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.
November 5, 1949Hon. Claud BowersU.S. Minister to ChileSantiago, 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
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
April 2, 1951Beymer & BeymerLakin, KansasAttention: Mr. Clyde Beymer Jr.
My dear Mr. Beymer:On March 23, 1951, I wrote my nephew in California by Air Mailconcerning the proposed sale of our quarter section in KearnyCounty.
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,
October 22, 1951Hemphill, Noyes, Graham, Parsons & Co.15 Broad StreetNew 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,
February 5, 1952Mrs. Cecil HardenMember, House of RepresentativesWashington, 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,
June 23, 1952Honorable George W. HenleyCitizens Trust BuildingBloomington, 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,
July 30, 1952American Telephone and Telegraph Company195 BroadwayNew 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,
September 16, 1952The First National Bank of ChicagoChicago, Illinois
Dear Sirs,I am herewith enclosing 3 certificates of the Capital Stock ofStandard Oil Company (New Jersey) as follows . . . It is myrequest 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,
Sept. 27, 1952
Dear Sugar Foot:Munny and I returned last evening from a short visit with Mr. andMrs. Walter J. Behmer at Culver, Indiana, on Lake Maxinkuckee orhowever 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
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 MethodistDePauw University some 50 odd years ago broke relations with me,and the faculty gave me 24 hours to leave—23 of which I stillhave 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.
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.
December 16, 1952Mr. and Mrs. Garnett Reed ChenaultMt. 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,
March 15, 1953Mrs. Lacy StonerHolly 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,
March 16, 1953Mrs. Ruth Ross Herrman121 Devon DriveFalls 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,
April 3, 1953Mrs. Cecil HardenMember, House of RepresentativesWashington, 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, 1953To the Board of Directors of American Telephone and TelegraphCompany:
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 thesituation.Fraternally, but apprehensively, Yours,
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 unimpeachableevidence, and is to the owner the same as a home run is to StanMusial.
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.
November 18, 1953Honorable Frank J. McCarthyAssistant Vice President of Pennsylvania Railroad211 Southern BuildingWashington, 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,
February 25, 1954Mr. Leslie A. LyonLyon's Music Company110-112 S. Green StreetCrawfordsville, 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,
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.
March 29, 1954Honorable I.C. Wiatt, ChairmanBoard of County CommissionersLakin, 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,
May 7, 1954The Milwaukee Chair CompanyMilwaukee, 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
Excerpts from an article written by Pap, in the Putnam CountyGraphic, 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, aLafayette 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.