CHAPTER V: LAST THINGS--1946-1954

Pap was pleased when his son returned from the war to settle in

Greencastle and join the law practice. In fact, as time went on,

he turned over most of the cases to Frank, quit his lobbying

position for the railroads, ceased attending legislative sessions

and devoted more and more of his attention to the farm and his

investments.

Pap being Pap, however, he could not resist using this newfound

luxury of time to write scores of letters about numerous subjects

to various parties. It was probably his most productive literary

period. With tongue nestled securely in cheek, he wrote:

-- manufacturers, suggesting new inventions (such as a carving

knife made from razor blades);

-- corporations, complaining about directors who had less

confidence (or at least less stock) in their companies than Pap

did;

--family and old friends, offering investment advice (don't

speculate);

-- Congressmen, opposing pork-barrel spending and advocating a

balanced budget.

On at least one occasion, he even left a note attached to a

package of dry-iced beef being shipped to a daughter in New

England, beseeching the cooperation of railroad cargo handlers in

facilitating the endeavor.

Pap took some trips with Munny or his grown children, to check up

on his property in Kansas or to visit with old friends, and went

on one extended journey through Latin America.

And always, he wrote.

These were Pap's "Golden Years," and he felt entitled to let his

mind wander a bit, reflecting on his youth and past glories. He

was not shy about relating these memories, even to total

strangers, sometimes in an allegorical manner to make a point,

and sometimes just for fun.

A DOUBLE-EDGED CARVING KNIFE?

December 1, 1946

Gillette Safety Razor Company

Boston Mass.

Gentlemen:

Did I see it, hear or read about it--or did I just dream it?

Somehow, somewhere or someway I have the notion a contraption

was, or is on the market, consisting of a thin metal holder in

which, say, three or four used double-edged razor blades can be

inserted in a line, and thus make a carving knife. . . Is there

such a tool, is it practical, where can it be bought and what

does it cost?

Gentlemen, strange as it may seem to you, I am in dead earnest

about this seemingly frivolous matter. I don't have the knack for

sharpening carving knives. Scissors grinders are few and far

between in a town our size. Since the advent of chain-stores,

butcher shops are passé, and chain-store managers look on you as

a sort of moocher when you ask them to sharpen your knives . . .

Then too, a dulling carving knife slips up on you like a heavy

wine. Sooner or later you come home and there is a fowl to be

carved, the stores are closed and the knives are dull. Only last

Thursday I rassled a turkey all over the dining room. Hence, all

this is fresh in my mind and I am writing this inquiry before I

again forget about it--temporarily.

I am enclosing stamped and addressed envelope for your

convenience. Please do me the favor. After a fashion . . . you

sort of owe it to me. I bought my first Gillette when in college

sometime between 1900 and 1904. I still have it. I have used no

other kind except trying an electric affair the folks gave me one

time for Christmas, but I couldn't get the hang of it somehow.

One of the children commandeered it long ago. So, in truth and in

fact I am a 40-odd-year customer of yours. . . .

Yours, for sharper carving knives,

NEVER ON A SUNDAY

July 27, 1947

My dear Ann Drew:

The new Buick came a week ago last Thursday. It is some sort of

supersonic model and the hind end sticks out of Ben Curtis'

garage. . . Right off the bat Aunt Margaret wanted to drive the

following Saturday to North Manchester to "see Ida." She

telephoned Ida, who got us reservations at the local hotel for

Saturday night, and up we went. . . to see Ida at the Peabody

Home--an elegant place for a place of that character. Ida now is

one of the oldest inhabitants and has a front room. . .After

supper we drove all over town and a short way into the country

and Ida liked that very, very much. Then back to the home where

the evening's conversation ran to bad eyesight, constipation and

poor circulation, and Ida was worried about contracting some drug

habit. Aunt M. suggested whiskey to my utter surprise, and Ida

countered she would be afraid she would contract the whiskey

habit. The field narrowed down to fruits and fruit juices. . .

Next morning, we took Ida for a good long ride in the country.

Then started for home. Things went fine until we got past Wabash

on our way to Peru, and Aunt Margaret's conscience began to catch

up with her, and she started quoting: "The Lord made Heaven and

Earth in six days and on the 7th He rested . . . Six days shall

thou work and . . . remember the Sabbath to keep it holy (etc.)"

--Really, sometime she had taken a good deal of trouble to learn

all her quotations--they lasted most all the way into the edge of

Peru. Finally, I said: "If I felt that way about it, I wouldn't

take any more Sunday trips"--and she agreed heartily. . .

Somewhere between Kokomo and Crawfordsville, Aunt Margaret

suggested that we "come by Frank's orchard south of Morton and

get some Early Transparents," as she wanted to make a little

jelly. To do that we would have to go out of our way and over a

lot of loose gravel and through a lot of dust with the new shiny

car, so, after a proper interval, I said: "Well, I don't know

whether you would want to do that on Sunday or not"--just like a

first class undertaker would say it. She thought a moment and

then said: "That is right. I forgot. We can let that wait until

some week day."

Between Crawfordsville and home she suggested that "we go out to

Arcola next Sunday and see Aunt Laura and George." I let that one

go and it was agreed she would write Aunt Laura that night and

tell her we were coming. . . She wrote, but along about Wednesday

she asked me if I still wanted to go out to Arcola. I said: "That

is up to you". . . Friday evening she called me over and wanted

me to send a telegram to Arcola saying we would not be there

Sunday--her conscience had caught up again. I sent the telegram,

and that was that.

That morning bright and early, Frank came over and, after the

proper preliminaries and maneuvering, told me several of the VFW

were going to Lebanon, about 40 miles from here, Saturday to a

District Meeting; that he was to be installed District Provost,

or some such thing; that the back seat of his new Ford was not

very comfortable; that he was to take five of them along with

him; that five would make it very crowded and uncomfortable in

that small a car; that on LONG trips a Ford didn't ride as easily

as a larger car; and that he was just wondering if he might take

the Buick for a long hard drive like that, etc., etc. Lord! How

my sympathy for those old veterans--two of whom were over 30

years of age--welled up in my throat and almost stifled me. Of

course they couldn't be asked or expected to submit to the

jolting and short wheel base of a brand new Ford on a trip of

that character. I suggested soft pillows and plenty of wool

blankets, and offered to ask Mrs. Pierce or George McHaffie, who

drive cars (both octogenarians) to do the driving and see after

the parking and care of the car on arrival so those foot-sore and

war-wracked shells of their former selves should be put to a

minimum of pain and inconvenience.

Result: They went in the Buick. It rained like hell. Frank took

the Buick home and washed it, then came past Aunt Margaret's and

told her what a nice ride they had had. Then home to put the car

part of the way in Ben's garage.

Further result: Aunt Margaret called me at 1 p.m. today and asked

if I wanted to drive down to Shakamak State Park, about 30 miles

south of Terre Haute. I told her it looked like more rain--and it

did--and then asked if she wanted to drive that far on Sunday.

She actually laughed out loud, said she had forgotten, and to

just let it go.

Time to quit,

Pap

FOR CLARITY'S SAKE

August 13, 1947

Dear Footser:

I am trying to make this a round robin letter because since my

last missive of that character I have heard from all of you

except Ann Drew at least once. You will have to show this copy to

Margaret and Munny, and that way everybody will have equal access

to my words of wisdom.

As seems to be my custom, according to most of you, I will start

out in a more or less critical vein. Your letters are hard to

read, and you are to be some sort of bilingual secretary to

someone having a decidedly foreign name. . . Now, down to

business. You start at $35 per week, which in these days isn't

much probably, but at that you have a start of $33 on me--$2 is

the munificent sum I received as Head Janitor and Assistant

Bookkeeper at staid, dependable, conservative, old Russellville

Bank. . . Anyway and however, don't let the starting salary get

you down. Everybody has to start, and those who start on a small

scale sometimes get to be those who end with a big auger, boring

a big hole. If the job is what you want, then the thing to do is

to accept, and try it out. As long as you try and apply yourself,

and work at it for the interests of your employers, you can rest

assured I will help you out financially--that seems to be what us

old fellers are here for.

I have written a pass for you, New York to Greencastle and

return. I don't know whether it will come or not--the Roads are

tightening up, especially on children who have reached maturity.

. . . The big roads now have a rule of issuing only so many passes

to each family every year, and they evidently base the number on

a normal family, as normal families go these times--so we are

handicapped right at the start. . .

Sarah Jane asked about beef, and the chance to get some in some

way. That is much easier said than done. It involves a whole lot

of things. I will not be fattening--that is, corn feeding--any

cattle this Winter. I do not have the corn, and the present crop

looks mighty bad. It is quite probable I could buy a whole

carcass or half a carcass for her here, but there is no easy way

getting it to her. It would be very expensive, because it would

have to be processed here, then shipped to her in dry ice, and

dry ice is hard to get. It has to come from Indpls. and is a

problem to go get and then pack around the beef back here. Then

too, freight handling is questionable and it would be a mighty

easy thing to get side-tracked and thus spoil. Beef out here is

also very high. . .

Find out where the roller towels are. The one you and Margaret

left was a bit dirty when you got away, and now it looks like the

one at the old high school building that hung at the side of the

printing press . . . .

Pap

THANKS FOR THE COMPLIMENT ANYWAY

February 3, 1948

The Honorable Frank M. Martin

Spencer, Indiana

My dear Frank:

. . . You have made it hard to refuse your kind and thoughtful

offer to make the after-dinner talk in March. There are many,

many reasons why I should not, among them being I am totally out

of practice, and my experience with false teeth has been fearful-

-and unexpected.

Frank, I want you to realize I am sincerely obliged for your

thoughtfulness in asking me down. Invitations of that character

are coming fewer and farther between. As a matter of cold fact,

however, I am oratorically about where old Anthony Battle, an ex-

slave, was financially a long time ago when Uncle Bob Black

operated a horse and mule sale barn here. Needing some change, he

turned to Anthony and asked him if he had change for a $10 bill.

"No suh", said Uncle Anthony, "but ah thanks you fo' th'

compl'ment jes th' same."

As Ever,

TICKETS TO THE INDY 500

March 17, 1948

Mr. B. Ryall Chant

Care: Chant & Co.

Port Jervis, New York

My dear Ryall:

I have your letter of March 10th, concerning tickets for the 500

Mile Race and hotel reservations for May 28-31, 1948.

I have had reservations made for you at the Claypool Hotel. . .

Due to the tremendous demand for rooms all hotels hike their

prices for the Race and all require advance deposits. . . Your

entire room bill will be $53--$45 of which must be paid in

advance. . . The Claypool is the Royal Baking Powder of

Indianapolis hotels, but the Lincoln is beginning to cut-in. All

Race activities, however, will be centered in and around the

Claypool.

Tickets for the Race are something else again. They begin going

in the Fall prior to the Race. Being a Democrat and therefore in

disrepute in Indiana these past three years, I had to work

through Railroad connections to the Governor's No. 1 man, who is

a R.R. associate and who assures me he will get the best tickets

available, due to the fact the Race people always retain

desirable seats--just in case. I tried to get you in a box within

hailing distance, at least, of His Honor, but in my judgment, if

you ever see him there at all, he will appear about the size of a

blue-bottle fly. Remember the track is two and a half miles per

lap and all the grandstand, paddock and other seating is outside

the track. . . Naturally, I am getting you as near the starting

(and finishing) wire as is humanly possible this late date . . .

I do not know the cost of the tickets, but my guess is $15 to $18

each. . .

You will probably see a half-mile of 100 and more massed bands

coming down the stretch, as one of the preliminaries. All the

Fords, Firestones, Chryslers, Buicks, Packards, Goodyears,

Nashes, Goodrichs and Perfect Circle Rings will be among those

present, and you will look over a square mile and better of solid

parked cars. Castor oil fumes will make you think of Ma and Pa

long years ago. . .

Yours, for more paddock seats,

SOME GENUINE INDIANA MAPLE 'MOLASSES'

March 24, 1948

Hon. S.C. Murray, General Counsel

New York Central System

La Salle Station

Chicago, Illinois

My dear Mr. Murray:

I am sending you some maple molasses almost hot from the

evaporator. These molasses are the product of the President of

our small Bank at Russellville, Mr. Harold A. Fordice, who is a

Presbyterian, a Wabash College graduate, a Phi Beta Kappa, a

Republican--and a bachelor. He is also a most ethical gentleman,

and therefore far, far from adulterating his molasses with

anything whatsoever, as is now pretty much the custom by reason

of the fact maple molasses prices have soared about like I did

the time I first took the oath as a Member of the General

Assembly at Indianapolis in 1913 . . . adulterated flavor is

almost forgotten. Children, generally speaking, do not like it.

They prefer sugar syrups. What you will be receiving is the pure

article. . . Maple molasses hereabouts are almost a thing of the

past--like wild pigeons and Democratic landslides. The old trees

are dying out, and no new ones coming on. Lately, the new

President of Wabash College sent down to Russellville a general

order for 100 gallons. . .

Respectfully,

P.S. A real old time genuine Hoosier never speaks of the Indiana

brand as being a "maple syrup."

A.E.D.

WHERE'S THE BEEF?

Undated note attached to a package of frozen beef shipped by

rail.

To whomsoever reads this:

This baggage contains some frozen beef an old Hoosier pappy is

taking his daughter and grandchildren in Worcester, Mass. It left

Greencastle, Ind., at 12:50 p.m.(?)3-29-49 on N.Y.C. No. 12

(Southwestern). The old pappy and his meat will probably part

company at Buffalo, where his car will be transferred to N.Y.C.

No. 28 (New England States) that evidently does not carry

baggage. So, where and how his meat will go from Buffalo on, only

you will know--the old pappy hopes the quickest and most direct

way, and therefore respectfully asks your help, if you can give

any.

The meat you are sitting on just didn't happen--like paw paws and

wild black berries. It is out of an 1,800-pound, nearly three-

year-old Hereford steer, dry-lot and corn-fed for over a year. In

case you don't know . . . the 1947-48 and 1948-49 winters in

Indiana weren't exactly like Miami Beach of a sunny Sunday

afternoon. . . Rain, snow and sleet. Cold rubber boots in

February mud. Sockless shoes in July dust. All the clothes you

can pile on in winter, and about all the law allows you to take

off in hot summer. . . The cement water tank has to be kept full

of clean drinking water in summer, and the tank warmer going on

below freezing days.

"Seminole IV," as we called him, to finish out well, had to have

a clean place in the barn to eat, to stand in, and to sleep in.

That called for a pitch fork, a strong back, and a conveniently

placed manure spreader. Fresh bedding, feed grinder going every

other day, a handy block of salt, a little ground alfalfa hay,

the gates and corn crib doors kept shut. . . We'll say nothing

about the 150 odd bushels of ground corn it took to put Seminole

to 1,800 pounds, but it didn't just sift itself into his feed

trough automatically--from nowhere.

No. There was more to Seminole than the well-trimmed sirloin

steak you see on the kitchen table all ready for the broiler.

And so it may happen after grandpappy is gone and the

grandchildren are grown-up and in well-worn harness themselves,

they will say, "Well, the old fellow was a pretty good sort after

all, but, on the other hand, it does seem that with the War

prices they had in his day, he could have left a little more if

he had tried a little harder."

Just in the event you want to make some comments and have the

time and inclination to tell of Seminole's progress and last

whereabouts, I am enclosing some addressed post cards for your

convenience. Nothing compulsory--wholly voluntary.

I thank you.

Prayerfully,

CUBAN DIVORCE, NOT HORSE DISEASE

June 17, 1949

U.S. Senator Homer E. Capehart

Washington, D.C.

My dear Senator:

I am in rather urgent need of learning all the grounds for

Divorce in Cuba. Is that information easily available to you

there in Washington? If so, I would greatly appreciate such

information. The information I am seeking is of considerable

value to some interested clients here.

In your experience as Senator you have doubtless had some rare

requests from the "folks back home." This inquiry of mine should

rank rather high. A year ago . . . I could not then visualize my

divorce practice getting much beyond the confines of the State of

Indiana.

This letter reminds me of an experience I had long years ago. . .

I wrote my Congressman, Ralph Moss, asking if he would send me a

copy of Jefferson's Manual. In due course of mail here came a

rather well-bound copy of "The Diseases of Horses," and a note

saying he had had considerable difficulty complying with my

request as the edition was exhausted. How it happened that way, I

will never know--nor did Mr. Moss. . .

A BETTER USE FOR 'REMOVABLE SEATS'?

June 24, 1949

Case & Sons

Robinson, Illinois

Gentlemen:

I'm having a devil of a time with a Case lavatory in the second

floor bathroom here at home, and to me it seems far rougher than

it should be. The cold water faucet sprung a drip--a most

persistent drip. My friend and plumber, Mr. Lee Reeves, came up

from time to time and eventually diagnosed the case (no intended

pun on your name) as the water in the cold faucet having cut or

worn a groove across the top of the removable seat for that

faucet. He had none to fit, so he sort of filed the groove out,

said the repair would probably be temporary, and in the meantime

we'd both begin a quest for Case removable seats that would fit.

I went to Indianapolis to the Central supply Co. They said they

had none, but if they did they'd have to know the number or size

of the lavatory, as different-sized lavatories had different-

sized removable seats. I came home but could find no number. . .

I bought that lavatory from you in person, direct, about 1942--or

just about the time the Government stopped your selling to the

proletariat. I was frantic for some bathroom fixtures. The family

had taken a fancy to yours on account of its alleged quietness.

The girls were in the University here. It was brooded among my

womenfolk that every time they had company the "old man" started

the water going in the bathrooms and it sounded like Coulee Dam

after a hard rain. I got in the car and drove to Robinson. You

folks finally fixed me up with two lavatories. I brought them

home in the car. It must have been that at that same time you

ordered me a bath tub from Louisville or Cincinnati. . .

In due time the old you-know-what started her drip, drip, drip,

getting worse. . . Yesterday Mr. Reeves came up with an

assortment of removable seats he had collected. He took out the

offending removable seat, and sure enough, the water or pixies or

gremlins had again cut a channel across the top of said removable

seat. He thought he had a removable seat that would fit--it

seemed the same size as the original--but it didn't. In

desperation he gave up the job. We turned off the cold water

intake at the valve underneath. He took the old offending

removable seat for further efforts to get a duplicate. We

heartily damned removable seats of all and every kind and

character and wheresoever situated, together with the companies

who made 'em.

Woe is me. Evil days have come. The half has not been told

herein. In my troubled sleep I am beset with removable seats. In

my waking hours I am confounded by removable seats. Time was only

yesteryear when I didn't know, or care, what a removable seat

was. Within a fortnight or so removable seats have become deadly

--like unto a cobra or black widow. The neighbors are

clandestinely talking about a Guardian . . .

Can't you do something for us? Can't you find the original

invoice (somewhere near 1942) or can't you decide from this

enclosed masterpiece of a drawing of mine what kind and size of

removable seats we are needing, and send me four (two for each

lavatory, just in case)? I need removable seats. I long for

removable seats. Send them with the compliments of the Company,

or else enclose a bill and I'll gladly pay it--I suppose. I'm not

so sure about the "gladly" part. . .

And yet, withal, removable seats of a sort could be a boon. I am

thinking now if they could be available to our womenfolk who have

reached or passed the age of 40 years, say. We live here in the

older, more conservative part of town--what you might call the

Eastern Star and DAR section. I have mentally canvassed our one

block. If you can devise a practical feminine removable seat, I

can give you every reasonable assurance you will get from one to

two orders in every house and apartment in our block. I

personally guarantee one order. This being true, then visualize

all the States (particularly the corn belt), and then the entire

known world, with special stress on Holland, parts of Germany and

all of Italy--to say nothing about the Eskimos and Africans. It

will stagger you, as your faucet removable seat has staggered,

yea, paralyzed me.

And thus I leave it. Do something, I beseech you.

Prayerfully,

Andrew E. Durham

In subsequent correspondence to daughter Margaret, Pap related

that the above letter had the desired effect, because by return

mail the company sent him four removable seats, at no charge.

However, the world is still awaiting action on his suggestion for

a broader application of removable seat technology.

OF QUESTIONABLE REPUTE

November 5, 1949

Hon. Claud Bowers

U.S. Minister to Chile

Santiago, Chile

My dear Ambassador:

This is a voice from the long, long ago. It must have been about

1904 you were a candidate for Congress against old man Holiday. I

was just out of college. During the campaign you made some very

forceful and logical speeches backed by excellent oratory. I

attended and was fascinated--got the political bug. I am not

quite sure I got in on what we called the "Week's County Drive"

of your campaign, where the "small fry" in the last cars of the

cavalcade ate miles and miles of gravel and road dust kicked up

by the cars on ahead. If not, then I sure got in on them later.

My daughter, Aura May Durham, and I hope to arrive in Santiago,

December 20, 1949, during a rather extended trip into South

America. I am enclosing a copy of our alleged itinerary. We are

having considerable--very considerable--trouble arranging for

some six visas, or their equivalents. But we expect to arrive on

schedule if humanly possible, provided I retain my heretofore

good health and reasonably fair mental facilities. I have been

vaccinated and "shot" for about everything except treason, but my

lack of a criminal record is universally questioned south of the

Equator. Our local Chief of Police has, for the past four weeks,

valiantly signed varying documents denying varying insinuations I

have a criminal record and . . . our local banker has spent long

nights compiling "letters of commendations and responsibility"

that would tend to meet the requirements. . .

All this and much more has gotten me to where I am. It is too

much for a small-town Hoosier lawyer to stand--and a Democrat to

boot. And so, if on or about December 20th, you see a rather

sprightly young woman leading a doddering old man in his upper

60's into the lobby of the Carrera Hotel, then charitably

reflect, "it was not always so with him."

Naturally, I would be immensely pleased to see you.

Yours, for more respect and credibility South of the Border for

small-town Hoosier Democrats,

Andrew E. Durham

SPECULATION NO, BOARDERS MAYBE

July 17, 1950

Dear Footser,

Your AT&T dividend check just came this morning. The Quaker came

the latter part of last week. I waited until both were in before

mailing same to you. You evidently have 32 shares of the former

and 10 of the latter--not a bad showing for one of your age--far

more investment than I had at your age. Looks like, with a little

more investment, you will be getting something like $1 per day

from investments alone. That will be something not exactly to be

sneezed at. . .

Annabelle Lee wrote me that someone had advised her to sell her

Quaker and take her profit, lay the money aside and then invest

in something else at a low price. That, to my way of looking, is

bad advice. The money might lay and lay, and then when she did

invest, she might buy something that would not be so good. Then

too she would have to pay income taxes on the profit. . . Good

stocks do not rise or fall rapidly. It's the "cats and dogs" that

do that. And there is where the speculators come in. They are

supposed to know a good deal about "cats and dogs" . . . Two or

three or four years ago, I bought 100 shares of General Motors

for about $4,000. It sells for more than double that now. All of

which is quite fine, but you bet your boots I am not selling mine

for the profit. I bought that 100 shares to keep. It is nice to

see your stocks on the uprise--fine and dandy--but if I sold it

now, what would I put the money in, with my limited knowledge of

stocks and stock prices, advances and declines? No, the thing for

me to do is to keep it and hope that the company gets stronger

and stronger, and better and better. . .

Tommy Rivers, of Russellville, has finished installing the

dishwasher, two sinks, dispos-all, and cabinets. Together, they

take the whole south side of the kitchen--a formidable array.

Munny was bent on having two big sinks, and now, by golly, she

has them. The kitchen looks like a city hotel kitchen, so now,

I've been casting about for boarders. . . We've just got to make

that outlay back somehow. . .

P.S. The dandelion count is now 20,130.

Pap

A SPECIALIST IN FASHION REFORM

April 2, 1951

Beymer & Beymer

Lakin, Kansas

Attention: Mr. Clyde Beymer Jr.

My dear Mr. Beymer:

On March 23, 1951, I wrote my nephew in California by Air Mail

concerning the proposed sale of our quarter section in Kearny

County.

I look back. When I was about the right age for such things, my

father's $12 to $15 suits and 10 cents socks, especially the

latter, looked pretty common to me. Also a lot of other things

about him and the family generally. I expressed as much. At first

he paid no attention. I persisted. He wakened one day with this:

"I've been thinking about your case a good deal. You seem to have

the making of a fine merchant tailor and big city haberdasher.

I've accordingly made arrangements. Next September you are going

to a Military School (in those days considered more or less of a

high class reform school) where they all dress alike, and where

you can do them a lot of good in dress reform. So get ready."

And you know, after graduation there in 1899, on coming home, and

thereafter, Pap's 10 cent black socks and unvarying gray suits

got to looking better and better as the few remaining years went

by. . .

Respectfully,

SKIP THE 'HEARTS AND HANDS'

October 22, 1951

Hemphill, Noyes, Graham, Parsons & Co.

15 Broad Street

New York 5, N.Y.

Gentlemen:

I am just in receipt of a faded and washed-out 8x12" sheet of

paper . . . that at first glance would seem to indicate I am now

the proud owner of 100 shares of the common stock of Dun &

Bradstreet, Inc., but subject to enough whereases, to-wits, here

inserts, and/ors, etc., as to make me wonder just what it is I do

have. . .I say "faded and washed-out." That is a true

Churchillian understatement. I feel rather sure some of the Dun

or Bradstreet children must have thrown my whatever-it-is in the

creek back of their house where it has laid immersed since Oct.

2, 1951, the date I was supposed to have bought 100 shares of

D&B.

Said certificate bears this hopeful imprint near the top--

"TEMPORARY CERTIFICATE: Exchangeable for Engraved Certificate

when ready for delivery." That is more or less encouraging but a

bit vague. Who or what is referred to in that statement of

readiness--the Company, or me, or the Engraved Certificates after

they get dried-out from being in the creek too?

The above reminds me of the marriage license situation in

Indiana. Here, prospective brides and grooms appear together

before the Clerks of the various Circuit Courts to make out

preliminary papers and then buy their licenses. The State

furnishes a plain, printed 8x12 license for $1.50. That one is

authoritative and originally intended to end the fee then and

there. But our Clerks of today are away ahead on Court House

psychology. And anybody who has ever been a groom knows grooms

are totally non compes mentis on such occasions. So here is what

happens to them. . . The affable Clerk says nothing about the

$1.50 license, but with solemn and measured tread goes to the

safe, which is always in plain view, fumbles with the combination

and, after a bit more fumbling in the dark recesses of the safe,

as solemnly returns with three shiny, crackling parchment rolls

of different lengths--a 10x14 lithographed Sheaf of Wheat with

the usual recitals in scroll, price $5; a 12x18 Gates-Ajar beauty

with even more scrollwork, price $10; and a magnificent 16x24

Heart and Hand master License, with a beautiful red heart just

over the clasped hands, and endlessly scrolled, price

$15--something I knew you fine young citizens of our County would

want the moment I first saw you come in the door," etc. . . .

But to get back. Would you please enlighten me as to just what I

do have, and what, if anything, I can expect in the future, and

when? If you are on speaking terms with any of the Messrs. Dun &

Bradstreet, tell 'em your corn-fed Hoosier customer, while

considerably puzzled with what he has, is onto the County Clerk's

racket in Indiana, and he doesn't want any Heart and Hand

permanent D&B Certificate, but just an uninundated one the

Company furnishes, and he wants it free, including postage both

for the new Certificate and the return of the water-soaked

variety--although he doesn't think the latter is worth return

postage. . .

Yours, for readable Certificates--for free,

FAST THINKING IN A REVOLVING DOOR

February 5, 1952

Mrs. Cecil Harden

Member, House of Representatives

Washington, D.C.

My dear Mrs. Harden:

Having been a Member of the Indiana Legislature years ago, I know

what it is to receive letters, memorials, petitions and

remonstrances from "the best constituency in the World," as your

remote predecessor, "Red" Purnell, used to say. I wanted to know

who they were and what sort of axes they had to grind. Hence,

here is a short pedigree of your correspondent. I live in

Greencastle; am a farmer, small town banker (Russellville Bank),

married, 6 children--5 of them girls, Presbyterian, Notary

Public, Democrat, can balance diced potatoes on my knife with the

best of them, and encountered my first revolving door at

Tiffany's in New York City in the year 1905.

This last was due to the fact "Red" and I had gone to New York to

show the effete East just what sort of young manhood the Mid-west

was producing, and hoped to impress them accordingly. Vain hope.

"Red" was engaged to Elizabeth (his wife). I was to be "best

man." On the train enroute, "Red" decided he had to get Elizabeth

a silver spoon with the name "Tiffany" on it. After riding up 5th

Avenue on one of those busses that had a spiral stairway at the

back leading up to the open air top (it was January and we were

up there alone of course), the better to get the panoramic view,

we alighted. . . "Red," being the prospective purchaser, led the

way to said door and into it--and came around and right back

again. At Indiana University I had taken a course in Public

Speaking with the ultimate object of supplanting Senator

Beveridge and William J. Bryan on the speaker's platform. In this

course, Prof. Clapp had stressed "learning to think with

lightning speed on your feet." There I was on my feet and eager

to demonstrate that father had not sold shoat after shoat in

vain, for my educational expenses. With lightning rapidity I

diagnosed the error and went in and stayed in. "Red" made it his

next try.

The above was intended to be short but something led me to think

about "Red", and away I went.

I want to call your attention to a matter . . .

Why don't you come to Greencastle one of these days and come to

see us? I don't believe we've had a Congressman regularly in the

house since "Red" Purnell used to infest us. It would advance our

social position.

Yours, for social advancement, and a change in the top brackets

there in Washington next Fall,

A PASS

June 23, 1952

Honorable George W. Henley

Citizens Trust Building

Bloomington, Indiana

My dear George:

A Monon Railroad pass? Manna from Bloomington! . . . I am

tremendously pleased and thankful for your kindness and

thoughtfulness in this matter. I don't want to sound egotistical

but I think I am known as the "Railroad man" of these parts, and

as such, I have been asked if I carried passes, among them of

course, if I had a Monon pass. Naturally it was none of the

asker's business, but when in telling I had none, it was a trifle

embarrassing and caused a sort of wonderment on the part of the

inquirer, because, among other things, I never failed during the

years when talking at the University or the various Service Clubs

to get in a thought as to how the Railroads were being imposed

upon and receiving very unfair treatment at the hands of the

Legislature and Public generally. I think it has paid off,

because after these long years, our and bordering Senators and

Representatives in the Legislature have been inclined very

generally to protect the Railroads. Not always, but quite

generally.

Please be assured I do not want any paying employment at the

hands of the Monon. I have virtually retired and turned things

over to my son, who is Prosecutor here. I just handle a bit of

probate work--old clients. . .

Cordially,

A MODEST FAMILY ART SHOWING

July 30, 1952

American Telephone and Telegraph Company

195 Broadway

New York 7, N.Y.

Gentlemen:

Under date of July 21, 1952, three of my family and I subscribed

for a total of $5,900 of your 3% debentures. . . On July 26, I

received a telephone call from your New York office saying you

had received the subscription. The woman to whom I talked

answered in detail all the information I had asked for, clearly,

distinctly, concisely and to the exact point. She was a whiz.

A short time ago I found myself a trifle out of place in the

midst of an enthusiastic discussion of Art, art galleries,

beautiful paintings, elusive smiles, precious lights and shadows,

inconceivable imagination and some superlatives far, far beyond

my ken. Suffice to say, in my corn-fed Hoosier simplicity an

engraved Certificate for 100 shares of American Telephone and

Telegraph is about the prettiest picture I have seen.

Therefore, patiently anticipating a very modest October private

family showing of Art at its best, as I see it, I remain

Respectfully,

JUDGING BY THE DAMPNESS

September 16, 1952

The First National Bank of Chicago

Chicago, Illinois

Dear Sirs,

I am herewith enclosing 3 certificates of the Capital Stock of

Standard Oil Company (New Jersey) as follows . . . It is my

request that the above certificates be combined into one . . .

It may be I should have sent these certificates to the Transfer

Agent rather than you, but . . . I feel more at home with your

Bank, for, let it be known, I am still a part of Russellville

Bank in this County. As head janitor of that Institution in the

mid-90's, we opened an account with your good Bank, and it is

still open. Later I rose to such responsibility therein I was

permitted to write with pen and ink (Arnold's Ink in earthenware

bottles or jugs) Russellville Bank's Letters of Transmittal to

your Bank. That done, I would carry said letter back behind the

safe to the "letter press," open the thin sheeted copy book and

. . . lay my letter face up below a clean sheet. I would then pick

up the 3 gallon bucket and go to the town pump down the street

toward the railroad and get a fresh bucket of water. Next I would

put a rectangular piece of cloth made for the purpose into the

bucket of water and then squeeze it to a proper stage of

dampness. Then spread it over the clean sheet . . . Then close

the copy book and put it in the press and start revolving the

wheel of said press much like the old time brakeman would "set"

the brake on a box car before the advent of air brakes. The

process would give us a copy of said letter of transmittal and at

the same time a questionable policy of insurance against you big

city Banker slickers claiming you never received a check of

correction from Butler Brothers to our local general store, Inge,

Ross & Co.

It is true that success of operation in all of this did depend in

a minor way on getting the component parts in proper order--a boy

had to be alert at all times, as was becoming a future teller and

money changer, but the real artistry and measure of

responsibility lay in getting the proper dampness in the cloth.

If too wet, the ink of the letter spread to hell and gone. If too

dry, the sturdy dependable Arnold's Ink made no impression on the

clean sheet.

You who read this may have become disgusted with all this old

time stuff long before now and said to yourselves, "Why all this

junk when the main idea is to get a new Certificate?" The answer

is I got a bit retrospective as I was writing. I got back to the

$2 a week days when father insisted I save at least 10 cents a

week out of that.

But bear with me just a little longer. The copy book cloth

technique I acquired at Russellville Bank was to become a boon

later, when, as the six children came along, seemingly with too

much regularity, I could slip an educated hand under the bottom

of a sleeping infant and measure the dampness thereof to a nicety

and judge to a fraction just when the cloth HAD to be changed.

Maybe those Russellville Bank experiences were later to save me

the possibility of facing the notoriety incident to an indictment

for infanticide by drowning.

Yours, for bigger and better posting machines, et. als., and

sharper carbon paper,

HITLER'S FAVORITE PICTURE IS SAFE

Sept. 27, 1952

Dear Sugar Foot:

Munny and I returned last evening from a short visit with Mr. and

Mrs. Walter J. Behmer at Culver, Indiana, on Lake Maxinkuckee or

however it is spelled. Had a fine time. . .

Yesterday, we got an early start home. I wanted to see a little

private bank at San Pierre, Ind., away up north of Lafayette on

old No. 43. It used to be a private bank, but I found out they

had changed to a state bank just this last January. Didn't stay

there long.

Munny wanted to see Elizabeth Shoaf Purnell (Red's widow) who

lives at Attica, Ind. . . . (She) was giving a party tonight for

another old woman friend of ours, and who is her cousin, the

former Miss Sina Booe; then became Sina B. Songer; then Sina B.

Ross; and now has a new husband, some Frenchman whose name I do

not remember and am too hurried to look up. They were married

about the first of this year. She met him at Hot Springs,

Arkansas--and is he a honey? He is. (After seeing Elizabeth we

came home by way of Veedersburg, where Sina and said husband now

live. Sina's parents struck oil years and years ago, and built a

rather pretentious house in Veedersburg. At the time of the

striking of oil, Red Purnell said to me that the "oil would agree

with Sina," and it has). If ever I saw an adventurer for a rich

widow, he is it. She is about 75 and he is 12 years younger than

she. Therefore he will outlast her, in all probability. I doubt

if he has ANY business, but says he is a sort of artist; sells

pictures or something like that. Says he will be having an

exhibit soon in New Orleans and southern cities. For a wedding

present he gave her two pictures--God knows what they are. I

think I probably saw them but am confused with the multitude of

objects he showed hanging all over HER house. She takes all that

stuff in like a real soldier. I have seen four flushers in my

time--but he is tops in my opinion.

This new husband talks a blue streak and he fails utterly to

speak illy of himself. To be truthful, I was amazed the way he

talked. Maybe the highlight--if there could be a highlight in his

conversation--went something like this. On the grand piano

(Sina's) was a small picture in a sort of glass rope frame. We

think the picture was named "Blowing Bubbles." Anyway, it was one

of Hitler's favorites and Bro. Hitler kept it on his desk. In

some miraculous way, this new husband of Sina's got hold of it. I

think he said he stole it, maybe meaning he gave so little for it

that same was next to stealing, but however he got it, it is now

valued at $250,000, which I would say was a dam sight too high,

but sitting there in Veedersburg on Sina's piano, right out in

the open, I should venture the guess it will soon disappear once

the Public finds out its value. There is one thing sure--I will

never break into Sina's house to steal that picture. It is

absolutely safe so far as I am concerned, much safer than the

weather-beaten tomatoes on Ben's back porch right here next door.

Eventually he asked my business. I told him I was a farmer, and

then the fireworks did start. Above all things on this Earth he

wanted to be a farmer. That was his life's ambition, and on and

on he went. I told him there was much more about farming than

meets the naked eye.

Sooner or later Munny will give you the address up on 5th Ave.

near Tiffany's where he is very prominent in some way or other.

This will do for today,

Pap

METHODIST PIONEERS THINK OF PERU

November 16, 1952

Dear Footser:

. . . I have, in a rather small way, suggested to Mutiny and

Margaret that we try to spend from mid-January to about mid-April

in Lima, Peru. . . There was an article in the Nov., 1952,

Holiday telling about Peru and how cheap it was to live there. . .

I realize how much of a handicap we would be under. As time

goes on, I get a little deafer, and God knows I am too old to try

to learn any Spanish. . . If we could rent a modern furnished

house and get reliable servant(s), then I don't know but what I'd

try it. I just don't like cold weather. At the same time, I don't

want to get into any particularly tight place. The article in

Holiday was very favorable, as you know it would be. But the real

facts might be far, far different. If I were 30 years younger,

and without any wife or family, I think now, I'd sure try it just

for the hell of it, if for nothing else. I wouldn't under those

circumstances stand back, or even be fearful. But as it is, it is

different. What do you think about it?

Frank and I had a whale of a time last month going to Kansas,

Okla., Texas, Miss. and Kentucky. You just don't know how high in

Methodist circles us Durhams are. I'll tell you. I found it all

out on this trip Frank and I took. Grandpappy, my grandpappy,

Jacob Durham, came to Russellville from Perryville, Ky., in about

1828. About three miles east of Perryville, on the way to

Danville, is what is known even now as the old Durham Farm. A man

named Godbey now owns it. Old man. He was there when Mutiny and I

went camping on that farm about 35 years ago. His mother was a

Durham. Well, since we were there, the Pioneer Mothers or DAR or

Methodists or somebody have erected a granite monument to my

great, great grandpappy, one John Durham. He owned the farm, and

in 1783 he organized the first Methodist Church--then called

"Methodist Society"--west of the Allegheny Mountains. He built a

log church on his farm about 300 feet from where the monument now

stands. The marker says that, and the records in the First

Methodist Church of Danville back it up. My great Uncle Milton

Durham in the 1890's, put a stained glass window in said church,

with a full size picture in colored glass of what they must have

imagined John Durham looked like. But there it is, brass marker

and all. Uncle Milton graduated from Old Asbury in 1844, I think

it was. Grandpa Durham put him through college. I have seen him.

He carried the cane for a few years prior to his death. He was

tall, and the cane didn't reach the ground. He was the first

Comptroller of the Currency the U.S. ever had. Grover Cleveland

appointed him in the '80s.

Now what do you think of all that? And to think this Methodist

DePauw University some 50 odd years ago broke relations with me,

and the faculty gave me 24 hours to leave--23 of which I still

have coming to me.

Pappy

Pap's final reference above was to the university's intention to

suspend him for organizing a fraternity dance during his student

days. He beat them to the punch by switching to Indiana

University to finish out his college years.

THE INDOMITABLE BETTIE LOCKE

Pap wrote this speech for his daughter Ann to deliver at a

convention of sorority Kappa Alpha Theta.

Bettie Locke Hamilton--the fabulous Bettie Locke of Greek letter

sorority lore and literature--was no hand for dalliance,

amorously or otherwise, in 1868 or any other time thereafter up

to her death in 1939.

Indiana Asbury University (now DePauw University) located at my

hometown, Greencastle, Indiana, decided to admit female students,

beginning in the Fall of 1868, after a debate that started on a

high level after much prayerful thought and meditation and ended

in a knockdown and drag-out verbal fight that divided the

dignitaries, bisected the Methodist Church temporarily, split the

faculty into two hostile camps and put the town into a dither--

from railroad depot to barber shop and livery barn.

Rumor hath it that promptly at 8 o'clock on the morning of

opening day, Bettie Locke presented herself for admission--the

first female registrant of Asbury. Later, four other young ladies

of a more timid disposition presented themselves and begged

registration. . . Two years later, Kappa Alpha Theta--co-founded

by Bettie Locke Hamilton, Alice Allen Brant, Bettie Tipton

Lindsay and Hannah Fitch Shaw--became the first "Greek letter

fraternity known among women." And that too was as Bettie Locke

would have it.

In her girlhood days, Bettie Locke showed a disposition that was

to develop into a Will of Iron . . . Her vocabulary was enormous,

her diction virtually perfect, her stage presence commanding. The

Theta Convention at Estes Park, Colorado, was in the summer of

1930 or '31. My oldest sister, Joan, was a delegate from Alpha

Chapter. Bettie Locke Hamilton went along. It was near the last

convention she attended. Mind you that was within eight or nine

years of her death, and she must have been well in the 80s at the

time of her decease. She spoke extemporaneously, and "brought

down the house". . .

Bettie Locke was free in giving both unsolicited advice and

criticism, as witness the following true story. My father started

practicing law early in this century. Clients were few and far

between . . . He was standing in front of the stairs leading to

his modest office when along came Bettie Locke. She saw both him

and his head piece, a cap he had acquired in college days. She

strode straight up and said, "Andrew, a cap is unbecoming a young

man starting the practice of law. Take it off and never let me

see it again." He did--and she never. . .

Bettie Locke had a positive opinion about almost everything. She

loathed lipstick. She abhorred bobbysox, and her opinion of short

hair and short dresses was virtually unprintable. But don't get

me wrong in the inference of those last words. No one, no where,

at no time ever heard Bettie Locke utter one profane, vile or

smutty word. She was too cultured and had too good a command of

the English language for that. She used sarcasm couched in such

classical language that the targets of her shafts only wished she

would wax profane and vulgar. . .

Our family home is just off the DePauw campus, and a great many

students pass to and fro. Many has been the time Bettie Locke

would come and sit and talk with my Mother on our front porch.

And sooner or later the conversation would turn to the Thetas,

and college girls in general and how they were doing, or drift

back to her days--the 1860s and '70s. But just let a female in

slacks--or shorts--I must mention shorts a second time--heave in

sight and Bettie Locke was off and gone in a blistering

monologue. And how she could blister.

Bettie Locke staunchly stood up for her rights. She never lost

her voice. . . In her late years her teeth caused considerable

trouble. She would not hear to having them all pulled and plates

substituted, but allowed them to go one by one whenever the pain

became unbearable. Among the last was a big molar, that by the

time she had to come to her dentist had become so infected and

ulcerated nothing could be done about it except extract it. The

good Dr. Overstreet explained all this and then proceeded to

extract it without further ado.

On the way home she thought it all over, and the nearer home she

came the madder she got. . . Neighbors added fuel, and with it

some "chimney-corner law," as Hoosier lawyers call it. Next

morning she stormed into the office and went straight to the

point, as was her custom. "Doc, I'm going to sue you. Indeed I

am. And you needn't try to talk me out of it. You had no right to

pull that tooth without my consent. You had it out before I knew

what you were doing. I was not consulted." . . . Nothing ever

happened, but the time never came when Bettie Locke ceased

threatening him with that suit. . .

It was not to be for me to know Bettie Locke in her peaches and

cream days. I was to know her in her poi and soft food days. We

children were rather afraid of her. She lived alone. The house

was dark and rather forbidding. Some . . . who had felt her

verbal barbs sometimes referred to her as the "witch of Walnut

and Locust Streets." In later life she harbored a kitchen and

cellar full of cats. None were aristocrats. They were the alley

variety and had a pedigree about as long as my Spanish

vocabulary. . .

I can't afford to lose this chance for getting a little matter

before you, because after this forensic effort I may never get

the chance to talk again in public. It has to do with my Theta

pedigree. . . I virtually stem back to one of the Founding

Mothers herself. . . Bettie Tipton, the one and only Bettie

Tipton so far as we are concerned, and my Grandmother Durham were

cousins--their Mothers were Blacks and they all lived on farms

near Mt. Sterling, Kentucky. Bettie Tipton was opposite of Bettie

Locke. She came from the blue grass and was as feminine as baby

breath. . . She too had a hectic experience at Indiana Asbury,

compared with the sheltered home in the blue grass from whence

she had come. Maybe I'll tell you that story some time.

ANOTHER EARLY FEMINIST

December 16, 1952

Mr. and Mrs. Garnett Reed Chenault

Mt. Sterling, Kentucky

My dear Mr. and Mrs. Chenault,

I have just received your very kind and thoughtful letter,

together with the newspaper enclosure concerning the Tipton

family in Montgomery County, Kentucky. You are a most considerate

couple. On behalf of my sister, Mrs. Margaret D. Bridges, now

about 90 and almost blind and quite deaf, and myself, I thank

you. Mrs. Bridges, in the early 1880s, and as a sprightly young

Miss, visited her cousin, Amanda Black Tipton and husband Burwell

. . .

You possibly might be interested to know that Burwell's daughter

Bettie (who married a Lindsay and after marriage lived in

Winchester, Ky.), through a combination of ability,

aggressiveness, chance and fate, came to be a famous woman

nationally. Asbury College (now DePauw University) a staid

Methodist school here in Greencastle, opened its doors to women

students in 1870--an unheard-of thing. And here came Bettie,

bringing along her charming southern ways. Females were frowned-

on by the young college men as interlopers and undesirables, and

were subjected to some indignities. Bettie et. als. persisted.

Bettie, along with three other young women students, founded the

first Greek Letter Sorority in the world, Kappa Alpha Theta. That

brought another blast. Today Kappa Alpha Theta is the oldest,

largest and wealthiest of the 35 to 50 others that have followed.

Its assets run into the millions. And Bettie's name is known

throughout the civilized world wherever a "Theta," as they call

themselves, lives, because all Thetas are required to memorize

the names of the founders as a prerequisite to initiation. I

know. My five daughters are Thetas.

Another thing about the fabulous Bettie. When it came time to

graduate, Bettie and some young man were nip and tuck as to

leadership in scholarship, but Bettie's grades were a shade

higher. What to do about Class Valedictorian? The College

authorities approached the formidable Bettie on behalf of the

young man. He was to become a famous Methodist minister and would

go out into the world preaching the Gospel. It would add greatly

to his prestige to go out as having been Valedictorian of his

graduating class. As for her, she would probably marry, and by

inference, thereby be relegated to the kitchen, nursery--and

oblivion.

Our indomitable Bettie . . . told the good, kindly, God-fearing

faculty members that her father had sent her all the way from Mt.

Sterling, Kentucky, to Greencastle for her education and at

considerable expense, and with much trepidation and prayerful

contemplation. She also told them in no uncertain words that if

she were entitled to be Valedictorian, then she wanted to be

Valedictorian, and that was that.

She got it, and the theretofore man-dominated Methodist Asbury

got an unexpected social shock to its sturdy limestone

foundations.

Rumor hath it even that one of the old buildings took a decided

list to the south and had to be shored-up. More shoring was to be

had as the years passed . . . .

Cordially,

FINDING 'THE BEST PLACE TO EAT' ON THE ROAD

March 15, 1953

Mrs. Lacy Stoner

Holly Bluff, Mississippi

My dear Mrs. Stoner,

A week ago, just about this time, Frank and I were arriving at

the Stoner homestead in far-off Holly Bluff--home of pecky

cypress at its best, and Frank was getting a second look at his

beloved paneling. . . Frank is well-pleased with his lumber

purchases, and with the trip generally. But coming up from your

home . . . he was like an old mare headed for the barn. . .

We made Cairo, Ill., just before dark. As we started into town, I

said, "Let's stop and eat at some good place." Frank said, "All

right. I'll look for a good place as we go through." Pretty soon

we were out of town. It had been raining off and on, and now it

began in rather good earnest. In fact, come to think of it, it

rained about all the way.

When we reached Marion, Ill. I said, "There is a time and place

for everything. Drive up to that Standard station on the left. I

want to ask him the best place in town to eat." He did, and I

did. The fellow cited us to "The Hut." Enroute, I said, "Frank,

I'll bet three to one The Hut is a dump. Whenever they recommend

Huts or Mike's Place or Pat's Place or Joan's and Joe's or any

Dinty Moore's, you can just about bet your wad they're dumps." I

looked while he parked. It had eight revolving stools. I said,

"Let's walk to that filling station yonder. I know this town has

a better place. I saw an intelligent first class looking trucker

just outside and asked him, telling him I hadn't eaten anything

except segments of big Hershey bars all day long and I wanted

good food and a table to sit at. He directed us "around the Court

House following the traffic, then north to the place next-door to

the Adam Shoe Store with the big electric shoe hanging out in

front--you can't miss it." The place looked rather shoddy but it

had three pine booths and nine revolving stools. A trifle

desperate, we sat down. A fuzzy fat girl came from behind nowhere

with one menu. I asked her for a big tall glass, two or three

cubes of ice and an open bottle of Coca Cola. She said they had

no ice. I looked at the menu but it was hard to read on account

of the samples of soup thereon. I said to Frank, "Let's go." And

we did.

Outside, I met an old codger. . . I asked the old question. He

sent us up the street "thataway, the best place in town, anything

from soup to nuts." I asked, "Does it have tables?" He said, "Why

hell, yes--and pepper and salt too." I felt we were on the right

track. And indeed, compared with the others it was the "Empire

Room" in the Waldorf-Astoria. Quite nice waitress, and I got my

tall glass, etc. . .

Arrived home at 12:45 a.m. A trifle short of 650 miles. Thus

endeth our pecky cypress safari. . .

Cordially,

FINANCIAL ADVICE TO A WORLD TRAVELER

March 16, 1953

Mrs. Ruth Ross Herrman

121 Devon Drive

Falls Church, Virginia

Dear Ruth:

Holy Nellie! You ARE going places, aren't you? I am told that

many adventurous persons in New York are already engaging initial

passage to the moon, so perhaps you should write for a

reservation there before all the space is taken. I thought I had

gone hog wild going to South America three years ago with Sugar

Foot for the winter, even if we did have direct connection with,

and were practically under the constant supervision and tutelage

of General Motors, International Harvester, most all the U.S.

Branch Banks down there, and others, but we were 4th rate pikers

compared with you.

Your letter does not say how long you will be on safari . . . but

rather indicates more than a year at the least. . .

Knowing more about U.S. finances than going around the world,

I'll talk a little about that. You must own a house in Alabama

and two in Virginia. That's too many houses by three to go off

and leave--especially if you don't know when you are coming back.

. . . If you can make a little profit now, or break even, or even

take a little loss, you'd better sell your houses. Rental

properties are no investment for women at any time, especially

now. Pay no attention to anyone who tells you to the contrary.

The odds are overwhelming. I think you have considerable U.S.

bonds. Bonds are rather poor property these days . . . because

the buying power of money is now depreciating far more rapidly

than the bond interest is bringing in--or more. Of course

everybody should diversify--I mean everybody whose working days

and moneymaking days are about over. Those out of business. . .

Time was when careful investors had about 40 to 50% bonds, 10 to

20% in cash, and say 40% in high grade stocks, common and

preferred. All that has changed. Bonds and cash on hand are

losers from an investment point, but not so much so from the view

of diversity and security. Careful investors now go as high as

80% or even higher in common stocks (good ones of high standing

and long regular dividend experience, not cats and dogs and

speculatives). . . The common stocks of AT&T, Standard of New

Jersey or Indiana, International Business Machines, Eastman Kodak

and dozens of others are safer and easier for you than probably

any house rental on God's green earth. Now is not only the time

for all good men to come to the aid, etc., but also the time for

all good women to get out of the clutches of carpenters,

electricians, repairmen, repairs and replacements. You may wonder

how come all this free and voluntary advice. If I recall

correctly, you and Helen used to consult with me about finances

occasionally. And so, I just sort of got started and jumped the

gun, so to speak. What I say is not compulsory, so take it or

leave it. I'm not infallible or I long since would have taken the

places of Morgan and Rockefeller. . .

When you get over there in Borneo and Java, and have the time and

inclination, and the ink isn't at the boiling point, write and

tell us what things are like.

And may your trains always be on time--which they will not.

As Ever,

PAYING OUR OWN WAY

April 3, 1953

Mrs. Cecil Harden

Member, House of Representatives

Washington, D.C.

My dear Mrs. Harden:

I am home today with a slight cold. My wife and daughter are gone

to Indianapolis shopping. Tomorrow the parcel post packages will

begin rolling in. Our parcel post man is an understanding fellow.

It has become a sort of standing joke when he stops his truck and

starts in with various packages he smiles facetiously and says,

"Well, I see the folks were in Indianapolis yesterday."

And so, tomorrow's delivery here at the house will add a tiny

fraction to the already increasing postal deficit. Why? Parcel

post rates are evidently too low. Mrs. Harden, that is wrong.

Some helpless somebodys, somewhere, will have to make up that

deficit. The postage on those packages should slightly overpay

their way, not underpay them.

A year or so ago the Congress enacted Public Law 199, which cut

down the weight of parcel post shipments and thereby helped

considerably in reducing the parcel post deficit, which I think

is still up around 100 millions. Now the boys who use parcel post

at the partial expense of the general taxpayers want 199

repealed, and have introduced HR 2685 to that effect. It also

raises the poundage to 70 pounds. . . I understand HR 2685 has

been sent to a Committee of which you are a member. . . I should

like to know your and the Committee's reactions thereto. . .

This week's Newsweek says to not be surprised if there's a

postal-rate increase before long--perhaps a 4 cent rate for most

first-class mail. Well, why not, if it takes that or 5 cents or

whatever amount, to break slightly more than even? If my letters

or packages aren't more than paying their way--and I mean just

that--then let me pay more, or quit writing or sending, or else

just deliver them myself. I don't want some fellow at Stonebluff

paying any part of it. . .

Cordially,

AT&T DIRECTORS BETTER STOCK UP

April 4, 1953

To the Board of Directors of American Telephone and Telegraph

Company:

Gentlemen:

Your April, 1953, Notice of the Annual Meeting would seem to

indicate there are 19 of you Directors. . . To my utter

amazement, I seem to find out that I own a few more shares of

your excellent Capital Stock than a majority of your Directors

individually own. A shocking revelation to me. Something must be

wrong. Either I own too many or that majority owns too few. I

think the latter is the case. So, what to do?

Therefore, in all Hoosier modesty, I suggest we adopt an

Incentive Stock Option Plan for our Directors only, patterned

after that proposed by Standard Oil (Indiana) for Key Executives.

We must do something for our financially hard-pressed Directors,

and I am one to help.

Please understand this communication is confidential between me

and 18 of you Directors. I want to leave out that 30-share man

because he is fairly well-up in an organization whose System pass

I have proudly carried for lo, these many years. In righteous

indignation he might rise up and take that pass away from me . . .

So let's centralize on our 25-share Director, Mr. W--, as the

example. He needs help--and badly. And who knows? If I should be

the Good Samaritan to start him up the AT&T stock ladder, maybe

he in gratitude would have me appointed Special Attorney for the

Atlantic Coast Line and Louisville and Nashville Railroads (to

avoid any Federal complications), and that way I could get to

that American Shangri-La, Florida, for free. The possibilities of

my strategy are intriguing.

But let it be clearly known to each of you (except the 30-share

man) that if our 25-share man does not up his holdings to at

least the low 30s between now and next year's Annual Meeting, and

he is up again for re-election, and I am there which I won't be,

and he is there which he should be, and is pointed out to me, I

shall strike him for those two passes before all and sundry. He

will refuse, and then I'll publicly expose his puny holdings in

our most excellent Company. The Chairman of the Boards of two big

Railroads has no business humiliating us by such niggardly

holdings in our fine Company. And I am the angel with the

temerity to say so. He can't get at me (The 30-share man can--

that is why I am laying off him). As to the 25-share man, I carry

none of his passes, I am not a candidate for office, and am

standing no stud hosses. Other than being a Presbyterian, I am a

free man.

This is no threat, but always remember that if matters come to

the worst, I might come to some Annual Meeting, pull my Odd

Fellows membership on Mr. Bell, my Farm Bureau card on Mr.

Forbes, my Notarial Commission on Mr. Root, Jr., my Kiwanis

standing on Mr. Craig, My Law School diploma on Mr. Taylor, my

Masonic associations on one or more big stockholders who aren't

Catholics, etc.; nominate myself for Director; conduct another

whistle-stop campaign, and----?. Then wouldn't our splendid

Company be in a pickle, with a Hoosier farmer, and a Democrat at

that, on the Board, and maybe a double-jointed Railroad Board

Chairman or some other worthy individual thrown into the discard?

Something drastic must be done for our low bracket Directors.

Let's do it--and soon.

I shall anxiously await your composite solution for the

situation.

Fraternally, but apprehensively, Yours,

BEWARE DOCTORS AND WATCH THE COWS

To Heather Anderson, a granddaughter.

July 18, 1953

My dear Heather Bloom:

What is our Heather doing in a hospital? They are not places for

young ladies. Hospitals are traps for old people with sore backs

and failing minds and memories whom doctors inveigle into these

medical spider's webs for reasons best known to themselves.

Some folks, mostly older women, glory in their hospital records.

Each trip is carefully recorded and verified with unimpeachable

evidence, and is to the owner the same as a home run is to Stan

Musial.

There was a time when a young fellow, about your age now, cut his

finger with a knife. What happened? Mother took a look. She

washed the layers of dirt off with good old common cold well or

cistern water, soused the finger in turpentine, then wrapped it

in a clean, boiled white cotton rag, tied it round and round with

Clark's white No. 70 thread, told him to keep it as clean as his

conscience would permit--and in 48 hours it was well. Now what

happens? The neighborhood is alerted, the ambulance called with

orders to ring the gong vigorously enroute, doting grandparents

are deluged with telegrams and telephone calls, the cigarette-

finger stained family doctor is called and frantically urged to

meet the ambulance at the back door of the hospital. He does. He

inspects the knife gravely, sends it to the laboratory to check

whether it has cut bread made from wheat infected with the dread

wheat cholera or has come into contact with tuleremic pork

plasma, etc. The case is too serious for him alone so he calls

co-counsel. The poor little feller by this time is so bewildered

he doesn't remember whether he cut his finger or wet his pants.

Grandpappy is grubbing and piling deadened thorn trees, piling

brush, logs and dead limbs, spading-up locust, thorn, elm, osage

orange and wild crabapple sprouts . . . and otherwise disporting

himself in one of the big pastures north of town. . . Earlier in

the year, a quail would perch on that big southeast corner post

of the pasture. You would know he was there because he would

whistle that shrill "Bob White, Bob White." If you weren't too

anxious to work you would stop and try to figure him out. . .

Once I was working diligently near the east fence line. All at

once I realized a squirrel was barking at me. I kept still and

located the sound, but I never got to see the squirrel. But I did

see birds, woodpeckers, blue jays, rain crows and robins flying

into a certain rather small tree, and I knew what that meant at

this time of year--a mulberry tree. I tried to work toward it,

easy like. When I got there the squirrel was gone but the

mulberry tree and its ripening berries were right there where the

sound came from. . . Where there is plenty of grass, cows never

get hungry. They eat about all the time just to keep from getting

hungry. If you see cows lying around in the shade, you know that

all is well.

But you have to keep tab on your livestock wherever they may be.

Inside the highway gate, but some distance away to the east, was

an open tool shed. . . Day before yesterday, as I drove in the

pasture and passed reasonably close to this tool shed, I saw a

young calf in the shed on top of the hay. He'd weigh 100 to 125

pounds. I didn't stop. I thought he'd work his way out the same

way he worked in. That evening as I went by, I forgot about any

calf. Next morning as I went by, I was thinking about other

things, so I didn't look in for the calf. About mid-afternoon,

when I was working within hearing distance of the tool shed, I

heard a cow bawling. It was the bawl of a cow that had lost her

calf. When I came out, I stopped near the shed, walked over and

looked in. There was the calf on the hay, and silent as your

Uncle Frankfurter when he broke the stock of my shotgun. I went

around to where he had gotten in and went in the same way,

climbed up over the five or six feet of baled hay and then down

toward him. He ran over the bales faster than I could climb. Back

and forth, around and around we went. Finally I got him in the

south part of the shed. He was tiring and I was already tired. He

looked at me. I sort of fell toward him, giving out a big yell.

He got a big scare and climbed those bales toward the hole he got

in through like a mountain goat. When I got out the same way, he

was half a quarter away and going strong. He must have been a

hungry calf by the time he found his ma.

This will conclude the agricultural lecture for today.

THE GRAND CHAMPION HAM

November 18, 1953

Honorable Frank J. McCarthy

Assistant Vice President of Pennsylvania Railroad

211 Southern Building

Washington, D.C.

My dear Frank,

Your Thanksgiving, or if you prefer, your Christmas ham deluxe is

on its way, . . . part of an unbelievable success story to New

Englanders and others east of the Alleghenys who feel that

everybody or everything good must originate east of said

Mountains. . .

Some six or eight years ago, a young fellow bought out a

combination locker plant, meat market and grocery store in

Waveland, Indiana, population about 500, and four miles from

Russellville. He gradually went into processing pork products,

particularly sugar-cured, hickory-smoked hams.

Last year the Meat Interests, or some such organization, of

Omaha, Nebraska, held a contest open to all pork processors of

the United States and Canada, from Swift, Armour and Wilson on

down--or up--to Coleman, of Waveland, Ind.

All unheralded and unsung, our young friend picked himself out

what he thought was the best of his modest stock of hams and had

the temerity to betake himself and his ham to Omaha, where he

entered said ham in its Class. It took first prize--represented

by a big platter, on the bottom of which a ham was engraved. Not

completely satisfied with taking first prize in its Class, our

hero then entered it in the Grand Sweepstakes--the Grand Champion

Ham of all Hams Class--of the United States and Canada. Know

what? To the utter consternation of the contestants, that same

ham again took first prize--represented by a washed-in-gold ball-

topped contraption that looked more like a pilaster in a Masonic

Lodge Hall than anything I can think of.

There remaining no more ham worlds to conquer, our Champion

rewrapped his winner in cellophane and tin foil and brought it

and the prizes home and placed them on exhibition for all to see.

That is the story. . .

Now please understand I am not so naive as to be certain our man

of the hour is a near-World's Champion ham producer or that

chance and fate or pure gall did not, in some manner, enter into

that decision. I just think the Champ is mighty good, and hope

that you, after sampling his product, will agree he is in there

pitching somewhere. . .

Happy Holidays and happy eating,

THANKS FOR THE BACKING

February 25, 1954

Mr. Leslie A. Lyon

Lyon's Music Company

110-112 S. Green Street

Crawfordsville, Indiana

My dear Les:

. . . After my first, and in the opinion of the great majority,

my most unexpected election in our Senatorial District (the first

time a Democrat had ever been elected from Montgomery and Putnam

Counties), I began to hear a lot about my so-called personal

popularity. Personal popularity, the Devil! It was the wise and

capable backing I got coupled with my willingness and hustle to

follow advice. . .

But . . . Les, there must be at least more than a dozen excellent

reasons why I cannot be a candidate. To recite them in detail on

paper would take a sheet reaching from your store to the Court

House. So, I shall not try to set them down on paper. But I do

want to thank you wholeheartedly for the generous compliment you

have paid me by even suggesting you would personally like for me

to run. . . Please remember me most kindly to all our good

friends.

Sincerely,

FOR BALANCE, LET CANADA GO IT ALONE

Response to a questionnaire from Congresswoman Cecil M. Harden,

March 4, 1954

Memo relating to Question No. 6.

I, a Democrat, along with thousands of others, not only voted for

Gen. Eisenhower, but were glad to do so. . . No minor reason for

doing so was that he promised to balance the budget--and soon. .

. But the politicians have gotten in their work and he is

wobbling just a trifle. . . At a very recent press conference, if

he is quoted correctly, he said that if employment did not pick

up in March, that fact would necessitate taking action, and tax

reduction might be one of the first measures to be considered,

and that the government wouldn't hesitate a second to do its

utmost to stop any real recession. To me that is Roosevelt

philosophy, pure and simple, which threw undue stress on consumer

spending, and assumed the way to avert depression was to

unbalance the budget, resort to pump priming, which can mean only

one thing--more inflation.

There are three ways to balance the budget:

-- Cut down spending and expenses, or

-- Collect more revenue (increase taxes), or

-- Do both

There are no other ways under the sun I know of.

The first of these is far and away the best. That is why my

answer to your sixth question is an unqualified "No." The St.

Lawrence Seaway would take eight or more years to build. The

alleged Engineers estimated it would cost just short of one

billion dollars to build it deep enough (26 to 28 feet) to carry

10% of the present ocean-going freighters. Which probably means

it would end up nearer three billion in cost. And what would it

cost to build it deep enough to carry the other 90%? To say

nothing of the cost of dredging lake harbors, building docks, and

dozens of other important expenses? For the most part it is to be

located in Canada and subject to Canadian law. Canada says it

will build it alone. In the name of the Great Jehovah and the

Continental Congress, let Canada do it! Let some country,

somewhere, sometime, some way or how, build something of its

own--on its own.

It is now proposed that an immediate increase of $100 or more in

personal exemptions for all income tax payers be made, and still

more for next year. Will St. Lawrence and this increase in

exemption help balance the budget? They will not. Neither should

pass until that budget is balanced, if we are really going to try

to balance it, and St. Lawrence should not pass at this time

above everything I have as yet heard proposed.

KANSAS CAN BE CRUEL

March 29, 1954

Honorable I.C. Wiatt, Chairman

Board of County Commissioners

Lakin, Kansas

My dear Mr. Wiatt:

I have just read with deep concern your letter of March 25, 1954,

to the effect your Board had received a signed complaint that our

land is in a "blowing" condition, and that. . . "the former

tenant". . . would assume no responsibility for it. . .

Please bear with me, if you have the time and inclination, and

allow me to recite a part of my experiences with that land. About

the year 1895 my father bought the quarter section from the

Entryman and his wife. . . During World War I, while returning

home from California in a cold January, I stopped off at Lakin.

As is the case everywhere, there is always someone who knows the

location of land. In my case he was a man who owned about the

only Ford in town. We struck west on the highway. Then by

instinct, it seems to me, rather than by landmarks, he turned

north over the unfenced land. In due time, he said, "There is

about your southeast corner. . ." It was mighty lonesome-looking

land.

Time went on. . . My next trip out was in summer. The land had a

fair stand of buffalo grass. . . I found a young fellow who

agreed to graze the land and pay the taxes. . . I never saw him

again. He moved away before my next trip. I was also told he

grazed the land, but I know he did not pay the taxes. They went

delinquent. I got that straightened out, and incidentally learned

a minor lesson about owning land so far from home.

You can imagine my reaction when, on the next trip out, I saw the

land had been fenced and cattle were grazing on it. I went north

perhaps a half-mile to a house near the east side of the road. A

woman was there alone. Her husband was away working. They had

come from Ohio. She was terribly discouraged. She cried as she

talked. Two crop failures--possibly three. They were near

desperate. . . I asked who owned the cattle. She said the Sheriff

of the County owned them, and had also built the fence. She then

told me how she wished she had that land for her two cows. They

were almost starving, and she had little or nothing for them to

eat.

And so I was up against the High Sheriff of Kearny County, and

1,000 miles from home. The Sheriff! If there is anything a non-

resident needs to learn, it is to avoid a clash with high

officials of a given section, if it can possibly be avoided. . .

I was worried. Then I thought of William Allen White and of his

famous editorial, and of other great and honorable men Kansas had

produced, a good part of them farmers, like me. I decided to

beard the lion in his den. . . He sort of braced himself, and I

could see he was getting ready to get mad. . . I told him I

wanted the fence left alone. I was arranging to turn this land

over to the woman up the road for her two cows. . . "You can't

expect me to give you that fence. . ."

Either he came to realize the probable justice of my stand, or

else he concluded he might be a trespasser if he persisted.

Anyway he did nothing to the fence. I wrote a contract in

duplicate to the effect the woman was to have possession of the

land for her cows until I gave her written notice to the

contrary. No rent or charge of any kind was to be made. . . I

never did see her husband. And I never saw her again. By the time

of my next trip, I was told they had sort of given up the ghost

and gone back to Ohio.

. . .Father was a bit proud of that "virgin soil", as he called

it, although neither he nor mother ever got a penny out of it.

Nor did the rest of us until lately, when it was leased for oil

and gas. . . Kansas can, and has been cruel. In my early boyhood

a few of those I knew went to Kansas to make their way in the

world. Some came back footsore and broken-hearted. The droughts,

hot winds and grasshoppers took them, as witness the Entryman and

his wife who homesteaded this identical land in 1893 . . .

. . .Two years ago I received a telephone call from a man in

Lakin. . . He had about 50 head of starving cattle; was out of

feed, with none available; he was desperate and could he turn-in

his cattle on my land for not more than a month? . . . I have

been short on feed a few times, but never out. I told him I would

most certainly help in any way I could under those circumstances.

Two months later I arrived on the land. Then came the big

disillusionment. The cattle were not those of the man who called

me. They were owned by one of the wealthiest men in the County.

The telephone caller only worked for him.

At the time, I came in contact with three prospective tenants who

wanted to farm the land. . . Mr. W-- was most highly recommended.

We talked terms. . .I told him I would think the matter over

carefully going home, and if I decided I wanted to lease the

land, would prepare a contract. . . I told him that if he did not

hear from me rather promptly to just forget the land . . . You

can imagine my utter amazement when, last Fall, I went out and

found a good part of the land broken up with perhaps 40 acres of

it in a maize crop failure. . . Mr. W-- said he understood the

deal to be that if he did not hear from me to the contrary, then

he was to proceed and crop the land. There you are. . .

Now today, after receiving your letter, I find myself in hot

water. . . I know nothing whatever about wind erosion or how to

deal with it. Whatever I have to do, I will have to do. . . I am

a long way off. I do not drive a car as much as I used to. I am

getting older. . . But I do know I do not expect to continue to

farm it, if I can have my way, which I have not had in the

immediate past. . .

Very Respectfully,

A FIRST TIME FOR EVERYTHING

May 7, 1954

The Milwaukee Chair Company

Milwaukee, Wisconsin

Attention: Mr. Block, I think is the name, President or Gen.

Manager:

The 5 metal chairs . . . were promptly delivered to our office.

They look and sit quite well and we feel sure we are going to

like them for the reception room.

When in Milwaukee my son and I ordered some other and more

expensive chairs--leather--at the same time we ordered the metal

chairs spoken of above, and it is about the delivery of these

leather chairs this letter is directed. We hope to have a sort of

"opening" for our new offices and building about June 1, 1954.

Naturally, we should like to have these leather chairs on hand

. . . If we knew there would be a little delay in delivery we

would try to delay our "opening." It is not my intention to try

to rush you. I would just like to know for a certainty and plan

accordingly.

I find myself in a dither like unto a situation that confronted

me long, long years ago. I was a cadet a Western Military

Academy, Alton, Illinois, 16 years old. . . In class, I sat next

to a boy two years my senior and far, far more sophisticated. He

was a member of a really rich family in St. Louis. He invited me

to spend Easter vacation at his home. I was glad to go. Arrived

in St. Louis I learned another St. Louis tycoon, a brewer and his

wife, were giving a banquet and ball, and that I was scheduled to

be among "those present."

My hostess looked me over carefully. In a casual way she asked,

"Andrew, I'll bet you forgot to bring your dress suit along?"

The question amazed me. "Why Mrs. --," I said, "I never owned a

dress suit. Boys my age where I come from don't have dress

suits."

What an understanding woman she was! I could see the smile come

to her eyes. Without a moment's hesitation she said, "I know what

we'll do. Both you boys will wear your uniforms. You are more

used to them and you'll feel more at home in them. And the girls

will just go wild about those uniforms. They are exactly the

thing to wear."

Before the big event, she got me off to herself and after some

preliminaries, asked, "Andrew, do your parents have liquor on the

table or in the home?" I said they did not have any that I knew

of.

She asked, "Did you ever taste whiskey or champagne?" I said I

had never tasted either--that I had never seen any champagne.

The good woman fairly beamed. She was getting real enjoyment out

of the interview. She then told me there would be worlds of

champagne served at the banquet. Waiters would keep refilling the

glasses. Older people might get a little tipsy. . . She told me

many things. She said that at the first serving of the champagne

we might all rise for a toast. My girl (for whom she had

arranged) and I would sort of intertwine our wrists and glasses

and she would take a sip out of my glass, but of course I would

sip none of hers--that champagne was quite potent and might

creep-up on one not used to it. . .

Before the interview was over, she had become my monitor and my

excellent, trustworthy and good friend. One thing troubled me. I

wanted her permission about something. I said, "I'll behave

myself and you'll not have to be ashamed of me. All this is new.

I have never been in a fine home before and have never been to a

banquet. May I have your permission to taste that champagne out

of my own glass? I have always wanted to taste champagne and I

may never get the chance again."

That was too much for her. She had been aching to laugh out loud.

She put her arm around me and let go, saying, "Andrew, you are

just about the finest young man we ever had in our home. Of

course you have my permission to taste the champagne. . . I just

want you to tell me how it tastes."

The banquet and ball were howling successes so far as I was

concerned. I made at least two big mistakes. . . I got the vast

assortment of spoons and forks pretty well mixed, but soon

corrected that by watching the middle-aged woman at my side. The

awful and really devastating mistake was due to my appetite.

Military School diet was rigid. I was young, healthy and hungry.

I noticed my girl minced and toyed with the fish, soup and other

preliminaries, but attributed that to some feminine quirk. I ate

all mine in stride. When the canvas back, caviar and other

unknown real delicacies came along it was too late for me. I was

full.

On the ball room floor it was a much different story. I was

young, lithe and limber--and absolutely sober. A great many of

the deluxe elite were too heavy in the hock, too wide in the

beam, and far, far too distended in front. One good woman

couldn't see her plate and would have to pull her fork from under

to see what its tine had speared. The guests graded from mild

exhilaration to pretty dam tight. My hostess' son was pretty well

left of center. I had sufficient presence of mind to ask my

monitor for dances, far more than could reasonably be expected of

a woman so old--probably almost pushing 40. . .

By this time you are asking, "Why all this boring life history

from an almost utter stranger?" The answer is simple.

I have never seen, much less occupied, an office chair pushing

$300. I must get acclimated to it gradually and by easy stages or

else find myself in the same uneasy situation as that of a 16-

year-old small town boy at his first metropolitan banquet and

ball. . .

Respectfully,

Durham & Durham, Atty.'s.

By Andrew E. Durham

SOUTH IN A BOX CAR, NORTH IN A CADILLAC

Excerpts from an article written by Pap, in the Putnam County

Graphic, June 24, 1954.

Some 35 years ago, a young man born and reared in Putnam County,

near Greencastle, decided to seek his fortune elsewhere. Of

uncompromising Republican political stock, he ignored Horace

Greeley's admonition, "Young man go West," and took a different

direction.

He had already arranged to buy on contract a modest acreage in

the Mississippi Delta where the silt of countless overflows of

the River had produced a soil more than 60 feet in depth--the

deepest and richest soil on Earth other than the valley of the

Nile. . .

And so, one typically bleak March day, he assembled his dog, a

span or two of mules, his scanty farming tools and himself into a

box car headed south.

In later years, when speaking of that momentous occasion, he

said, "I think the most lonesome, homesick and desperate moment

of all my ups and downs was the time I closed that box car door

on familiar scenes I might never see again--and the wheels began

to turn. It was so cold I made a sort of bunk, wrapped my dog and

myself in the same blankets to help keep one another warm, and

tried to go to sleep."

The trip took over a week. They all ate some days. Some days just

the mules and the dog; and one day, just the mules.

Did you see a house float past?

So allow us to introduce the subject of this sketch, Mr. Lacy

Simpson Stoner, and inform you Holly Bluff, Mississippi, was his

destination.

Arrived, he had hardly become oriented when the rising

Mississippi started his house toward New Orleans and the Gulf.

Fortunately it lodged in some nearby trees, and as the river

receded, he, aided by block and tackle, floated and pulled it

back to its original or approximately original position, where it

was made more secure.

In speaking of these floods, Mr. Stoner said, "It was nothing in

those days to have some man from up the River come along and

inquire, 'Did you see a three room, part-yaller house goin' by

here in the last day or two?'"

Crops were good, with fair prices. He plowed back the profits

into more and more land and better and better mechanical

equipment.

And he took time to come back to Indiana and claim his bride, a

Lafayette girl, the present Mrs. Stoner.

Again the rains came and the water flooded their first floor.

They moved what they could to the second floor, where the water

soon caught up with them. They tied some of the better and more

useful articles up among the rafters, and had just selected the

spot to chop out through the roof, to get to the boat which was

moored to the house, when the crest of the flood was reached and

the water slowly subsided.

Revolution in the Delta

Then followed more and bigger crops, bigger profits, more land,

more mechanical equipment and less sharecropper help. Meanwhile,

soy beans and other crops gradually supplanted cotton.

In time a new and modern home was built--on higher ground nearer

Holly Bluff and its modern school house. This home has a large

and beautiful living room paneled and beamed in "pecky cypress",

and it was there J. Frank Durham got his idea of paneling the new

Durham Building here in the City.

Mr. Stoner now owns some 3,000 acres of that Mississippi Delta,

virtually all of which is as level as a baseball park; a fleet of

12-foot combines, tractors, a vast amount of modern equipment and

enough rubber-tired low grain wagons to fill a small-sized

parking lot. He has a large interest in the community cotton gin,

although cotton has almost disappeared from his land. He has many

other and varied interests.

He revolutionized farming in the Mississippi Delta by introducing

mechanized equipment and changing from cotton to other and

better-paying crops that require less manual labor. These are a

part of the secrets of his astounding success, coupled with

ability, hard work and close careful attention and application to

his business. . .

Week before last, Mr. Stoner and his comely wife came North but

not in a box car. Their mode of travel is a June, 1954-vintage,

air-conditioned Cadillac, just off the assembly line.

Your editor met Mr. and Mrs. Stoner at a dinner party at Old

Trails Inn being given by Mr. Andrew E. Durham in their honor.

Messrs. Stoner and Durham were members of the 1917 State Scottish

Rite Class at Indianapolis, and lived as neighbors west of the

City. . .

The Farmer's Game

Mr. Stoner talked freely of his boyhood days in Greencastle. He

and others of his age would gather evenings in the restaurants

around town to eat hamburgers or some such food. They invented a

pastime they called "the farmer's game". . . Slips of paper were

shaken up in a hat and each member drew a slip. All but one were

blank. The one who drew the slip labeled "treat" had to do just

that.

In due time the boys improved the game to make it as sure for

those "in the know" not to lose as the present day one-armed

bandits. There would be, say, five in the game, one of whom was

the "sucker". One of the conspirators would prepare the five

slips. He did that by writing "treat" on all five slips. In the

meantime each conspirator would have obtained a blank slip of the

same shape and quality of paper. This he would have rolled-up in

his LEFT vest pocket--just in case.

The drawing would begin. The victim would have to draw a "treat"

slip because all five were labeled that way. Those in the know

would draw, give a quick sort of look and put the slips in their

RIGHT vest pockets, at the same time conjecturing aloud, "Mine

was a blank. Wonder who got the treat slip," or some such remark.

One night, after being bilked three successive times, the victim

became suspicious. Feeling he had served his apprenticeship long

and faithfully, the others were ready and willing to admit him as

a full blood brother. They told him to prepare the slips and

conduct the drawing, which he of course did according to the

"official" rules--four blanks and one with "treat". To the

surprise of all, and rather contrary to the mathematical law of

averages, he again drew the "treat" slip. This convinced him that

the game was straight.

"And so," said Mr. Stoner laconically, "we saved him for another

night, until he had learned his ritual better."

Mr. and Mrs. Stoner returned to Holly Bluff last week. Later they

go to Hot Springs, Arkansas, for the baths, a semi-annual

pilgrimage; then probably to Denver and the West Coast; then

perhaps north to Oregon and Washington, where they may ship their

car along and continue by steamship to Alaska.

Warning to Alaska

Last Saturday, during the open house for the Durham Building, J.

Frank Durham received a congratulatory telephone call from his

friend and schoolmate, V. Maurice Smith, at Alaska. He is the co-

owner and Editor of Jessen's Weekly at Fairbanks, and also

newscaster for a local radio station. Frank alerted his friend to

the possible invasion of Alaska by Mr. Stoner and his "farmer's

game," or improvements thereof. He advised his friend to keep his

eyes "off that air-conditioned Cadillac and on the driver

himself, as he is by far the more dangerous of the two."

SOMETHING ON THE CARPET

July 20, 1954

Dear Footser:

. . . Which reminds me of your Uncle Charlie Bridges. He was a

Deacon or whoever it is who gets to pass the plate at the

Presbyterian Church for the collection.

The event happened during the First World War. The church needed

a new carpet. Mr. Raphael, the Pastor, extended himself in the

sermon about giving for the proposed new carpet. He extolled the

brethren and sistern to "Give, give until it hurts. If you do not

have the cash, just sign a piece of paper setting out the amount

you will give toward the new carpet, put it in the collection

box. The ushers will take care of it and you will be credited the

amount on the new carpet". etc.

Charlie was passing the plate. He came to old Mrs. Cooper, a

devout Presbyterian, who whispered something in his ear. Charlie

straightened up and said, "Brother Raphael, Mrs. Cooper would

like to do a little something on the new carpet, but she has no

paper."

Pap