been a long time since I saw chocolate bars. On the train going to Chicago to see about selling the cattle up there some time ago, I ran into a young couple (Army folks) on their way west from Norfolk. In the conversation I said something about not having seen a Hershey bar for a long time. I noticed she went down among their luggage and pretty soon he turned around and offered me a 5 cents Hershey with almonds. I didn't want to be mooching off them, but they wouldn't take no for an answer, so I took it, all the time feeling like a sheep-killing dog. The company has streamlined its product. When I got the wrapping off the two almonds stuck out like knobs on some of those red oaks up in the east pasture.
I have also had a letter from Joan. I had sent her the green hide of Seminole IV, or whatever number he bears, in an open lard can with part of the hide sticking out the top, and green hide effluvium oozing out at the bottom. Joan's description of the pimply-faced delivery boy was vivid. He asked: "What is this thing anyway?" She replied: "A cow hide, my boy. I make rugs out of 'em." The carcass of Seminole IV is safely ensconced out in the lockers awaiting the day when some dentist comes home with a formula for non-skid false teeth—the ones I have are roller- bearing—or until some of you pass this way with containers of a modest cubicle content. . .
I and my two bed sheets were well on the way to some sort of a record when Footser stepped in. Munny has been gone to Milford something like approaching two months. The weather has been cool, and I haven't been working very hard physically, and then too, have been taking baths quite regularly, so all in all my sheets were holding out splendidly. Naturally, they would wrinkle some, but any discoloration, if such there was, was gradual and uniform, except in one place—about shoulder high and between me and the radio were some streaks of chocolate running toward the radio. That happened at the time, or just after, Munny left. Each night when I crawled in, those streaks would give me a feeling of insecurity until I remembered what they were. Than I could nestle in amongst them and go to sleep—but every night I had that small shock. About two weeks ago I noticed I had a big ridge in my back each morning when I got up. Then one morning it was raining and I made an investigation. The pad under the sheet had gotten out of focus. That was remedied quickly, and while I was doing that, I smoothed out the biggest wrinkles, and felt pretty well set until the really hot weather of August would set in.
My wool socks give me the most serious tremors. If it doesn't turn warm pretty soon, I don't know what I will do. I have four pairs. They can't be sent to the laundry. I have rotated them as scientifically as my ability permits. I have rigged up a chart on the marble top of the table whereon the radio sets, and I figure a day spent at the farm sprouting and grubbing bushes, etc., is equal to from two to two and a half days at the Bank. But I find that won't do. I have to make it either two or three days, one or the other. It would be silly to sit at the Bank until noon of the second day, come home and change socks, and then go back for the remainder of that second day .. . .
"Little" Ernest's 80 acres is sold and gone and I have the money to send him, perhaps tomorrow. He got a rather good price for the land—$6,000 cash. That is not to be sneezed at. . .
Both Tom Walden and Mr. Ferguson are going to be able to see, although both are still in the Hospital of course. I shall try to go out tonight to see what they look like now.
I eat my suppers at Mrs. Bridges'. If it weren't for those meals, I don't believe I could make it. These restaurants are terrible, and my teeth are worse than that. . .
Footser's last year's room mate—the Pulliam girl—is going to get married some time this month. Her father, who is principal or sole owner of the Indianapolis Star, gave her some sort of shower yesterday at Indianapolis. Footser evidently went, as did about all the girls down at the Theta House. . .
Time to quit, except to say that, with the European War about over, in my judgment Japan won't be hard or very long to clean out, once the Allies get started, so Ralph should be heading this way in the more or less near future.
"Pap"
Note: The "Pulliam girl", referred to above, later became an aunt of Dan Quayle, U.S. Senator from Indiana and Vice President under President George Bush.
MEAT SCARCE, EVERYTHING UP BUT FARM INCOME
June 6, 1945
My dear Sarah Jane: . . . Of late, Ira has had me on the seed wagon, filling up the drill for him with seed and commercial fertilizer, while he rides the tractor and does the sowing. Between fills I try my hand on thorn and other sapling stuff, and Tuesday night I came home almost a physical wreck. Each year it gets harder and harder climbing up and down on wagons. I used to climb the fences but now I take to the gates. Ira says I should work in "gopher hole coal mines" if I really want to know what work is. In one of those things is where Ira got his hip busted—the darned thing caved-in on him. As a result he is crippled in one leg and can't run very fast.
But you should see him running to get between young ground hogs and their holes. Monday we drilled soy beans on what Ira calls the "wind mill field." This field has a big tile ditch running through it, and along that ditch is a clump of willows. Ira was driving the tractor pulling the drill behind, when all of a sudden he flew off his tractor and ran to the willows. He had caught three young ground hogs up a bush. He ran to the holes and kicked them full of dirt—and here the young hogs came. Having no club he used his feet. His foot batting average was .666, meaning he got two of the three. That noon he "butchered", and that took half an hour. Skinning ground hogs isn't quite like skinning rabbits. Ira eats them and says they are fine. I say nothing because long years ago, Lum Alspaugh and I went to Eel River Falls to run his grandfather's farm while the family attended Methodist Conference at Greencastle, and we tried eating everything about in wild life that wears hair or feathers— rabbits, squirrels, quail, crows, chicken hawks, buzzards, ground hogs, skunk, domestic chickens, etc. Both did the hunting but Lum was head cook—in fact he was sole cook.
I did the dish washing, if it could be called that. . . I ate enough of whatever it was to be able to say I had partaken. . . Young ground hogs are not bad, but they aren't very good either— too greasy. Ira relishes them. I prefer corn fed beef. . .
And that brings me to your questions about beef. . . The hotels and restaurants hereabouts have very little meat. Sugar Foot tells me they have red meat at the Theta House one meal each week, so that may be an indication of the general situation. . . I killed a beef in April. He has been a Godsend for Aunt Margaret and me. What we haven't eaten and the attendants out at the Locker Plant haven't stolen is still there. If you or Bob could hunt around and find a box of the right sort that would hold, say, 50 pounds of meat together with 50 pounds of dry ice, and if shipping meat to children is not contrary to law, I think something could be done to relieve you and the rest of the children in this part of the country. . . I am too busy on all this land we have to be finding out all the details and hunting up all the containers. I get up from 3 to 4 a.m. and get to bed from 9 to 10 p.m.
Now about your so-called black market. A lot of that is "old wives" and political talk. There are black markets, especially in the big centers of population, but Worcester is no big center, and if the people there are the right sort, then there is no opening for much of a black market—unless the people themselves make it. Whenever you hear of a black market you can rest assured the inhabitants themselves are to blame, because if there is no patronage then there will be no market. I am sorry to hear you say you will patronize such a market if you can find it. That is exactly what causes black markets. Blaming it all on the government or anything else is not the remedy—it is only a flimsy excuse. . . We had an embyro black market at Russellville even. Two men went down to the Hazlett boys and tried to buy a steer they were fattening for the Indpls. market. They offered a good price—more than the steer would have brought on the legitimate market. They said they would butcher it there on the farm, then in the evening they would come down and truck it home. The Hazlett boys got a bit suspicious and came to me. I told them nobody could buy a steer and butcher it then and there, farmer or no farmer. The owner would have to feed it for not less than 30 days. They refused this sale. I told them to report the prospective buyers. Don't think they did. If they come to me— which they won't—I'll report them. We don't need that sort of people in and around Russellville, or anywhere else. . .
Footser goes to Mexico City, leaving St. Louis June 20 on the Missouri Pacific Lines. She has a lower to San Antonio, then another lower to Mexico City. . . So she is set for what she thinks is a nice time in Mexico in school at that University, taking Spanish. Just the fare there and back will take a sizable steer, at the price we get for our steers, so there is where I can put in a howl, good and loud. . . George Spencer told me that before the War he paid $1.39 for shirts at Montgomery Ward's. Today the same shirt costs him over $5.50 per shirt. And George doesn't lie or resort to his imagination. Just the cold fact. At the price we pay for shirts, we should be getting $50 for cattle on the hoof. We get $16 to $18. . . Yesterday I bought 5 bananas at A&P for 23 cents. I think they were the first for two or three years. Based on that price, cattle should be bringing between $30 and $35. So if anyone has a kick coming it is the farmer—just like it always has been. . . Now the thing for me to do is quit howling and get out of the cattle business and into the banana or textile business—for both of which I am too old and inexperienced. But better still, is to wait until this War is over and go into politics for the farmer, teeth and toe nail—for which I am also too old to do the very best job. "Pap"
CONTROLLING SQUIRRELS IS TOUGH ON THE ROOF
June 28, 1945
Dear Frank: . . . We had a lot of corn in the crib at Ernest's place over in Montgomery County. The squirrels were eating it at a fearful rate. I expect they ate about 50 bushels of corn. The whole top of the corn in the cribs were solid cobs. I didn't know squirrels could do so much eating. Ira had been telling me about it . . . Anyway, we went over one day to bring a couple of loads back to the home farm. When we got there, there were four squirrels in the crib that we counted. They went out the back end like flying squirrels. I had the gun along. The crib had a galvanized roof. One squirrel got right up in the apex of the roof . . . I let him have it. The shot splattered more than I had thought it would, so the roof is like a sieve. Another squirrel was on the "plate" just below the tin roof, outside the crib proper. So I let him have it, and that punched about 50 holes in the tin roof outside the crib. That was darned poor judgment, but the sight of those cobs had made me see red. They came to the crib by way of the walnut trees and other trees along the west line fence. As Ira loaded, I watched that string of trees. Didn't take long for them to start a procession toward the crib. When they got on the last walnut tree, closest to the crib, I let go at them. In all, we got eight. . .
The second day, Ira was discing and I was at the crib alone loading the wagon we had brought along . . . and throwing out cobs. During one of my rests, I heard one on the roof. Soon he appears inside the crib going toward the corn . . . and he jumped on a plate under the board floor right in front of me. I had one of your skeet loads in the right barrel for just such an occasion. I thought the wooden floor would protect the roof. So I let him have it, and the sky appeared through the tin roof as if by magic. . . "Pap"
CHAPTER V: LAST THINGS—1946-1954
Pap was pleased when his son returned from the war to settle in Greencastle and join the law practice. In fact, as time went on, he turned over most of the cases to Frank, quit his lobbying position for the railroads, ceased attending legislative sessions and devoted more and more of his attention to the farm and his investments.
Pap being Pap, however, he could not resist using this newfound luxury of time to write scores of letters about numerous subjects to various parties. It was probably his most productive literary period. With tongue nestled securely in cheek, he wrote:
— manufacturers, suggesting new inventions (such as a carving knife made from razor blades);
— corporations, complaining about directors who had less confidence (or at least less stock) in their companies than Pap did;
—family and old friends, offering investment advice (don't speculate);
— Congressmen, opposing pork-barrel spending and advocating a balanced budget.
On at least one occasion, he even left a note attached to a package of dry-iced beef being shipped to a daughter in New England, beseeching the cooperation of railroad cargo handlers in facilitating the endeavor.
Pap took some trips with Munny or his grown children, to check up on his property in Kansas or to visit with old friends, and went on one extended journey through Latin America.
And always, he wrote.
These were Pap's "Golden Years," and he felt entitled to let his mind wander a bit, reflecting on his youth and past glories. He was not shy about relating these memories, even to total strangers, sometimes in an allegorical manner to make a point, and sometimes just for fun.
A DOUBLE-EDGED CARVING KNIFE?
December 1, 1946
Gillette Safety Razor Company
Boston Mass.
Gentlemen: Did I see it, hear or read about it—or did I just dream it? Somehow, somewhere or someway I have the notion a contraption was, or is on the market, consisting of a thin metal holder in which, say, three or four used double-edged razor blades can be inserted in a line, and thus make a carving knife. . . Is there such a tool, is it practical, where can it be bought and what does it cost?
Gentlemen, strange as it may seem to you, I am in dead earnest about this seemingly frivolous matter. I don't have the knack for sharpening carving knives. Scissors grinders are few and far between in a town our size. Since the advent of chain-stores, butcher shops are passť, and chain-store managers look on you as a sort of moocher when you ask them to sharpen your knives . . . Then too, a dulling carving knife slips up on you like a heavy wine. Sooner or later you come home and there is a fowl to be carved, the stores are closed and the knives are dull. Only last Thursday I rassled a turkey all over the dining room. Hence, all this is fresh in my mind and I am writing this inquiry before I again forget about it—temporarily.
I am enclosing stamped and addressed envelope for your convenience. Please do me the favor. After a fashion . . . you sort of owe it to me. I bought my first Gillette when in college sometime between 1900 and 1904. I still have it. I have used no other kind except trying an electric affair the folks gave me one time for Christmas, but I couldn't get the hang of it somehow. One of the children commandeered it long ago. So, in truth and in fact I am a 40-odd-year customer of yours. . . . Yours, for sharper carving knives,
NEVER ON A SUNDAY
July 27, 1947
My dear Ann Drew: The new Buick came a week ago last Thursday. It is some sort of supersonic model and the hind end sticks out of Ben Curtis' garage. . . Right off the bat Aunt Margaret wanted to drive the following Saturday to North Manchester to "see Ida." She telephoned Ida, who got us reservations at the local hotel for Saturday night, and up we went. . . to see Ida at the Peabody Home—an elegant place for a place of that character. Ida now is one of the oldest inhabitants and has a front room. . .After supper we drove all over town and a short way into the country and Ida liked that very, very much. Then back to the home where the evening's conversation ran to bad eyesight, constipation and poor circulation, and Ida was worried about contracting some drug habit. Aunt M. suggested whiskey to my utter surprise, and Ida countered she would be afraid she would contract the whiskey habit. The field narrowed down to fruits and fruit juices. . .
Next morning, we took Ida for a good long ride in the country. Then started for home. Things went fine until we got past Wabash on our way to Peru, and Aunt Margaret's conscience began to catch up with her, and she started quoting: "The Lord made Heaven and Earth in six days and on the 7th He rested . . . Six days shall thou work and . . . remember the Sabbath to keep it holy (etc.)" —Really, sometime she had taken a good deal of trouble to learn all her quotations—they lasted most all the way into the edge of Peru. Finally, I said: "If I felt that way about it, I wouldn't take any more Sunday trips"—and she agreed heartily. . .
Somewhere between Kokomo and Crawfordsville, Aunt Margaret suggested that we "come by Frank's orchard south of Morton and get some Early Transparents," as she wanted to make a little jelly. To do that we would have to go out of our way and over a lot of loose gravel and through a lot of dust with the new shiny car, so, after a proper interval, I said: "Well, I don't know whether you would want to do that on Sunday or not"—just like a first class undertaker would say it. She thought a moment and then said: "That is right. I forgot. We can let that wait until some week day."
Between Crawfordsville and home she suggested that "we go out to Arcola next Sunday and see Aunt Laura and George." I let that one go and it was agreed she would write Aunt Laura that night and tell her we were coming. . . She wrote, but along about Wednesday she asked me if I still wanted to go out to Arcola. I said: "That is up to you". . . Friday evening she called me over and wanted me to send a telegram to Arcola saying we would not be there Sunday—her conscience had caught up again. I sent the telegram, and that was that.
That morning bright and early, Frank came over and, after the proper preliminaries and maneuvering, told me several of the VFW were going to Lebanon, about 40 miles from here, Saturday to a District Meeting; that he was to be installed District Provost, or some such thing; that the back seat of his new Ford was not very comfortable; that he was to take five of them along with him; that five would make it very crowded and uncomfortable in that small a car; that on LONG trips a Ford didn't ride as easily as a larger car; and that he was just wondering if he might take the Buick for a long hard drive like that, etc., etc. Lord! How my sympathy for those old veterans—two of whom were over 30 years of age—welled up in my throat and almost stifled me. Of course they couldn't be asked or expected to submit to the jolting and short wheel base of a brand new Ford on a trip of that character. I suggested soft pillows and plenty of wool blankets, and offered to ask Mrs. Pierce or George McHaffie, who drive cars (both octogenarians) to do the driving and see after the parking and care of the car on arrival so those foot-sore and war-wracked shells of their former selves should be put to a minimum of pain and inconvenience.
Result: They went in the Buick. It rained like hell. Frank took the Buick home and washed it, then came past Aunt Margaret's and told her what a nice ride they had had. Then home to put the car part of the way in Ben's garage.
Further result: Aunt Margaret called me at 1 p.m. today and asked if I wanted to drive down to Shakamak State Park, about 30 miles south of Terre Haute. I told her it looked like more rain—and it did—and then asked if she wanted to drive that far on Sunday. She actually laughed out loud, said she had forgotten, and to just let it go. Time to quit, Pap
FOR CLARITY'S SAKE
August 13, 1947
Dear Footser: I am trying to make this a round robin letter because since my last missive of that character I have heard from all of you except Ann Drew at least once. You will have to show this copy to Margaret and Munny, and that way everybody will have equal access to my words of wisdom.
As seems to be my custom, according to most of you, I will start out in a more or less critical vein. Your letters are hard to read, and you are to be some sort of bilingual secretary to someone having a decidedly foreign name. . . Now, down to business. You start at $35 per week, which in these days isn't much probably, but at that you have a start of $33 on me—$2 is the munificent sum I received as Head Janitor and Assistant Bookkeeper at staid, dependable, conservative, old Russellville Bank. . . Anyway and however, don't let the starting salary get you down. Everybody has to start, and those who start on a small scale sometimes get to be those who end with a big auger, boring a big hole. If the job is what you want, then the thing to do is to accept, and try it out. As long as you try and apply yourself, and work at it for the interests of your employers, you can rest assured I will help you out financially—that seems to be what us old fellers are here for.
I have written a pass for you, New York to Greencastle and return. I don't know whether it will come or not—the Roads are tightening up, especially on children who have reached maturity. . . . The big roads now have a rule of issuing only so many passes to each family every year, and they evidently base the number on a normal family, as normal families go these times—so we are handicapped right at the start. . .
Sarah Jane asked about beef, and the chance to get some in some way. That is much easier said than done. It involves a whole lot of things. I will not be fattening—that is, corn feeding—any cattle this Winter. I do not have the corn, and the present crop looks mighty bad. It is quite probable I could buy a whole carcass or half a carcass for her here, but there is no easy way getting it to her. It would be very expensive, because it would have to be processed here, then shipped to her in dry ice, and dry ice is hard to get. It has to come from Indpls. and is a problem to go get and then pack around the beef back here. Then too, freight handling is questionable and it would be a mighty easy thing to get side-tracked and thus spoil. Beef out here is also very high. . .
Find out where the roller towels are. The one you and Margaret left was a bit dirty when you got away, and now it looks like the one at the old high school building that hung at the side of the printing press . . . . Pap
THANKS FOR THE COMPLIMENT ANYWAY
February 3, 1948
The Honorable Frank M. Martin
Spencer, Indiana
My dear Frank: . . . You have made it hard to refuse your kind and thoughtful offer to make the after-dinner talk in March. There are many, many reasons why I should not, among them being I am totally out of practice, and my experience with false teeth has been fearful- -and unexpected.
Frank, I want you to realize I am sincerely obliged for your thoughtfulness in asking me down. Invitations of that character are coming fewer and farther between. As a matter of cold fact, however, I am oratorically about where old Anthony Battle, an ex- slave, was financially a long time ago when Uncle Bob Black operated a horse and mule sale barn here. Needing some change, he turned to Anthony and asked him if he had change for a $10 bill. "No suh", said Uncle Anthony, "but ah thanks you fo' th' compl'ment jes th' same." As Ever,
TICKETS TO THE INDY 500
March 17, 1948
Mr. B. Ryall Chant
Care: Chant & Co.
Port Jervis, New York
My dear Ryall:
I have your letter of March 10th, concerning tickets for the 500
Mile Race and hotel reservations for May 28-31, 1948.
I have had reservations made for you at the Claypool Hotel. . . Due to the tremendous demand for rooms all hotels hike their prices for the Race and all require advance deposits. . . Your entire room bill will be $53—$45 of which must be paid in advance. . . The Claypool is the Royal Baking Powder of Indianapolis hotels, but the Lincoln is beginning to cut-in. All Race activities, however, will be centered in and around the Claypool.
Tickets for the Race are something else again. They begin going in the Fall prior to the Race. Being a Democrat and therefore in disrepute in Indiana these past three years, I had to work through Railroad connections to the Governor's No. 1 man, who is a R.R. associate and who assures me he will get the best tickets available, due to the fact the Race people always retain desirable seats—just in case. I tried to get you in a box within hailing distance, at least, of His Honor, but in my judgment, if you ever see him there at all, he will appear about the size of a blue-bottle fly. Remember the track is two and a half miles per lap and all the grandstand, paddock and other seating is outside the track. . . Naturally, I am getting you as near the starting (and finishing) wire as is humanly possible this late date . . . I do not know the cost of the tickets, but my guess is $15 to $18 each. . .
You will probably see a half-mile of 100 and more massed bands coming down the stretch, as one of the preliminaries. All the Fords, Firestones, Chryslers, Buicks, Packards, Goodyears, Nashes, Goodrichs and Perfect Circle Rings will be among those present, and you will look over a square mile and better of solid parked cars. Castor oil fumes will make you think of Ma and Pa long years ago. . . Yours, for more paddock seats,
SOME GENUINE INDIANA MAPLE 'MOLASSES'
March 24, 1948
Hon. S.C. Murray, General Counsel
New York Central System
La Salle Station
Chicago, Illinois
My dear Mr. Murray: I am sending you some maple molasses almost hot from the evaporator. These molasses are the product of the President of our small Bank at Russellville, Mr. Harold A. Fordice, who is a Presbyterian, a Wabash College graduate, a Phi Beta Kappa, a Republican—and a bachelor. He is also a most ethical gentleman, and therefore far, far from adulterating his molasses with anything whatsoever, as is now pretty much the custom by reason of the fact maple molasses prices have soared about like I did the time I first took the oath as a Member of the General Assembly at Indianapolis in 1913 . . . adulterated flavor is almost forgotten. Children, generally speaking, do not like it. They prefer sugar syrups. What you will be receiving is the pure article. . . Maple molasses hereabouts are almost a thing of the past—like wild pigeons and Democratic landslides. The old trees are dying out, and no new ones coming on. Lately, the new President of Wabash College sent down to Russellville a general order for 100 gallons. . . Respectfully,
P.S. A real old time genuine Hoosier never speaks of the Indiana brand as being a "maple syrup." A.E.D.
WHERE'S THE BEEF?
Undated note attached to a package of frozen beef shipped by rail.
To whomsoever reads this:
This baggage contains some frozen beef an old Hoosier pappy is taking his daughter and grandchildren in Worcester, Mass. It left Greencastle, Ind., at 12:50 p.m.(?)3-29-49 on N.Y.C. No. 12 (Southwestern). The old pappy and his meat will probably part company at Buffalo, where his car will be transferred to N.Y.C. No. 28 (New England States) that evidently does not carry baggage. So, where and how his meat will go from Buffalo on, only you will know—the old pappy hopes the quickest and most direct way, and therefore respectfully asks your help, if you can give any.
The meat you are sitting on just didn't happen—like paw paws and wild black berries. It is out of an 1,800-pound, nearly three- year-old Hereford steer, dry-lot and corn-fed for over a year. In case you don't know . . . the 1947-48 and 1948-49 winters in Indiana weren't exactly like Miami Beach of a sunny Sunday afternoon. . . Rain, snow and sleet. Cold rubber boots in February mud. Sockless shoes in July dust. All the clothes you can pile on in winter, and about all the law allows you to take off in hot summer. . . The cement water tank has to be kept full of clean drinking water in summer, and the tank warmer going on below freezing days.
"Seminole IV," as we called him, to finish out well, had to have a clean place in the barn to eat, to stand in, and to sleep in. That called for a pitch fork, a strong back, and a conveniently placed manure spreader. Fresh bedding, feed grinder going every other day, a handy block of salt, a little ground alfalfa hay, the gates and corn crib doors kept shut. . . We'll say nothing about the 150 odd bushels of ground corn it took to put Seminole to 1,800 pounds, but it didn't just sift itself into his feed trough automatically—from nowhere.
No. There was more to Seminole than the well-trimmed sirloin steak you see on the kitchen table all ready for the broiler.
And so it may happen after grandpappy is gone and the grandchildren are grown-up and in well-worn harness themselves, they will say, "Well, the old fellow was a pretty good sort after all, but, on the other hand, it does seem that with the War prices they had in his day, he could have left a little more if he had tried a little harder."
Just in the event you want to make some comments and have the time and inclination to tell of Seminole's progress and last whereabouts, I am enclosing some addressed post cards for your convenience. Nothing compulsory—wholly voluntary. I thank you. Prayerfully,
CUBAN DIVORCE, NOT HORSE DISEASE
June 17, 1949
U.S. Senator Homer E. Capehart
Washington, D.C.
My dear Senator:
I am in rather urgent need of learning all the grounds for Divorce in Cuba. Is that information easily available to you there in Washington? If so, I would greatly appreciate such information. The information I am seeking is of considerable value to some interested clients here.
In your experience as Senator you have doubtless had some rare requests from the "folks back home." This inquiry of mine should rank rather high. A year ago . . . I could not then visualize my divorce practice getting much beyond the confines of the State of Indiana.
This letter reminds me of an experience I had long years ago. . . I wrote my Congressman, Ralph Moss, asking if he would send me a copy of Jefferson's Manual. In due course of mail here came a rather well-bound copy of "The Diseases of Horses," and a note saying he had had considerable difficulty complying with my request as the edition was exhausted. How it happened that way, I will never know—nor did Mr. Moss. . .
A BETTER USE FOR 'REMOVABLE SEATS'?
June 24, 1949
Case & Sons
Robinson, Illinois
Gentlemen: I'm having a devil of a time with a Case lavatory in the second floor bathroom here at home, and to me it seems far rougher than it should be. The cold water faucet sprung a drip—a most persistent drip. My friend and plumber, Mr. Lee Reeves, came up from time to time and eventually diagnosed the case (no intended pun on your name) as the water in the cold faucet having cut or worn a groove across the top of the removable seat for that faucet. He had none to fit, so he sort of filed the groove out, said the repair would probably be temporary, and in the meantime we'd both begin a quest for Case removable seats that would fit. I went to Indianapolis to the Central supply Co. They said they had none, but if they did they'd have to know the number or size of the lavatory, as different-sized lavatories had different- sized removable seats. I came home but could find no number. . .
I bought that lavatory from you in person, direct, about 1942—or just about the time the Government stopped your selling to the proletariat. I was frantic for some bathroom fixtures. The family had taken a fancy to yours on account of its alleged quietness. The girls were in the University here. It was brooded among my womenfolk that every time they had company the "old man" started the water going in the bathrooms and it sounded like Coulee Dam after a hard rain. I got in the car and drove to Robinson. You folks finally fixed me up with two lavatories. I brought them home in the car. It must have been that at that same time you ordered me a bath tub from Louisville or Cincinnati. . .
In due time the old you-know-what started her drip, drip, drip, getting worse. . . Yesterday Mr. Reeves came up with an assortment of removable seats he had collected. He took out the offending removable seat, and sure enough, the water or pixies or gremlins had again cut a channel across the top of said removable seat. He thought he had a removable seat that would fit—it seemed the same size as the original—but it didn't. In desperation he gave up the job. We turned off the cold water intake at the valve underneath. He took the old offending removable seat for further efforts to get a duplicate. We heartily damned removable seats of all and every kind and character and wheresoever situated, together with the companies who made 'em.