Pap was way too old for active involvement in World War Two. He
had to be content watching his children play their parts (Frank
and Margaret both joined the Armed Service, although the latter
had to be consoled after being initially turned down for a
commission). Pap's sideline role did not deter him from making
wry observations about professed patriotism on the part of the
legislature ("political hooey") and the effects of war on the
home front (shortages, black market activity, travel restrictions
and inflation).
He also kept in touch through the mail with his scattered
children and his wife. Despite the difficulties of wartime
transportation, "Munny" insisted upon making her annual summer
excursions to Milford, Pennsylvania, to attend to property
inherited from her parents. This caused Pap a bit of anxiety, as
he feared for her comfort but did not wish to take undue
advantage of his railroad pass perquisites. He also felt lonely
at home alone, as his youngest daughter, Aura May, left for
college. In some of his strongest letters, he expressed concern,
usually with humor but sometimes quite poignantly, that family
members should not interfere with each other's pending marital
plans.
Otherwise, Pap tended to the farm, his lobbyist duties, and wrote
a newspaper ad celebrating the 50th anniversary of the
Russellville Bank.
NOT TRYING IS WORSE
Advice to a daughter turned down for a naval commission.
Sept. 3, 1942
Dear Margaret:
I was sorry to hear you hadn't made the grade and didn't get what
you want, but I would have been much sorrier if you hadn't tried.
That's what gets me--this not trying. And while you may be quite
a bit disappointed, you tried all the same, and that is the thing
that counts much, much more.
Of all things, I never thought I would have a daughter in the
Army or Navy, but now that things have happened as they have, and
women are going into the War, why, I'm getting used to most
anything. . .
I'm not saying that you should be in the Navy, not at all, but if
I were you and I wanted in, I'd keep pecking away until I got in.
. . . You said something about them wanting you to try for
something like a job as a "private" in the Army. I am rather
inclined to think you did right in not accepting that offer. You
have an education, and better still, you have an ability that
should rate you better than that of a private. It is true all of
us can't be "Generals," but with your ability, your common sense
and a world of other good qualities, you, if you want to, and
will stick with it, will be able to get in WAVE, or whatever it
is, from some other State--Indiana, for instance. There is a lot
of bologna in this War, like all others, and I am told on good
authority that it takes a political set-up to get the best. . .
Honestly, when I heard you were trying Pennsylvania, I rather
thought you would not be in the running. It just don't make sense
for an Indiana girl to get a job like you wanted in the face of
women (natives) in the second most populous State in the Union. .
. Now above all things, don't repeat what I have said, and by no
means give such as an excuse for missing the boat at
Philadelphia, just keep mum, keep your own counsel, profit by
your experience and keep on trying in every way you can. If I get
a chance I'll get to Indianapolis and try to learn what WAVE is
doing in Indiana, if anything. I have been so busy, I haven't had
time to go any place or do anything except keep the farms going,
which is a big job.
Let me hear from you.
Pap
HELPING THE WAR EFFORT
Aug. 2, 1942
Dear Frank:
There is not much news to tell you. We are more than busy at the
farm. . .
I should tell you about an experience I had yesterday. The rain
stopped us combining oats on No. 43 shortly after dinner. I came
home early in the afternoon. Stopped in the Post Office to see if
there was any mail. Doc. Sigler the Veterinarian was in there.
Maybe you know him. If not, then you should. He is windy, used to
run a saloon here years and years ago, and therefore is an
authority as he thinks on all things alcoholic. Doc was in a
talkative mood. "Have you tried the new beer, Durm?" he asked. I
said I had not, and what was it. Then he proceeded to tell me. It
is really old time keg beer put up in bottles--half gallon
bottles. It is unpasteurized, and it saves caps and thus helps
win the War. He was insistent that I try just one bottle. It was
to be had at Robert Hoffman's storage plant--this unpasteurized
beer has to be kept cold.
Naturally I wanted to help win the War, so I went outside, got in
the Mercury and headed for Hoffman's storage plant on North
Indiana Street. There was Robert and his helper, Jim Allen. . . I
asked their opinion, and they both agreed it was the Wonder of
the Age.
If one bottle was good, then more would be better, so I bought
three. Then, as a sort of hedge, and to be on the safe side, and
being that I was already there, I bought a case of Cook pints, as
I knew what they were, and came home, put the case on the kitchen
radiator and the three half gallon bottles of Doc
Sigler-recommended, unpasteurized Champagne-Velvet beer in the
ice box and awaited developments.
Later I went to the Lincoln for supper, then tarried downtown a
bit and started home. Pearl O'Hair was on her front porch and
called to me. I went down and courted her until after dark, then
thought of my Champagne-Velvet Doc. Sigler-recommended
unpasteurized beer in half gallon bottles that help win the War,
and came home. I reached in where we used to keep milk, pulled
one out and it looked bigger than a blockbusting bomb. I got the
biggest glass in the house and poured it full. It tasted rather
alright, so I took another sample. Then others. The bottle stood
the drain unusually well. Then I found a rubber stopper, inserted
it, put the bottle back in the ice box and came in the front room
to read the News. Then back to the half gallon bottle of
unpasteurized amber fluid. That bottle "gave down" like a six-
year-old Holstein with a new calf. . . Another round or so and we
called "recess" for me to go out on the front porch for air. But
duty called me back to the bottle. By that time I could see I was
gaining slightly, and would eventually win if I kept up my
morale. But it was a horse race with bets about even. Then back
to the front porch for more air, then back to the half gallon
bottle of unpasteurized that helps win the War. On one of these
trips to the front porch I noticed the Electric Light people had
inserted a bigger light bulb while I had been gone. But my
patriotic duty called me back to the pantry and the
rubber-stoppered half gallon bottle. In desperation I again went
to the front porch to bring in help, any kind of help, but the
streets were empty. Then back to the kitchen, and then to the
front porch where I was seized with a desire to go calling,
anywhere, and anybody who could talk, or rather listen, because
at this time the gods were unfolding to me a quick and brilliant
scheme in which I was to outshine MacArthur and tip the balance
to win the war--just like that. The plan was simple and should
have been thought of before now. It was to furnish all enemy
soldiers with half gallon bottles of Doc Sigler-recommended
unpasteurized Champagne-Velvet beer, make them drink it and thus
cause internal drowning. Simple, isn't it? But suddenly it became
unnecessary, because back at the bottle and just as I was
draining the last drop, there came through the ether, the short
wave fuzzy joint and unconditional surrender of Hitler, Sitting
Bull and the Pennsylvania Whiskey Rebellion.
As Ever,
AVOIDING A STATE OF NATURE
Aug. 4, 1942
My dear Aura May: (then visiting in Worcester, MA)
. . . I took time off today to go to Reiner's at Indianapolis to
test out fur coat prices. They are high, but nonetheless, my
offer stands provided you want one at this time. Your letter
rather indicated you would as soon wait a year or so. That is
sensible and also thoughtful, and it might be a year in College
and an opportunity to look around and sort of study fur coats
might be better than to jump in and buy one hastily. . .
Sarah Jane has her sights raised too high, I think. She says
$419, exclusive of fur coat, undergear, socks and I don't
remember what else she excepted. . . You are fine looking, well
made and therefore can wear grass dresses, sarongs and Russian
Sable with equal grace. In other words, clothes don't have to
make you. And thank God they don't have to pinchhit for your
scholarship. Still, you should have good clothes, and you are
going to get them. Sarah Jane must have smuggled you into
Worcester after dark, because, according to one of her letters,
you were naked, or practically so, when she took you to Canada. I
hope your ears were clean.
However and nevertheless, Sarah Jane is doing her level best to
help us all out in these, your clothes troubles. She is taking
her time and effort, and all for the good of the cause, so let's
all be appreciative. She thinks we are losing time, back tracking
and creating a state of confusion--which we are. . .
I am therefore enclosing a draft for $300 and telling you you are
free to do as you please in the selection of your clothes. After
all, you will have to wear them, you are 18, an exceptional
scholar, and you should be pleased and satisfied. This is not all
the money you are to get for clothes, etc., this year, but God
knows I think it is enough for you to start out on this Fall and
Winter. If not, then we'll sell some shoats . . . and rustle up
some more.
Ann has to have a few duds, you know. Margaret is in a state of
nature as to clothes, and . . . Munny surely needs a new bustle
and pair of arch-supporter shoes by now . . . .What I'll be
needing is a pair of new corrugated rubber-soled shoes and plenty
of cinders .. . .
"Pap"
CROSSING THE RAILROADS
March 17, 1943
Dear Chilluns:
Back from the Legislative Wars, pretty well battered but
gradually recovering. We took one bad licking. Under present law,
generally speaking, municipalities and county commissioners may
. . . "order in" grade crossing warning devices or watchmen . . .
whether the railroads think them necessary or not . . . all at
the cost of the railroads. . . We tried to change the law so the
unit so ordering them in would have to pay 50% of installation,
repair and maintenance. . . But the Senate voted us down 26 to
about 18. The mayors got in their work.
There was absolutely nothing unfair about the bill in my opinion.
It just would have stopped a lot of grafting mayors and city
councils. For instance, a councilman in Anderson last summer
introduced an ordinance requiring 44 crossing lights in Anderson.
The ordinance was so worded . . . that only one manufacturer
could fill the specifications. A brother-in-law of the
introducing councilman was the agent for that factory. It was so
raw the ordinance failed to pass, but it took a lot of lawyers
and time and expense to run all that down. Just such things as
that happen all the time. Some "worthy party workers" start a
manufacturing plant up in Lake County on a shoe string. Maybe
they can't get a site on the right-of-way. But they start. Then
come to the railroads and want a switch put in to the factory. . .
The railroad investigates--the set-up doesn't look permanent--
and declines to extend a switch. Then, the "workers" go to the
mayor and council with the tale the railroad is stifling business
in that town, and so on. A big howl goes up. . . The railroad
makes another check and refuses. Then the mayor sends word they
will be wanting some more crossing devices in that town, to
"protect the children," and there you are again. Those crossing
devices cost an average of $2,500 per set. Maintenance averages
$50 per year. These are only two of a hundred rackets worked on
railroads. . .
NOT IN THE FDIC AND PROUD OF IT
On the 50th anniversary of the Russellville Bank, in 1943, Pap,
as Chairman of the Board, took out a sizable advertisement in the
July 30 edition of The Daily Banner (motto: "It Waves For All")
of Greencastle. The ad proclaimed in large bold type that the
venerable Russellville institution was "A Private Bank, not a
member of F.D.I.C." The "Old Bank", as it was referred to, had
been started in 1893 by some 30 citizens of Russellville,
including Pap's father, James, and older brother, J. Ernest
Durham, and had grown to have capital stock of $15,000 and a
surplus of $50,000, according to the ad. Excerpts follow.
TYPE OF BANK
Russellville Bank is a Private Bank. It is UN-incorporated.
Therefore the individual liability of its stockholders for its
debts (and your deposits are its principal liability) is not
limited merely to the extent of the value of the stock owned in
the bank--whatever that value may be--as is the case in Banks
incorporated under Indiana law. Incorporation, among other
things, means limitation of liability for debts. . .
DEPOSIT GUARANTY
We are NOT a Member of Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation
(F.D.I.C.). We were invited to join. We declined, and, being an
"A" Bank, were not compelled to join. We have been asked why we
declined. Here is the answer: Many of you have been told the
Federal Government guarantees all deposits up to $5,000 made in
Banks belonging to F.D.I.C. If that were the case, we would
probably have our application in for membership in the morning.
But nothing is farther from the truth. The Federal Government
does NOT guarantee one cent of anybody's deposit in ANY bank--
National, State or Private, anywhere, anytime--whether a member
of F D.I.C. or not. But it does require ALL Banks belonging to
F.D.I.C. to guarantee one another's depositors' deposits up to
$5,000 for each depositor--A SORT OF MUTUAL INSURANCE. We are a
small Bank, but mighty for our inches in a financial way. And we
want to put all the force of all of our resources solely back of
the deposits of our own depositors. Therefore, we thought then,
and still think, it would be unfair to our depositors for
Russellville Bank, with its comparatively overwhelmingly superior
resources, to join-up and guarantee the depositors of a bank in
the Rockies, about which it knows nothing and over whose
management it has no control. So, excluding all other Private
Banks, we assert we have proportionately more resources for the
payment of every dollar of our deposits and other liabilities
than any F.D.I.C. Bank in the State of Indiana has in proportion
to its deposits and other liabilities. This is no idle boast. We
mean just what we say.
CONSERVATISM
In our 50 years of banking we have bought millions of dollars
worth of securities for ourselves and our customers without loss
of a single penny of Principal or Interest. However, during and
following the "Bank Holidays", in a few issues--three we think,
"to keep the record straight"--some bonds and some coupons were
not paid promptly at maturity, although eventually all were paid.
OUR CUSTOMERS
Our customers are the salt of the Earth. Some have been with us
during all, or practically all, of our existence (In that time we
have, to be sure, lost some good customers, and we sincerely
regret those losses.) During the April, 1943, drive for the sale
of 2nd War Loan Bonds, the patriotism of our customers was
immediately evident. The amount of approximately $29,000 was sold
in and credited to Russell Township (our township), and of this
the amount of $23,218.75 was subscribed by our customers and paid
for with funds in Russellville Bank. We are proud of our
customers in their War efforts. If peace should be dictated by
the Axis Powers, it might conceivably happen our 50 years of
careful, conscientious banking would all go for naught and that
Russellville Bank, in spite of its enormous resources considering
its size, might not be worth the price of this advertisement. It
pays to be patriotic.
ORDERING STOVE PARTS
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"