Letters From an Old Time Salesman to His Son

Dear Hal:

Mother and I have had several executive sessions since receiving your last letter, and you can well imagine that I’ve received a lot of “advice” from her as to just how to answer it, but it’s no use—the Good Lord so constituted me that I have to “speak right out in meeting” if at all, so if I’m going to advise you along the line you requested, I’ve just got to tell you how I feel about it without reservation, so here goes!

You didn’t tell us much in your letter about how far this affair of yours had gone and it makes it a little difficult on that account. You talk like there’s nothing “serious” yet and that you’re just wondering about certain “features” of Life’s greatest adventure. Well, I hope you’re not kidding the “old man,” for I’m too old a bird to know that if you’re all through with the overture, prologue and the medley of popular airs between the first and second act, that it’s too late for me to try and break up the party, so if you’re telling me the truth, the few words of advice I’ll give may fall on fertile ground, but if not, Boy, it may sting a little, but anyway, you’ve brought it on yourself, as Delilah remarked to Sampson when he started the rough house in the Temple.

I have half a notion to send your letter back to you just to show you how little you really told us about Her. About all I’ve been able to gather, after reading your letter about five times, is that she’s about the finest thing in petticoats that ever wielded a lipstick; comes from “an awfully old and respected family;” is the only child; has been raised a pet; is beautiful and accomplished (presume you mean by that, she can dress herself with the assistance of a couple of maids) and her “old man” has oodles of money. Humph! somehow that description don’t thrill me a bit!

Now, Red, before you begin to get red above the collar-band, just let me say in passing that I don’t mean anything personal about the girl at all—she cannot help it because she’s that way, and there’s just a chance that I’ve got her all wrong. No doubt she’s all you said about her and then some, but if she is, I’m just wondering if you accidentally picked up a white chip on the floor, or just how you came to get a hand in the game?

Not that there’s anything about it that isn’t good enough for anyone of that description—no—far be it from me, Red, to run down the quality of your personal line, but your description doesn’t mean anything to a fellow who has lived long enough to know that there’s something more to this life than moonlight and honeysuckle. I can almost hear you say that the “old man” is hard-boiled, maybe I am, but there’s a practical side to this matrimonial game and it is a pretty good thing to consider seriously before you go into the musical comedy features.

Now let’s discuss this thing from a sensible standpoint. This “old and respected family” business is a nice thing, Red, but it will not add a single item to the order you get from the wholesale grocer around the corner: What does she know about sewing buttons on a union suit so you will not have to use up a whole card of safety pins? I’ve found that knowledge fairly essential in cold weather.

She’s an “only child”—a “pet,” eh? Well, that’s fine, Red. It’s nice to know that you will not have a couple of “old maid” sisters-in-law to help you ride range and boss the outfit, but does she show any signs of being ambitious enough to get up at 6:30 A. M. and cook breakfast for you, or do you think you’d have to go around to the Greasy Greek’s for your coffee and? Maybe that thought hasn’t occurred to you, especially when standing under a Southern Moon when the Zephyrs waft the odor of the Lilacs; but, Boy, the Zephyrs should some day waft the odor of a few pieces of bacon with you on the receiving end in your own dining room, and you’ll appreciate that more and more as your pompadour recedes.

I like that part of your description where you say she’s beautiful and accomplished. That means a lot, Boy, but am wondering if you mean it the way I’d like to believe. God never made anything more beautiful than a good woman. She’s His Masterpiece, all right—there’s no doubt about that, but some folks’ idea of beauty is different from mine. The cleverest word painter who ever wrote a massage cream ad, couldn’t commence to picture that beauty—that beggars description—that rapturous smile that is born of the very whispering of angels which lights a mother’s face when she hears the first cry of her new-born babe. Beauty—why, Boy—the symmetry or form and feature of a Venus pales into insignificance beside it, and the funny thing about it is no one woman, or type, has a corner on it. Of course, you’ve never dreamed of that example, but it’s coming to you, Boy, it’s coming to you.

And “accomplished”—well, what do you mean by that? Has she taken a post-graduate course in Victrola lessons, can toddle and sing in Society’s amateur “Follies,” or do you mean you think she could some day referee a bout between a couple of lusty-lunged seven and ten-year-old boys, croon a lullaby to a nursing baby and keep the Sunday roast from burning, all at the same time? I’ll say you want to get one that’s “accomplished,” but it’s a damsite more important to visualize just what they could “accomplish” later, than what has gone before.

Note you say “her old man has oodles of money,” but you forgot to mention whether he was a burglar, a politician, or a flat owner—not that there’s very much difference, but I was sort of curious. Anyway, as I see it, that’s the least important thing in your description. The “old man” may be a decent sort, after all, and may have got it by marriage or from one of Ryan’s tips on the stock market, so it may not be his fault. At least, I don’t see how that’s going to affect you in the least. I know you well enough to know, Red, that you’ll never become one of those parasites who, on account of having money in the family, find their most arduous duty the daily airing of a poodle dog on a string—neither can I picture you under any circumstances paying your cigarette bills with other than the coin you had personally earned, so I’m not going to comment on that feature.

Now listen, Red, I expect you think that I’ve been pretty caustic in the foregoing, and in order to let you win an argument I’ll agree; but, Boy, this marriage thing is a more serious problem than you think it is. I appreciate that there are a great many requisites to look for in a wife that I haven’t enumerated above. It goes without saying that you will choose eventually a girl fully worthy of you in intelligence, beauty, lineage and what not, but I do want you to come down out of the clouds—realize that there’s something more to it than love and kisses and a cottage.

Remember the girl you choose will sit across the table from you for thousands of dinners. She may look awfully good in a party dress, but will she show up as well in a Mother Hubbard with her hair in curl papers? She may make an exquisite Welsh rarebit, but can she brew a real cup of coffee? She may be charming in the receiving line at an afternoon function, but can she build a satisfactory pair of rompers?

I’ve sort of born down on one feature, Red—I’ve done so advisedly, because in my opinion the deciding question, after all is said and done, is, “What kind of a mother will she make for my children?” If you can honestly answer that question and give a favorable one, the rest will take care of themselves, Boy—the rest will take care of themselves.

And, after reading this, Red, if the idea should come to you that maybe the “old man” don’t know what he’s talking about, just stop a minute—pause, Boy, and consider that it took some little picker to choose one who has come up to every one of these qualifications—your Mother! and the other half of the sketch knows that he’ll always be proud to sign himself

Your loving,

“DAD.”