sixteen-year-old daughter, Alice. Alex Hamel and John Kenoyer, part time
type-setters, were not working that week. Alice was that sort of girl
who would do pretty much as she pleased so long as her papa would
stay downstairs and attend strictly to his editorial, and his hardware
business.
This day Stowell stayed downstairs until the thing happened—then he
rushed from the editorial office on the first floor in front, eighty
feet back to the rear, then up the stairs to the second floor, and back
again eighty feet to the composing room. Alice, who knew her father
better than I did, whispered, “Oh, Lordy, he’s mad as a wet hen. Don’t
give me away, please!”
John wanted to know, “Oo was it that ‘ad offended little Miss ‘Utch?”
Neither of us had the answer. Coral Hutchison, a frequent and I may say
most welcome caller—preferably on any day but Thursday—and Alice had
put in a couple of hours visiting, as young girls will. And this was
Thursday afternoon, our press day. I asked Alice to speed up her work a
little so that we might make the deadline before six o’clock. It did no
good. I had to speak to Alice a second time, not harshly, however—and
Coral, apparently understanding the situation, left. But when she passed
the editorial office downstairs, Stowell said she was crying.
After John Stowell had gone downstairs that day, Alice said, “If he asks
you again—and I know he will—tell him what you told me about Coral
after she had been up here last week. That would tickle him, and he will
forget all about her tears.”
Well, John Stowell did ask me again. He really wanted to know. And I
told him, shielding Alice as much as I could. He said, “I understand.
You did right. Make ‘er pay attention to ‘er work. But I just didn’t
like to see a nice girl like little Miss ‘Utch leaving my place of
business, crying.”
I squared myself with John by saying—and meaning — that it would be a
grievously short-sighted thing for any young fellow to knowingly offend
“Little Miss ‘Utch. Besides being “some” girl, she would likely some day
be an heiress. But, then, even so, this fact was something less than
a comforting thought to one very fine young local merchant who fancied
himself well entrenched in her future matrimonial plans. When he began
talking about what they could accomplish with her papa’s wealth—she quit
him, cold.
“Little Miss ‘Utch” was the daughter of Charley Hutchison, but everybody
except Stowell called him “Hutch.” I knew Charley quite intimately for a
dozen years before I learned that his name was really Hutchison.
What I had told Alice about Coral that day is not in itself worth
repeating here. But it offers a chance to introduce an outstanding
success story—a success in the redemption of waning manhood, as well
as in a financial way. Also, this injection does not strictly belong
in this story — but, in line with my adopted hop, skip, and jump
reminiscing technique, I shall try to make it fit.
I told Alice that Coral was the only girl who had ever asked me to come
and see her sometime when her papa wasn’t around. And I might say she
was in deadly earnest about this. Her papa would not permit her
to entertain me in the manner she had in mind. It was not that he
disapproved of me. In fact, it was on his invitation that I was in the
presence of the girl at the moment. Also, her papa was at the time just
outside the hearing of the conspirators.
My brother Charley, Clifford Ashton, and I, were cutting sumac for my
father’s tanyard on the Hutchison land south of the big barn. Charley
Hutchison had followed his four-year-old daughter out to the barn that
day to prevent her from going through her stunt—the thing she wanted me
to witness. Charley saw us in the sumac patch, and came out, bringing
Coral with him. He said he had a big watermelon patch close to the barn,
and invited us to help ourselves to the melons—then, and thereafter
whenever working in the vicinity. He also said he had to watch Coral
closely — that whenever she would get the chance she’d climb up to the
beams in the big barn and jump off into the hay. Hay hands were bringing
in the harvest at that time — and of course the barn was opened up.
Bees were buzzing around broken melons in the patch, and the little
girl, apparently frightened of them, tried to hide her face against my
legs. Charley said that while they — the father, mother, and child—were
visiting his people in Ohio, after having attended the Centennial (1876)
in Philadelphia, Coral had sat down on a “live” beehive and got stung so
badly as to make her very sick; the swelling in her face almost closing
her eyes.
Charley Hutchison’s father was a wealthy brewer back in Ohio. Charley
acquired the drink habit. When his family thought they had him shut off
from the liquor supply, he would sneak into the storage cellar, bore a
hole in a whisky barrel, and suck the stuff out through a straw.
Charley was sent out here, in the hope of curing him of the drink habit.
He was given a section of land on Wolfley creek, three miles northwest
of Wetmore—and supplied with money to improve the land. I think he was
then left wholly on his own. I do not recall ever seeing any of his
people out here.
Charley Hutchison came here in 1870, and was about 21 years old—a
modest, likeable young man. He spent most of his first year here, in
town. He lived at the Hugh Fortner Hotel—and while rooming there, lost
$500, which he had placed under his pillow. There was no bank here then.
When Charley loafed downtown—which was much of the time that first
year—he made my father’s shoeshop his headquarters. The shop was on the
north side of the main street, opposite John Clifton’s saloon on the
south side. Charley was really trying to taper off in his drinking,
and seldom entered the saloon. He tried to avoid the amenities of the
drinking gentry. He would sometimes, when alone, take one drink, and
then come across to the shoeshop.
Though not a relative of ours, John Clifton was the step-son of my Uncle
Nick Bristow, and he often dropped in at the shoeshop. My mother worked
with my father in the shop. She asked John Clifton to not encourage
Charley in his drinking. Clifton said “Hutch” was really doing fine, and
that he would help the boy all that he could.
Then a girl came down from the prairie country in the neighborhood of
what is now Goff—”Pucker Brush” it was called then—to work in Peter
Shuemaker’s new hotel. Anna Mackey was a nice looking girl—too nice
looking, Charley said, to go out with the landlord’s “drunken” son. It
really worried Charley. He said one day, “I believe I’ll try to stop
it.” He did. He married Anna. And never again did he take a drink. My
mother and Clifton both took credit for helping him over the hump. But I
suspect it was the girl from the prairie country who had transformed him
short off into an abstainer.
Charley Hutchison was the only one of several whom I knew that were sent
out here from the east, when this country was new, for a like purpose,
that made good. There was no finer man than Charley Hutchison—a
conscientious, upright Christian gentleman. Compared to “Jersey”
Campbell, a New Jersey drinking boy, located on the best half section of
land south of Goff, Charley Hutchison’s performance was phenomenal.
But then, maybe there never was an “Anna” in Jersey’s life. Charley
Hutchison sold his land to Fred Shumaker, and moved to Wetmore in the
early eighties. He built the home now owned by Mrs. James Grubb.
Let me say here that Alice Stowell was an attentive little type-setter
when she worked for me after I had bought The Spectator—and that Coral
Hutchison still was a frequent and most welcome caller. Also, they had
learned that it was important that visitors be seen and not heard on
press days. Coral continued her visits to the office long after Alice
Stowell had married Marsh Younkman, and moved to Tulsa, Oklahoma—and
after Myrtle Mercer had taken Alice’s place in the printing office.
Coral seemed to like the smell of printer’s ink—and she continued her
regular visits long after she married Charley Locknane.
While still quite young, Coral Hutchison was the town’s top pianist and
singer, a distinction she held throughout the years against all comers.
She even competed favorably, in song, with the girls from the Colony,
whose reputation as singers was widespread. The younger generation of
Colonists were superb entertainers, anxious at all times to compete
against or team up with the young people from town, at their lyceums
held in the Wolfley school house. Wetmore had a “literary” society,
which gave entertainments, usually charging twenty-five cents
admission—while the Colonists always gave their shows for free.
Then, the time came when they combined in one big show, an epochal
achievement, at Wetmore—drawing two of the cast from the Colony. Ted
Fish was a specialty man, singing comical songs. His favorite rendition
had to do with the loan of a friend’s girl, the refrain running, “Hand
‘e wounted me to tike ‘is plice and do the best I cooud.” I’d heard him
sing it several times before at their lyceums. Coral Hutchison was also
a specialty singer—on a much higher and more pleasing musical plane,
however. John Stowell, long removed from the Colony, blacked his face,
rattled the bones—and played the concertina.
Bill Dutch, of the Colony, was leading man — and a mighty good one too.
Our own Miss Jane Thomas was leading lady—equally good. The play was
a “heavy” drama. I might say the whole cast except myself, was
exceptionally good. As to my own part, you shall be the judge. It was
not a speaking part. Months before this, I had blundered in a speaking
part on the stage—carelessly called a word what, by all the ethics
of decency, it should not have been called. It provoked uproarious
laughter—at my expense. And on a subsequent appearance upon the literary
stage I drew a concerted giggle before I even had time to open my mouth.
It completely unnerved me—for all time. I was so “befuddled” that I
couldn’t say a word, and I didn’t have the gumption to graciously bow
myself off the stage. I bolted off. And that’s how I became a writer.
It’s safest, anyhow.
When you blunder, you can always—if smart enough to detect it—scratch it
out. But spoken words, once said, can never be recalled.
The director, “Lord” Richard Bingham, was an Englishman — not related,
and unknown to the Colonists—who had dropped in here from, nobody knew
where, or why. He seemed to have a perpetual thirst for strong drink—and
the money with which to provide it. He was a remittance man — which is
to say he was a scion of a wealthy old country family, sent over here on
a monthly allowance, as riddance of a costly nuisance.
Director Bingham was apparently well educated, did not talk the
“Cockney” language of the Colonists — and had some dramatic ability. He
directed this home-talent show without pay—and did a pretty good job
of it. All he asked was a “little more McBriar,” his favorite brand
of whisky. And after he had “steamed up” on a generous quantity of the
nameless stuff from the local “speak-easy”—licensed saloons were out
here then—anything and everything was “good old McBriar.”
The show went over so well in Wetmore that the management decided to
repeat it at Capioma—and maybe go on the road with it. But, in the nick
of time, it was recalled that Henry Clinkenbeard, our photographer—or
rather our taker of daguerreotypes—had sponsored an all home-talent
minstrel show which also had gone over big here, but when tried out on
the road, proved a financial failure—and the road idea was written off.
All due to an outburst of alcoholic conviviality, Mr. Bingham saluted
Miss Jane on the takeoff for Capioma, assuring her that she would not
fail to “knock ‘em cold.” He did not go with the show. The management
willed that he remain in Wetmore where he could have ready access to
Charley McCarthy’s “blind-tiger” and enjoy to the full “a little more”
of his favorite “McBriar.”
The day of our Capioma appearance was cold. There was bright sunshine,
with a foot of snow on the ground. The whole cast—including Henry
Clinkenbeard and his brass band—went in several lumber wagons, arriving
in Capioma in time for supper at the Van Brunt farm home. I believe his
name was Jerry. Anyway, he was the father of Tunis and Teeny. The show
was held in the hall over the Van Pelt store, in town, diagonally across
the road west from the Van Brunt farm home.
I was taken along as assistant property man — and doubled in brass
(b-flat cornet)—but the cramped space for stage and dressing rooms in
the rather small Van Pelt hall developed a better spot for me. I was
made the custodian of the leading lady’s train—carried it in my two
hands just so from dressing room around sharp turns to the stage, and
paid out its many folds, at entrance, in a manner to avoid entanglement.
The twelve mile ride in open wagon, with bright sunshine bearing down on
the reflecting white snow, had done things to the girls’ faces. However,
the wise ones had fetched along cosmetics to make themselves presentable
— but our leading lady said she never had, and by the eternal bonds of
respectability, she never would use make-up. Although conceded to be the
privilege of stage-women, nice girls didn’t paint their faces in that
period. And although our Jane did eventually make Hollywood, I suspect
the day never came when she would use make-up.
Though a native of Wales, with maybe a dozen years in this country at
that time, Jane Thomas did not retain, markedly, the old country manner
of speech. She was endowed with a delightful little twist, all her
own—that is, something apart from that of other members of her family,
which was neither Welsh nor pure English. Jane was a pretty girl. Her
slight elegant body, draped in silk with something like six feet of the
train trailing in the wake as she moved majestically across the stage,
gave her a queenly quality. And she still looked lovely despite her
shiny nose. She was, or rather had been before his demise, my brother
Charley’s girl.
HAPPY DAZE Published in Wetmore Spectator and
Seneca Courier-Tribune — October 11, 1935
By John T. Bristow
In glancing over the current issue of The Courier-Tribune I notice that
the good citizens of Seneca are putting on a Biblical show this week.
That’s fine. Whenever I hear of home talent aspiring to portray those
ancient characters on the stage I become interested right away. It
recalls to mind the time when I myself was, briefly, in the cast of a
local entertainment of that sort held in the old school house here in
Wetmore many, many years ago.
It was a show the likes of which Wetmore had never had before, nor
since—a show that stands out in memory as the one classic of the times—a
show that rocked the whole countryside, rocked it with near volcanic
convulsions.
Considering the extraordinary performers and the conduct of an audience
which ran wild, this little review is not offered as something worthy
of emulation. Nor is it to be construed as criticism. Rather, it
is something to be contrasted with the newer interpretations and
renditions, something to be compared with present-day reactions as
against old-time unbridled responses.
As aforesaid, with other local talent—grownups, and some lesser lights,
including an injection of members of “that tanyard gang”—I was cast
for a minor part in that show. To give you the right slant on this last
mentioned group of my theatrical co-workers, I should say here that my
father operated a tannery in the old days, and “the gang” — frequenters
of the yard—included just about all the happy-go-lucky youth of
the town, vividly alive, and callow. Collectively, we made quite a
record—something short of enviable, it now pains me to relate.
It was my dear old Sunday School superintendent who had selected me for
one of her characters in this Biblical show. I had been marvelous—so
she said—in her Sunday School, committing and reciting as many as twenty
Bible verses on a Sunday morning, for which I would sometimes be given a
little up-lift card. She said that my good work in her Sunday School
was guarantee enough for her that I would handle the part assigned me
creditably. I would not need to attend rehearsals. All that I should do
was to have my good mother make for me a heterogeneous coat according
to specifications. She would instruct me at the last minute so that I
wouldn’t forget.
I was to take the part of Joseph—Joseph, the boy. And, although a
bit irregular, and I might say diabolically devised, to save the
stage-carpenter the trouble of making a pit to cast me into, one of my
Hebrew brothers—I think it would have been Judah, who, off stage, was
a big Swede — was to have batted me on the “bean” so that I couldn’t
protest when he and my other naughty brothers would sell me to the
Egyptians, and thus banish me to the Land of Bondage. I wouldn’t need to
rehearse? Oh, no, of course not! And as it turned out I didn’t perform,
either.
The show was going strong. The audience applauded and yelled itself
hoarse. After a particularly exciting scene, Rolland Van Amburg, the
town clown, jumped up from his seat and yelled, “It’s the best thing
Wetmore ever had—I’ve had my money’s worth already! Come and get another
quarter!” Van was ably assisted in this demonstration by one William
Morris, leading merchant.
The sponsoring lady was in high glee—happy daze. She said to her
puppets, “It’s taking! Oh, dear children, we must give them this one
again!” She flitted about from one to another, saying, “Oh, girls,
please do hurry!”
The scene which had so excited Van was a tableau draped in naught but
thin mosquito bar and set off by the best soft mellowing light effect
that could be had with the oil-burning lamps, depicting some
Biblical event with strictly private and as time goes quite modern
interpretations. Embroidered beyond the original concept, it exhibited
in silhouette some of Wetmore’s fairest damsels—some who will read
this and blush—in an amazing state of dishabille. I should like to—and
probably will—hear from Montana and Idaho, and even faraway Hollywood,
on this statement.
A wag in the audience who was not man enough to show himself, like Van,
yelled, “Take down the bars!” The audience roared! The sponsoring lady
beamed! Things got to going so good for the director that she began
pulling surprises on the performers. Wholly without warning, she ordered
Clifford Ashton to take off his shirt. That young Englishman, ever
obliging and obedient, had about completed the job when Dr. Thomas
Milam cried out in his most dramatic voice, “Put that shirt back on, you
idiot!”
The woman, who was my Sunday School superintendent, overhearing the
Doctor’s remark, forthwith gave another curt command: “Off with that
shirt, Clifford—off with that shirt!” The voice carried, full and
resonant, through the calico partitions to the rear of the auditorium.
That command became a phrase which was hurled at Clifford as long as he
lived here. He is now in Seattle, Washington.
As already stated, I was to have taken the part of Joseph. I had a sort
of vague idea that my beautiful coat of variegated hues was to have been
torn from my person by my brothers to show to my old man as evidence of
a lie they were going to tell him. And not knowing what turn of mind the
now deliriously happy director would take next, I beat it—went outside
and thought I would see the show through the green shutters which
covered the old school house windows.
Outside, I found that other deserters had preceded me. Bill McVay, a
grown young man, bewhiskered for the occasion, with a flowing white
beard the likes of which has seldom been seen on this earth since the
days of Moses, said, in his drawling voice, “I could drink all the
whisky the old town’s got and it wouldn’t faze me—but that thing has
bumped me off my feet. She’ll have to get someone else to take my part.”
Actually, I was afraid to remain in the cast, fearing, the way things
were happening, fast and furious like, that I might be persuaded against
my will to appear before that hilariously responsive audience with
greatly reduced apparel. I really was in a dangerous spot. The plot
called for partial forced disrobement. Knowing the hyenas who posed as
my brothers, and knowing also that those brothers had caught the spirit
of the producer in a large way, I had the feeling that when they would
have finished with me, working in that free atmosphere, that it would
have been sans pants for little Johnny.
It should be borne in mind that the director of this very extraordinary
show was an extremely odd woman, very religious, and sincere—and, having
ideas of her own, she had the courage to mirror them bounteously in her
work.
The show was all right, of course. Biblical, and all that. And, viewed
with an eye for the beautiful, it was all that Van said it was.
But coming as it did in an age of many clothes for women, it was a
revelation.
ODD CHARACTERS — COLORFUL, PICTURESQUE Not Hitherto Published—1947.
By John T. Bristow
The discussion of odd characters was going strong when I entered the
corner grocery store one evening. I did not join in the discussion for
the simple reason that the range of observations did not go far enough
back to take in the really odd ones—as I knew them. Had I told what I’m
going to tell now, without supporting evidence it would, perhaps, have
branded me as a prevaricator, and I wouldn’t have liked that. But I’m
taking no chances now. Supporting evidence is at hand.
Speaking of odd characters, Wetmore had ‘em in the old days—in numbers.
In truth, this assertion takes in just about everyone, except of course
Thee and Me—that is, if Thee are still living. The odd characters
dominating this story were Mr. O. Bates, Mr. Peter Shuemaker, and Mr.
Jim Riley.
But first, an opening paragraph introducing a fourth character that
shall be nameless—that is, in spelled out letters. I think I shall call
my man Mr. June, and guarantee that I have not missed his real name
more than thirty days. Also, he had a brother in the business, and the
firm-name was June Bros.—only this is one month away from it, in the
springtime.
Mr. June came into my printing office to arrange for some
advertising—and also to get a load of fire insurance. I wrote fire
insurance on the side. He was bringing a stock of clothing from his
store in Atchison, and putting it in the Bates grocery store below the
printing office, in the Bleisener block.
Mr. June inquired of me about our fire fighting facilities, and as to
whether or not we had waterworks. When I told him we had no waterworks
and practically no fire protection, he almost let his portly Jewish
self fall off the chair. He promised, “The first thing you should have
waterworks when I come.”
I told Mr. June that he was moving in with a man who had the agency for
a sure-shot fire fighting hand grenade. This seemed to hit him a little
off guard—but he rallied, and said he would investigate. It is presumed
that his investigation was satisfactory. He moved in right away. Also,
he might have heard about Mr. O. Bates’ ineffective demonstration with
his hand grenades. They had “fizzled” on him a while back.
The clothing stock had been in the building only about sixty days when a
mysterious fire occurred at 11:45, in the night—old time. It started
in the oil room under the stairs leading up to my office. I was working
late that night, with a shaded coal oil lamp on my desk. When I looked
away from my work, I was startled by a solid wall of smoke which had
come up through a stovepipe hole in the rear end of the room and stood
only a few feet away from my desk. Alex Hamel had been working with me,
but he had left the office some time before that. Also, Myrtle Mercer
had been working that night, and I had gone out to take her home—leaving
the office in total darkness while I was away.