Chapter 4 1942-1945

Pap was way too old for active involvement in World War Two. He had to be content watching his children play their parts (Frank and Margaret both joined the Armed Service, although the latter had to be consoled after being initially turned down for a commission). Pap's sideline role did not deter him from making wry observations about professed patriotism on the part of the legislature ("political hooey") and the effects of war on the home front (shortages, black market activity, travel restrictions and inflation).

He also kept in touch through the mail with his scattered children and his wife. Despite the difficulties of wartime transportation, "Munny" insisted upon making her annual summer excursions to Milford, Pennsylvania, to attend to property inherited from her parents. This caused Pap a bit of anxiety, as he feared for her comfort but did not wish to take undue advantage of his railroad pass perquisites. He also felt lonely at home alone, as his youngest daughter, Aura May, left for college. In some of his strongest letters, he expressed concern, usually with humor but sometimes quite poignantly, that family members should not interfere with each other's pending marital plans.

Otherwise, Pap tended to the farm, his lobbyist duties, and wrote a newspaper ad celebrating the 50th anniversary of the Russellville Bank.

NOT TRYING IS WORSE

Advice to a daughter turned down for a naval commission.

Sept. 3, 1942

Dear Margaret: I was sorry to hear you hadn't made the grade and didn't get what you want, but I would have been much sorrier if you hadn't tried. That's what gets me-this not trying. And while you may be quite a bit disappointed, you tried all the same, and that is the thing that counts much, much more.

Of all things, I never thought I would have a daughter in the Army or Navy, but now that things have happened as they have, and women are going into the War, why, I'm getting used to most anything. . .

I'm not saying that you should be in the Navy, not at all, but if I were you and I wanted in, I'd keep pecking away until I got in. . . . You said something about them wanting you to try for something like a job as a "private" in the Army. I am rather inclined to think you did right in not accepting that offer. You have an education, and better still, you have an ability that should rate you better than that of a private. It is true all of us can't be "Generals," but with your ability, your common sense and a world of other good qualities, you, if you want to, and will stick with it, will be able to get in WAVE, or whatever it is, from some other State-Indiana, for instance. There is a lot of bologna in this War, like all others, and I am told on good authority that it takes a political set-up to get the best. . . Honestly, when I heard you were trying Pennsylvania, I rather thought you would not be in the running. It just don't make sense for an Indiana girl to get a job like you wanted in the face of women (natives) in the second most populous State in the Union. . . Now above all things, don't repeat what I have said, and by no means give such as an excuse for missing the boat at Philadelphia, just keep mum, keep your own counsel, profit by your experience and keep on trying in every way you can. If I get a chance I'll get to Indianapolis and try to learn what WAVE is doing in Indiana, if anything. I have been so busy, I haven't had time to go any place or do anything except keep the farms going, which is a big job. Let me hear from you. Pap

HELPING THE WAR EFFORT

Aug. 2, 1942

Dear Frank: There is not much news to tell you. We are more than busy at the farm. . .

I should tell you about an experience I had yesterday. The rain stopped us combining oats on No. 43 shortly after dinner. I came home early in the afternoon. Stopped in the Post Office to see if there was any mail. Doc. Sigler the Veterinarian was in there. Maybe you know him. If not, then you should. He is windy, used to run a saloon here years and years ago, and therefore is an authority as he thinks on all things alcoholic. Doc was in a talkative mood. "Have you tried the new beer, Durm?" he asked. I said I had not, and what was it. Then he proceeded to tell me. It is really old time keg beer put up in bottles-half gallon bottles. It is unpasteurized, and it saves caps and thus helps win the War. He was insistent that I try just one bottle. It was to be had at Robert Hoffman's storage plant-this unpasteurized beer has to be kept cold.

Naturally I wanted to help win the War, so I went outside, got in the Mercury and headed for Hoffman's storage plant on North Indiana Street. There was Robert and his helper, Jim Allen. . . I asked their opinion, and they both agreed it was the Wonder of the Age.

If one bottle was good, then more would be better, so I bought three. Then, as a sort of hedge, and to be on the safe side, and being that I was already there, I bought a case of Cook pints, as I knew what they were, and came home, put the case on the kitchen radiator and the three half gallon bottles of Doc Sigler-recommended, unpasteurized Champagne-Velvet beer in the ice box and awaited developments.

Later I went to the Lincoln for supper, then tarried downtown a bit and started home. Pearl O'Hair was on her front porch and called to me. I went down and courted her until after dark, then thought of my Champagne-Velvet Doc. Sigler-recommended unpasteurized beer in half gallon bottles that help win the War, and came home. I reached in where we used to keep milk, pulled one out and it looked bigger than a blockbusting bomb. I got the biggest glass in the house and poured it full. It tasted rather alright, so I took another sample. Then others. The bottle stood the drain unusually well. Then I found a rubber stopper, inserted it, put the bottle back in the ice box and came in the front room to read the News. Then back to the half gallon bottle of unpasteurized amber fluid. That bottle "gave down" like a six- year-old Holstein with a new calf. . . Another round or so and we called "recess" for me to go out on the front porch for air. But duty called me back to the bottle. By that time I could see I was gaining slightly, and would eventually win if I kept up my morale. But it was a horse race with bets about even. Then back to the front porch for more air, then back to the half gallon bottle of unpasteurized that helps win the War. On one of these trips to the front porch I noticed the Electric Light people had inserted a bigger light bulb while I had been gone. But my patriotic duty called me back to the pantry and the rubber-stoppered half gallon bottle. In desperation I again went to the front porch to bring in help, any kind of help, but the streets were empty. Then back to the kitchen, and then to the front porch where I was seized with a desire to go calling, anywhere, and anybody who could talk, or rather listen, because at this time the gods were unfolding to me a quick and brilliant scheme in which I was to outshine MacArthur and tip the balance to win the war-just like that. The plan was simple and should have been thought of before now. It was to furnish all enemy soldiers with half gallon bottles of Doc Sigler-recommended unpasteurized Champagne-Velvet beer, make them drink it and thus cause internal drowning. Simple, isn't it? But suddenly it became unnecessary, because back at the bottle and just as I was draining the last drop, there came through the ether, the short wave fuzzy joint and unconditional surrender of Hitler, Sitting Bull and the Pennsylvania Whiskey Rebellion. As Ever,

AVOIDING A STATE OF NATURE

Aug. 4, 1942

My dear Aura May: (then visiting in Worcester, MA) . . . I took time off today to go to Reiner's at Indianapolis to test out fur coat prices. They are high, but nonetheless, my offer stands provided you want one at this time. Your letter rather indicated you would as soon wait a year or so. That is sensible and also thoughtful, and it might be a year in College and an opportunity to look around and sort of study fur coats might be better than to jump in and buy one hastily. . .

Sarah Jane has her sights raised too high, I think. She says $419, exclusive of fur coat, undergear, socks and I don't remember what else she excepted. . . You are fine looking, well made and therefore can wear grass dresses, sarongs and Russian Sable with equal grace. In other words, clothes don't have to make you. And thank God they don't have to pinchhit for your scholarship. Still, you should have good clothes, and you are going to get them. Sarah Jane must have smuggled you into Worcester after dark, because, according to one of her letters, you were naked, or practically so, when she took you to Canada. I hope your ears were clean.

However and nevertheless, Sarah Jane is doing her level best to help us all out in these, your clothes troubles. She is taking her time and effort, and all for the good of the cause, so let's all be appreciative. She thinks we are losing time, back tracking and creating a state of confusion-which we are. . .

I am therefore enclosing a draft for $300 and telling you you are free to do as you please in the selection of your clothes. After all, you will have to wear them, you are 18, an exceptional scholar, and you should be pleased and satisfied. This is not all the money you are to get for clothes, etc., this year, but God knows I think it is enough for you to start out on this Fall and Winter. If not, then we'll sell some shoats . . . and rustle up some more.

Ann has to have a few duds, you know. Margaret is in a state of nature as to clothes, and . . . Munny surely needs a new bustle and pair of arch-supporter shoes by now . . . .What I'll be needing is a pair of new corrugated rubber-soled shoes and plenty of cinders .. . .

"Pap"

CROSSING THE RAILROADS

March 17, 1943

Dear Chilluns: Back from the Legislative Wars, pretty well battered but gradually recovering. We took one bad licking. Under present law, generally speaking, municipalities and county commissioners may . . . "order in" grade crossing warning devices or watchmen . . . whether the railroads think them necessary or not . . . all at the cost of the railroads. . . We tried to change the law so the unit so ordering them in would have to pay 50% of installation, repair and maintenance. . . But the Senate voted us down 26 to about 18. The mayors got in their work.

There was absolutely nothing unfair about the bill in my opinion. It just would have stopped a lot of grafting mayors and city councils. For instance, a councilman in Anderson last summer introduced an ordinance requiring 44 crossing lights in Anderson. The ordinance was so worded . . . that only one manufacturer could fill the specifications. A brother-in-law of the introducing councilman was the agent for that factory. It was so raw the ordinance failed to pass, but it took a lot of lawyers and time and expense to run all that down. Just such things as that happen all the time. Some "worthy party workers" start a manufacturing plant up in Lake County on a shoe string. Maybe they can't get a site on the right-of-way. But they start. Then come to the railroads and want a switch put in to the factory. . . The railroad investigates-the set-up doesn't look permanent- and declines to extend a switch. Then, the "workers" go to the mayor and council with the tale the railroad is stifling business in that town, and so on. A big howl goes up. . . The railroad makes another check and refuses. Then the mayor sends word they will be wanting some more crossing devices in that town, to "protect the children," and there you are again. Those crossing devices cost an average of $2,500 per set. Maintenance averages $50 per year. These are only two of a hundred rackets worked on railroads. . .

NOT IN THE FDIC AND PROUD OF IT

On the 50th anniversary of the Russellville Bank, in 1943, Pap, as Chairman of the Board, took out a sizable advertisement in the July 30 edition of The Daily Banner (motto: "It Waves For All") of Greencastle. The ad proclaimed in large bold type that the venerable Russellville institution was "A Private Bank, not a member of F.D.I.C." The "Old Bank", as it was referred to, had been started in 1893 by some 30 citizens of Russellville, including Pap's father, James, and older brother, J. Ernest Durham, and had grown to have capital stock of $15,000 and a surplus of $50,000, according to the ad. Excerpts follow.

TYPE OF BANK

Russellville Bank is a Private Bank. It is UN-incorporated. Therefore the individual liability of its stockholders for its debts (and your deposits are its principal liability) is not limited merely to the extent of the value of the stock owned in the bank-whatever that value may be-as is the case in Banks incorporated under Indiana law. Incorporation, among other things, means limitation of liability for debts. . .

DEPOSIT GUARANTY

We are NOT a Member of Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation (F.D.I.C.). We were invited to join. We declined, and, being an "A" Bank, were not compelled to join. We have been asked why we declined. Here is the answer: Many of you have been told the Federal Government guarantees all deposits up to $5,000 made in Banks belonging to F.D.I.C. If that were the case, we would probably have our application in for membership in the morning. But nothing is farther from the truth. The Federal Government does NOT guarantee one cent of anybody's deposit in ANY bank- National, State or Private, anywhere, anytime-whether a member of F D.I.C. or not. But it does require ALL Banks belonging to F.D.I.C. to guarantee one another's depositors' deposits up to $5,000 for each depositor-A SORT OF MUTUAL INSURANCE. We are a small Bank, but mighty for our inches in a financial way. And we want to put all the force of all of our resources solely back of the deposits of our own depositors. Therefore, we thought then, and still think, it would be unfair to our depositors for Russellville Bank, with its comparatively overwhelmingly superior resources, to join-up and guarantee the depositors of a bank in the Rockies, about which it knows nothing and over whose management it has no control. So, excluding all other Private Banks, we assert we have proportionately more resources for the payment of every dollar of our deposits and other liabilities than any F.D.I.C. Bank in the State of Indiana has in proportion to its deposits and other liabilities. This is no idle boast. We mean just what we say.

CONSERVATISM

In our 50 years of banking we have bought millions of dollars worth of securities for ourselves and our customers without loss of a single penny of Principal or Interest. However, during and following the "Bank Holidays", in a few issues-three we think, "to keep the record straight"-some bonds and some coupons were not paid promptly at maturity, although eventually all were paid.

OUR CUSTOMERS

Our customers are the salt of the Earth. Some have been with us during all, or practically all, of our existence (In that time we have, to be sure, lost some good customers, and we sincerely regret those losses.) During the April, 1943, drive for the sale of 2nd War Loan Bonds, the patriotism of our customers was immediately evident. The amount of approximately $29,000 was sold in and credited to Russell Township (our township), and of this the amount of $23,218.75 was subscribed by our customers and paid for with funds in Russellville Bank. We are proud of our customers in their War efforts. If peace should be dictated by the Axis Powers, it might conceivably happen our 50 years of careful, conscientious banking would all go for naught and that Russellville Bank, in spite of its enormous resources considering its size, might not be worth the price of this advertisement. It pays to be patriotic.

ORDERING STOVE PARTS

April 2, 1943

Cribben & Sexton Company

700 N. Sacramento Blvd.

Chicago, Illinois

Gentlemen, I am herewith enclosing check for $2.75 for two oven door springs, two pastry door springs, three black door handles, two simmer buttons and ttmx (whatever the devil that is), all as per enclosed card.

Mrs. Durham has gone to Pennsylvania, and the children inform me she eventually was able to find the "number" of our gas stove so the above repairs could be identified by you. Where she found that number or identification on our stove is still a profound mystery to me. She had looked, I had peered, the children had searched, gas men and plumbers had examined and thumped, and outside the "Strand Universal" toward the lower right hand corner, the job was as smooth as an undertaker's conversation when showing caskets and gently murmuring prices therefor to the bereaved family. Incidentally, your modest demand for the above gadgets is as "chicken feed" to theirs. You must be an honest and upright firm, for Chicago. Congratulations.

In conclusion, let it be known no Nazi spy will ever be able to

report back to whoever he reports to the elusive number on our

trusty gas stove.

Very respectfully,

LAND AWAY FROM HOME

October 23, 1943

Mr. Eugene M. Anderson 20061 Hull Detroit, Michigan

My dear Eugene: Enclosed find Russellville Bank draft. . . for $550 . . . in full payment of the balance owed by Ared Shaw and wife to you for the 27 acres plus north of the N.Y. Central station here in Putnam County. I am also enclosing a receipt for $1 from Central National Bank, which . . . charged each of you the sum for holding the papers.

I tried to peddle your contract but the chiselers had this excuse and that for wanting you to discount it. This is no time for discounting, and everybody knows it. Banks are glad to get good loans at straight 6% mighty glad. I took it up with Russellville Bank and they wanted it. So they got it. . .

I expect you are glad to get the matter off your hands. It is no fun to own land a long ways from home. I have tried it-in fact I am trying it all the time-have land in Kansas and Texas I can't get rid of, and it's a nuisance. The southwest Kansas land is 160 acres, flat as a pancake-you could make baseball diamonds all over it-and never had a plow in it. Father traded a horse and buggy for it in 1893 or 94. Never saw it. It is in dry country. We have just paid taxes (very small) all these years until about five years ago I leased it for oil to the Standard Co. at $1 per acre. They have never drilled a well, but keep it for speculation, and each year pay $160. So, if that keeps up, we'll have our money back come 20 years more, or more or less. . . Very respectfully,

LET THE BRIDE CALL THE TUNE

Advice to an only son who has become a prospective groom. Note: The future bride's name was Frances Haberkorn, but Pap, who nicknamed everyone, called her "Francisco." (Undated)

My dear Frank, From your letter, matters matrimonial in our family seem on a most decided up-swing. I didn't realize you had gone so far, but right now, once and for always, you can rest assured the "old man" is with you 200%. Wife and husband choosing is for the individuals themselves. Outsiders should look on, keep out, keep mum-and worry to themselves all they want to. I did a mighty good job of picking, and I'm perfectly willing to accord the rest of you the same privilege.

Your letter said Francisco would be down to have a final say in the matter-or words to that effect. That's right. That is the way it should be. You'll find a groom is the most unnecessary necessity modern society ever inveigled an unsuspecting public into. He bears about the same relation to a first class wedding that a dust cap does to a 12-cylindered, leather upholstered Packard.

Perhaps by now you know more about when and where. Naturally, the balance of us would like to know something about that too-especially if any are expected to be "among those present". . . . If I am expected to be present, I'll have to arrange for somebody to do the milking, and get my shirt to, and back from, the laundry-both of which take varying times. But whenever, wherever and however, you can count on Munny for an absolute certainty, even if you can't count positively on a bride. Munny would be there to forestall any substitutions. If it is to be in Alaska, you can count on Munny trying on parkas tomorrow, and practicing blubber her next meal. As ever,

Pap summoned up the following allegory in advising family members not to interfere with the wishes of the prospective bride for her own wedding.

To All and Sundry of the Clan of Durham of Putnam County,

Indiana,

Greetings:

Legend hath it when the daughter of Simonides of Iulis was about to wed, a controversy arose between her and the prospective groom's kinswomen and some of his kinsmen as to what wines were to be served at the wedding feast. She contended for a wine whose grapes were grown on the east side of a mountain and facing the morning sun. His kindred strove for a less palatable but more potent wine whose grapes were grown on the south side of a neighboring mountain.

The controversy arose to political and diplomatic importance. Forsooth, she, having all the best of it in comeliness, charm, personal interest and common justice, prevailed-as all brides- to-be should, concerning their nuptial arrangements.

At the wedding feast his people were served with hemlock-thus forever ending the "in-law" question for her, and thereby reaffirming an almost unbroken precedent that in the days of your Grandfather Durham was summed-up in these cryptic words: "He who pays the fiddler shall call the tune."

Moral. It were better a volunteer of bridal suggestions to a bride-to-be were buried in the sands of the sea at low water mark where the tide ebbs and flows twice in twenty-four hours, than intimate anything, anytime to HER, and thereby court a return of the Iulisian custom.

(The foregoing went by mail, postage prepaid, to all members of said Clan whose addresses were known this May 21, 1944)

SOME SIMILARITY

Frances' father was Henry Haberkorn, a vice president and trust officer of the largest bank in Detroit. Pap was chairman of the board of one of the smallest banks in Indiana. He made the following observations regarding this "similarity."

(Undated)

My dear Frank, I wrote one letter to Francisco, and one jointly to her father and mother. This week I received replies. Frances wrote a nice, sensible, fine letter. Your pappy Haberkorn did the honors for himself and wife. The letterhead disclosed he is one of the Vice Presidents of the National Bank of Detroit. He facetiously referred to the fact we had another thing in common-we both were connected with the banking business.

Which reminded me of Charlie Buchanan, who appeared before the Railroad Committee of the House in 1917 with a bill to allow the Louisville, New Albany & Corydon Railroad to charge more than 2 cents per mile on passenger trains on his Road. Charlie was President of said R.R. and it was a separate railroad corporation in truth and in fact. He was also Auditor, Treasurer, Gen. Freight and Passenger Agent-and Conductor on their one and only train. His Road ran from Corydon and connected with the Southern at Corydon Junction some 8 miles of main track. He told us the following tale:

As do all R.R. Presidents, he went to their convention in Chicago, and there struck up Pres. Williams of the New York Central for an exchange of courtesies of passes-he to give Williams a pass on the L.N.A. & C. Railroad, and in return, Williams to give him a pass on the N.Y.C. Williams seemed to have not heard of Charlie's Road and asked him where it was. Charlie told him. Williams still was puzzled and asked how long the Road was. Charlie answered it was a little over 8 miles long.

Williams said, "Don't you think you have a hell of a lot of gall when you have an 8-mile Road and we have over 16,000 miles?"

Charlie answered, "I know that Mr. Williams, but yours ain't a damn bit wider."

He got the pass.

And also our Committee recommended his bill unanimously. . .

And so, as between the L.N.A. & C. and the N.Y.C., and the

National Bank of Detroit and Russellville Bank, I can't just put

my finger on it, but hazily, there is some similarity, of some

kind or other.

As ever,

THE CONSTRAINED ROMANCE OF UNCLE ERNEST

Pap's conviction that family members should not meddle in affairs of the heart was on his mind, and showed again in the following letter. It was written long after the death of his older brother, J. Ernest Durham, generally referred to as "Uncle Ernest," but the memory of a romance impeded by an overzealous family was still vivid.

April 25, 1944

Dear Frank: . . . Long, long ago I wanted a diamond like you want a bride. And so, I bought and sold calves, colts and horses; hauled campers to and from Eel River Falls; graded the old ball park at DePauw; etc., etc., and worked in staid, dependable, conservative, old Russellville Bank at $2 per week & board and clothes (I'll say it was conservative-Uncle Ernest started it in 1893 and had his first note loss in 1907. . . ). I spliced my money, went to Walk's (the old tune jeweler at Indianapolis) and bought myself one. They said it would be a good investment. They were only half right. It was an investment . . . Then the ring and I went on to college, and time went on.

Uncle Ernest liked the looks of said diamond-but not the price- and from time to time would borrow it. He had smaller fingers and would wrap white grocer's twine around the base until the ring about fit; then go to the Bankers' State Convention at Indianapolis, where, in trying to be a good fellow, he would eat a lot of cheese, pickles, blind robins, drink maybe a couple bottles of beer, and come home with an upset stomach and a hell of a headache. Thence to Billy Gardner's drug store for a new box of acetanilide.

Eventually, Frank Kennedy's girl went to some woman's college in Illinois to take music. Her teacher was a spinster of questionable age, named Colgate, from New York, New York. It was claimed, either by her or Frank's wife, she was a kinswoman to the dental cream and dirt-removing family of that name who have the big clock in Jersey across from New York City. Mother and Aunt Margaret were inclined to doubt it. Anyway, the teacher came home with her pupil at the end of the year for a visit. Uncle Ernest was invited down for supper next night.

That took a good deal of preparation. He spent most of the day away from the Bank getting ready. Frank Kennedy, the pupil's father, and host of the evening, was our leading barber. He cut Uncle Ernest's hair and shaved him. Uncle Ernest filled the galvanized wash tub extra full and took a thorough bath behind the kitchen stove. That took off about everything except the ink stains on his fingers. Mrs. Forgey, who with her husband, Jim Forgey, kept house for Uncle Ernest, recommended lemon juice, or maybe it was green tomato juice, for finger ink stains, but said she couldn't do anything about the ink stains on his best suit which she was cleaning and pressing. Uncle Ernest had won a bottle of cologne or Florida Water in some sort of a shooting gallery attached to Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show at the Chicago World's Fair in '93. He hadn't used much of it, so he doused a little of that here and there. . . All told they did a pretty fair job of grooming. The evening was a success and much praise was given Mrs. Kennedy's salt-rising bread and culinary art.

Uncle Ernest had a Model T of several years back. He had used it hard, and one day, trying to head-off a calf in the barn lot out at the old home farm east of town, had run through the gate with the door open. The door hit the gate post and was torn off. He had to tie it shut with baling wire. That meant he had to keep it shut and get in from the other side all the time. Most of the fenders held their respective places by virtue of more baling wire. He had also misjudged the height of some limbs on a tree up in the north pasture, and torn a hole in the rubberized textile top that leaked when it rained anything above a heavy dew. The back end of the coupe was loaded with an assortment of axes, grubbing hoes, pitch forks, spades, post hole diggers and so forth. Besides that, it had the mud of three counties plastered inside and out, and the upholstery showed sizable patches of cotton wadding. The car in general looked bad enough, and entirely too tough for social usage, but the thing that disqualified it absolutely for his impending purpose was that he had parked it overnight under a blackbird roost, and anybody who had done that in mulberry and cherry time knows what I mean.

Uncle Ernest had anticipated the visit by swapping his Ford for my new chummy little Saxon roadster-35 miles to the gallon-and wherein, a woman companion couldn't keep very far away from you.

Their first trip was decorous and above suspicion. They went to the Rockville Chautauqua to hear William Jennings Bryan, and Cole Younger the famous outlaw and bank robber, lecture on "Crime doesn't pay." They got in by 9 p.m.

Their next foray was a bit more questionable. I think they went to a box supper over toward Montezuma. In order that there be no confusion and Uncle Ernest bid-in the wrong box, she pasted a picture of that women's college on the outside of her box. Uncle Ernest bid-in the right box and got to eat supper with her. They got in just after midnight, according to Frank Kennedy's wife's timetable.

However, any necessary atonement was made next day, Lord's Day,

when they went to Crawfordsville and heard Dr. McIntosh,

President of Wabash College, read his "Shakespeare, the Apollo

Belvidere of English Letters."

Things gradually went from late to later, until one night they didn't get in at all-not until after sun-up. They had succeeded in running my Saxon off the road, sprung an axle and busted a light and fender, in a suspiciously out-of-the-way place between Deer's Mill and the Shades of Death. They said they got lost, and confused going downhill. I agree on the latter. Anyway, they hadn't crossed the state line.

Russellville opinion of the accident differed. It would. Suffice to say, no run was attempted on the trusty old Private Institution; the next reconnaissance by State Examiners showed said Bank to be in its usual sound condition; and a scrutiny of Uncle Ernest's balance sheet showed no unusual strain on his normal account.

The scene shifts to Greencastle: Uncle Ernest was bringing his "fair Calantha" to call on Mother and Aunt Margaret in the parlor of the old brick, where a solid line of Paris Green fringed the red carpet, unsullied these many months by human feet. The horse- hair upholstered furniture stood where I last saw it five years before. Aunt Margaret's painting masterpiece of 1884 still hung on the west wall, showing castle, moat and drawbridge (and the fair lady in green riding habit riding the horse down from the castle to the drawbridge hadn't made any mileage since then). On the east wall hung Aunt Margaret's effort of 1885 in paint on red velvet. It was intended to delineate our National Bird-the American Eagle-however, something had happened to her measurements at the time, or the noble bird had developed a pronounced goiter meantime.

Aunt Jennie Black, she of the piercing black eyes, who looked with suspicion on any thing or happening outside the confines and regulations of the Presbyterian Church, had been called by Mother to sit in-a job she was never known to flee from when it was her duty, which it always was.

Uncle Ernest had asked me to be on hand, probably for moral support in the event our womenfolk got out of hand.

The inquest got off to a good start. Pleasantries were passed all around until I was hoping against my better judgment. But alas, in her enthusiasm and heightened conversation, our fair caller, in an unguarded moment, dropped the fact she was a Red Cross worker in World War I, and had passed out cigarettes to the soldiers in France. Great God! I saw Mother's bosom swell, Aunt Margaret's lip twitch like it does just before she evades an unpleasant question or is getting ready to give a lecture on morality and church attendance; and Aunt Jennie's spinster chest flatten out flatter than usual, and I knew from now on the meeting was to be an inquisition in the real medieval meaning of that word.

Eventually conversation lagged, good-byes were said, the guests departed. The trio went into a caucus before I could get out of the room, and I heard Mother pronounce sentence: "We don't need any female cigarette distributors in this family." How times have changed!

That Fall, our Red Cross worker taught in Buffalo. Uncle Ernest got off for a short trip to San Antonio, but caught the wrong train and landed in Buffalo. Next Spring she taught in Cleveland. Again, Uncle Ernest headed for San Antonio, got the wrong train, but this time found out his error in time to get off at Cleveland.

Last Chapter: Uncle Ernest died in 1931. As Executor, I went through all his effects. Away back behind everything, I found a dusty Indiana National Bank canvas sack once used to express silver dollars and fractional silver coins. It was full of envelopes about the size of a two-thirds grown postal card, all addressed in the same handwriting, and all tied up in packages with grocer's soft white twine. I didn't know the handwriting, but eventually caught the full signature. I hadn't tried to read the letters-just sifted through them to make sure the envelopes contained only letters. Shortly, I came to one, the opening sentence of which caught my eye: "I am terribly lonesome tonight, Dear."

I quit reading. They weren't intended for Executors. I took off my glasses and sifted all the remaining letters one by one into a handy banana hamper. Some had snapshots in them. I took everything out and burned it. Somehow, I felt pretty bad. . . As ever, "Pap"

THE HAY AND FEED RACKET

April 19, 1944

Dear Sarah Jane: . . . While we're on the "racket" subject, I think I have partially solved the "hay and feed racket" at the Indianapolis Stock Yards. We trucked the heifers to Indpls. Sunday afternoon. The buyers (a commission firm) insisted they get there the evening before-"to rest, get a good fill and good weight next morning, and be ready to be re-loaded alive in stock cars to go to New York." I've been skeptical about ever coming out even on a feed and hay bill. . . I had too bad a cold to go up Sunday afternoon in one of the trucks and stay overnight, so I got up Monday morning at 4 a.m., and got to the Yards. I found the cattle and just about stayed with them until it was all over. Eventually the hay wagon came along. They threw out two bales for our cattle and then distributed them in the hay racks. I watched the cattle. They weren't eating any of the hay, just none at all. It was timothy. They were used to alfalfa. . . The bell rang and trading started. Buyers came and went. Our heifers were better than any I saw. Kingan's (Indpls. local packer) man bought them. He had been out to the farm to see them two weeks before. I got more than he offered me out there. I marched along to the scales, counted, and saw them weighed. My bill, among other things, read: "400 lb. Hay@ 1.45 = $5.80". The two bales they threw out for us would total not more than 120 to 130 lb. Timothy hay delivered in Indpls. would not run over $20 per ton. They figured ours at $29 per ton, as shown above. The heifers didn't eat a quarter's worth all told.

However, there are worlds of straight people. Witness Ira, for instance; the Hazlett Brothers, who started with a boot and shoe and now can get about any amount they want at staid, old, conservative, dependable Russellville Bank, the bank that only guarantees its own depositors; Mr. Whitaker at the filling station here; and thousands of others, who, like kitchen utensils at farm sales, are too numerous to mention. . . "Pap"

PATRIOTS DEBATE-THE BALLOT OR THE BOTTLE?

April 19, 1944

My dear Margaret: Munny is on one of her many pilgrimages to Milford under disguise of most urgent business. I had seen it coming on, and the final break was made when I was called to Indianapolis by the railroads for the Special Session. She left the day after I did. This time she thought she would go by coach, paying her own fare, because in this emergency I have refused to ask for passes. The day I left she told me her intentions, and knowing how trains are crowded, next day I went to the station at Indianapolis to see how she was faring. I found her standing, and she had been standing all the way to Indianapolis and was bedraggled already, and with only about one-twenty-fifth of her journey completed. . . We got back to the Pullman conductor, stated our troubles, and he made the usual reply: "I have just one lower to New York, and she can have that". . . The coaches and aisles were crowded with soldiers, sailors, baggage, dirty newspapers, pop bottles, paper cups, lunch boxes and kids . . . and the last I saw of that day's first section of No. 12, the conductor was shepherding her back through the Pullmans . . . .

The Special Session brought out a holocaust of patriotism-if I am using the right term. The purpose was to make it possible for the members of "our armed forces" to vote next Fall. Each member tried to out-do the others. The two chambers and the corridors rang with zealousness in the interest of "our armed forces" getting the ballot. Those not running this Fall and the hold-over Senators were less voluble, but in the House, where everybody had to run this Fall, or else stay out, the rafters went off center from 7 to 9 inches. I haven't seen such valiant patriotism in a legislative body since the last war, when I was in it and up for re-election. I don't remember my conduct, but I expect it was pretty patriotic. I do remember I introduced a resolution in the House commending Wilson and the Congress for breaking off relations with Germany, so I evidently had my lightning rod up pretty high. . .

People generally had a fear about this Special Session, and were afraid it would hang and hang on amidst fervent patriotic speeches and many, many glowing accounts of the heroism of "our armed forces," and not adjourn sine die, maybe for the full 40 days. . .

The Session was remarkably free of drunkenness and wild parties- some of course, but not the usual amount. . . Thursday evening we had a private dinner in the "English Room" of the Claypool for quite a number of railroad executives who were in the city, partly on account of the Session. It started a drab and serious affair. The war was on and restraint was in the air. Railroad executives are like all other people-busy, serious and worried. The railroads are carrying an enormous load. Equipment is over- used and the replacements are just not to be had under the circumstances. And so, the dinner lagged. The talk ran to the Special Session, and each speaker praised the Legislature for setting in motion the plan to allow "our armed forces" to vote, and there was gentle inquiry as to how long the Session would last. Naturally, their patriotism would want it to be short, with nothing done against the carriers. Eventually they got to me, and for my opinion.

I told them I had sensed the restraint of the dinner, but as I had no further political ambitions, and was standing no stud horses, and had no past due notes in the Bank, I was more or less of a free agent, and would try to speak the truth; that it was my honest opinion the average soldier didn't give a damn whether he voted or not out there wherever he was; that not one out of four of our armed forces out there in the trenches would try to vote unless it was more or less compulsory, amazingly easy and did not interfere with whatever he or she was interested in at the time; that not one out of four of the ballots of those who did vote outside the U.S. would get back in time to be counted in the proper precinct for State and County offices; that I'd bet 3 to 1 that three out of four of said "armed forces", if given the choice between a ballot and a bottle of beer, would select the beer; and that over 90% of all this tremendous anxiety about the soldiers getting to vote was political hooey pure and simple. Also that no adverse legislation against the railroads would be offered, much less passed; that the Session should close by the end of the week; that the Republicans were already starting to take credit for this early adjournment by attributing it to a strong new leadership and a united militant front-which also contained a good percentage of hooey-and that early adjournment, if it did come, could actually be credited to two big factors: a world of back Spring plowing and the acute whiskey shortage- especially the latter.

You could just see them softening up and relaxing in their chairs around the table. They all agreed and from then on the dinner party went along like a good dinner party should go. The Session adjourned Friday night.

Now Margaret, if I were you, I don't believe I would show this letter to anybody. She won't know Pap and she might get the impression I was making light of the soldiers and the War. The Lord knows that is not my intention. Far, far be it from me to want to deprive soldiers or any other qualified person from voting. What gets me is all this fan-fare about setting up the machinery to allow a person to do what he has always had the right to do. That doesn't take any patriotism. That is simple justice. . . Those of us at home can show our patriotism by staying at home and off trains and away from crowded cities and hotels unless it is necessary; by raising more livestock, grain, grub of all kinds and fewer orchids and "rackets" of all kinds; and above all else, by cracking down on these strikers and damnable labor racketeers and stopping this criticism of the powers that happen to be Churchill, Stalin and Brother Roosevelt. . . . I'd like to carry the rosin bag for those boys. They are the ones who have kept most of the Russellville Bank stock in my name, and old Fred and Nellie and the work harness in the old log barn. I'm fer 'em.

Keep a stiff upper lip, and your hat on straight.

"Pap"

A PATRIOTIC CANCELLATION

(Undated)

. . . All our Indiana Railroad Lobby set-up except me are

Republicans. The State is Republican. Most of the Indiana Public

Service Commission are Republicans. They got the idea of a

National Public Service Commission Convention at French Lick this

August. So two of our set-up went to Washington D.C. to see

Brother Johnson, who is the head of the War Transportation

outfit, and arrange for cars . . . They had their story ready,

and particularly "the importance of the meeting."

Brother Johnson listened attentively until they finished. Then he uncrossed his legs and spoke about as follows: "There will be no convention at French Lick this summer. I wouldn't allow you one seat in one bus for the whole damned convention. We are going to move an additional 1,000,000 men and equipment in August, and 1,500,000 in September. We don't know how we are going to do it with what equipment we have left, but I know one way we are going to help-we are going to set off every god damned railroad executive and near-railroad executive we can find wherever we find him. That will help considerably. You go back to Indiana and tell those Hoosiers there's a War on in case they don't know it, and the thing for them to do is to stay home where they belong and not be cluttering up these trains."

That combination, "near-railroad executive," is what cooked our crowd. None of us is as high as a section boss.

The National Public Service Commission Convention for this summer at French Lick has been called-off by unanimous consent. "After studying the matter carefully, we have decided it might possibly interfere with the War Effort in some unforeseen way, and the patriotic thing to do is to take no possible chance in that regard". As Ever, Pap

HOW TO SELL

March 27, 1945

A letter to all the children away from home.

. . . But let's get down to more important things. First and above all else is Ann Drew's impending venture into making matrimony. . . What Annabelle Lee wants in the way of a husband is what I most surely want her to have. Besides that, Ralph is a first class young fellow, if I am any judge. Under the circumstances, I'd like him if he wore spats and drank tea. . . I do hate to have her get married away from home, but that is all right under the circumstances, if she does decide to make the jump away out there by herself in California. They tell me a marriage license issued out there (maybe I should have said a wedding ceremony) is still good here in Indiana.

Frank's young calf, of course, is a more serious problem. I don't know how to answer his inquiry about feed for a stray young calf, except to say that cow's milk is the solution. . . Incidentally Frank, you can get original first hand information, together with some startling dialog relating thereto, if you will ask Jim Anderson's wife at Russellville how she raised "Old Nellie"-the old sorrel mare we now have at the farm-when her mother died when she was born. I can write the details but it takes Stella (Jim's wife) to give the matter the proper wording. (It is a story for men only. Women crimp Stella's style). . .Well, the facts are these: There was that tiny hungry little helpless colt. They got her dried off and away from her dead mother into a box stall with plenty of straw. Then the food question arose. Jim drove up one of the cows; they milked some milk into a small crock; Stella stuck two of her fingers into the colt's mouth and down into the milk crock, and eventually Nellie got the idea. And so, from day to day, they repeated the scene. The leggy ambling colt waxed sleek and gained flesh. She got so she could drink, but preferred to suck Stella's fingers. One evening Ernest was there, and the usual performances were had, and everybody admired the colt and thought it very cute . . . when all of a sudden and all unexpectedly, Nellie backed square behind Stella, got the exact range and let fly with both feet, hitting Stella squarely on the axis and knocking her about six feet flat on her stomach. The air took on a blue tinge as it does in Indian summer, and no stevedore ever out-stevedored Stella's utterances, which were both long and loud. . . They started feeling for broken bones. Everything appeared to be in perfect alignment, but to be sure they started raising and lowering various garments until the bare truth unfolded before their anxious eyes. There, 'neath the warm, shimmering rays of a setting sun, in high relief from a grass bordered background, were two sizable red lumps soon to turn a darker hue-one on either cheek.

. . . I deposited $5 to Frank's account at staid, dependable, old Russellville Bank, a Private Bank, with more back of every dollar of its deposits than any other Bank in Indiana. As of this date, its capital stock remains at $15,000; we upped the surplus to $55,000 and upped the undivided profits to about $15,000. The deposits now run considerably over half a million. This increase . . . is not all money we made last year by a whole lot. It represents recoveries on real estate the Banking Dept. ordered us to sell back there when land was low. We just charged that stuff off out of earnings and undivided profits as we went along, as the Dept. ordered it sold or charged off. One piece the Dept. recommended we sell for $1,500 and take our loss we sold last fall for $3,300. Another they thought should be sold for about $3,000 brought $6,750 this January, cash in hand. Couldn't loan the purchaser a cent. That was bad. We've made money on every piece we took over, and have sold to date. And every property paid more than its way as we went along. . .

I really should tell you about the oldest piece of real estate we had on hands-at the extreme northeast edge of Russellville, east of the Carter house. . . It consisted of five little lots, as lonesome a five lots as you would want to see. Away back there, 20 or 25 years ago, Uncle Ernest loaned a fellow $300, and as a precaution pure and simple took a mortgage on those five lots. The fellow paid the loan down to $150 in drabs, got sick, moved away, and eventually deeded the Bank the lots and called the loan square. Time went on. No one thought much about those lots. Uncle Ernest died. The panic came on, and every once in a while, Mr. Boyd, our President, would suggest we sell "those lots up in the east part of town." In the meantime he rented the grass here and there. . .

About two years ago, Bill C- got drunk one day and offered Mr. Boyd $75 cash for the five . . . to pile junk on. I said "no", as they were too near the Carter house for one thing, and not enough money for another. Time went on. Finally George joined Mr. Boyd in wanting them sold, and they pretty near had Mr. Fordice in the notion of selling too. . . We were just adjourning when Bob Whitted walked in the front part of the Bank. I said to my brother Directors, "Let's sell those lots to Bob Whitted. He lives up in the east part of town." They said, "Let's see you do it."

I tackled Bob. He asked, "What do you want for all five?" I said "$350," just like that, and he didn't wince. He asked, "How do you want me to pay for them?" I said, "How do you want to pay for them?" He said, "By the month, and not more than $10 a month, and I wouldn't want you to squeeze me if I run behind sometime." I said, "Well, we're selling them to you at half price, so let's make the payments at half price-$5 a month, you to pay the taxes next Fall and from then on, and get possession today, and the deed whenever you make full payment."

He said, "How much intrust are you goin' to charge me?" I said, "We've made everything else at half price, so to keep everything balanced up, we should make the interest at half price too-3%."

He jumped up, ran his hand down in his pocket, brought up a $5 bill, and said, "I'll take you up-here is your $5 for a starter." The others were up front, but heard a good part of the talk. I called George back and we solemnly gave him the data, Bob stating the terms, and asked him to draw up a real estate sales contract. Then followed the shortest, quickest real estate sales contract it has been my privilege to view. It would have been still shorter except that I insisted George describe the real estate as "those lots up in the east part of town," not even mentioning the town's name. Mr. Boyd signed in behalf of the Bank, and Bob signed in behalf of himself and wife, saying he wanted "Grace's name somewhere on it." Bob went out. We all, including the book-keeper, looked at one another. Mr. Boyd shook his head and said Bob would never finish paying. I said, "It's a mighty easy thing to sell when you have good stuff to sell AND KNOW HOW TO SELL". . .

Saturday, George told me to get ready with Bob's deed as he was about to get paid out, and was asking about his deed already. Bob had paid away ahead of himself. Coping on his ownself. Must have sold his fox pelts. . .

Joseph N. Fordice once was in a serious quandary preparing a deed to two lots in Russellville where livestock entered into the consideration. He decided it was best to tell the truth. This resulted: "That for and in consideration of $300 cash money and two hogs mutually agreed on (etc.)". . . As ever,

COPING ON HIS OWN

May 2, 1945

Dear Familee: I spent the day at home. Yesterday and the day before I went to the farm and spent the days, easy like, grubbing and sprouting the fence lines inside the field west of the old house at Russellville. I thought I was going along pretty easy, but yesterday I must have gone at it too much in earnest because last night and this morning I had a very sore right arm, and it made me think of the pickle I got into last summer when that spell of rheumatism hit me. It was raining today, so I didn't miss much. It is a hard thing to do to go up there and just sit and loaf around. . .

Tom Walden, the "dynamite king of Russellville" is retiring from the business after 40 years of active duty. He and old man Ferguson were out near Russellville dynamiting some stumps, or rather trees, last Friday. They had set two charges and gone away about as far as they thought necessary. One charge went off, and after a reasonable delay, they went back to see what had happened to the second charge-and got there just in time. When about 8 feet away, she let go. Both are here in the local hospital. I went to see them Sunday. Tom's eyes were bandaged and at that time they did not know whether he would be blind or not. Otherwise, his face looked unusually free from abrasions or swelling, or anything in fact. It must be the charge had spent itself getting through the wrinkles. Old man Ferguson was a total mess about the face. Terribly swollen, and blue, red and black. One of his eyes may be gone. He was so swollen you couldn't see one eye a-tall. .

May 6, 1945,

I got interrupted the other day while writing this letter.

In the meantime a fine package of cigarettes and chocolate bars came from Margaret. I hid them in the left door of the sideboard -the one that is hard to get open, and every once in a while I open the door, take a look and a good sniff, then gently close the door after a hasty glance around to see there are no eavesdroppers thereabouts. With one exception, it has been a long time since I saw chocolate bars. On the train going to Chicago to see about selling the cattle up there some time ago, I ran into a young couple (Army folks) on their way west from Norfolk. In the conversation I said something about not having seen a Hershey bar for a long time. I noticed she went down among their luggage and pretty soon he turned around and offered me a 5 cents Hershey with almonds. I didn't want to be mooching off them, but they wouldn't take no for an answer, so I took it, all the time feeling like a sheep-killing dog. The company has streamlined its product. When I got the wrapping off the two almonds stuck out like knobs on some of those red oaks up in the east pasture.

I have also had a letter from Joan. I had sent her the green hide of Seminole IV, or whatever number he bears, in an open lard can with part of the hide sticking out the top, and green hide effluvium oozing out at the bottom. Joan's description of the pimply-faced delivery boy was vivid. He asked: "What is this thing anyway?" She replied: "A cow hide, my boy. I make rugs out of 'em." The carcass of Seminole IV is safely ensconced out in the lockers awaiting the day when some dentist comes home with a formula for non-skid false teeth-the ones I have are roller- bearing-or until some of you pass this way with containers of a modest cubicle content. . .

I and my two bed sheets were well on the way to some sort of a record when Footser stepped in. Munny has been gone to Milford something like approaching two months. The weather has been cool, and I haven't been working very hard physically, and then too, have been taking baths quite regularly, so all in all my sheets were holding out splendidly. Naturally, they would wrinkle some, but any discoloration, if such there was, was gradual and uniform, except in one place-about shoulder high and between me and the radio were some streaks of chocolate running toward the radio. That happened at the time, or just after, Munny left. Each night when I crawled in, those streaks would give me a feeling of insecurity until I remembered what they were. Than I could nestle in amongst them and go to sleep-but every night I had that small shock. About two weeks ago I noticed I had a big ridge in my back each morning when I got up. Then one morning it was raining and I made an investigation. The pad under the sheet had gotten out of focus. That was remedied quickly, and while I was doing that, I smoothed out the biggest wrinkles, and felt pretty well set until the really hot weather of August would set in.

My wool socks give me the most serious tremors. If it doesn't turn warm pretty soon, I don't know what I will do. I have four pairs. They can't be sent to the laundry. I have rotated them as scientifically as my ability permits. I have rigged up a chart on the marble top of the table whereon the radio sets, and I figure a day spent at the farm sprouting and grubbing bushes, etc., is equal to from two to two and a half days at the Bank. But I find that won't do. I have to make it either two or three days, one or the other. It would be silly to sit at the Bank until noon of the second day, come home and change socks, and then go back for the remainder of that second day .. . .

"Little" Ernest's 80 acres is sold and gone and I have the money to send him, perhaps tomorrow. He got a rather good price for the land-$6,000 cash. That is not to be sneezed at. . .

Both Tom Walden and Mr. Ferguson are going to be able to see, although both are still in the Hospital of course. I shall try to go out tonight to see what they look like now.

I eat my suppers at Mrs. Bridges'. If it weren't for those meals, I don't believe I could make it. These restaurants are terrible, and my teeth are worse than that. . .

Footser's last year's room mate-the Pulliam girl-is going to get married some time this month. Her father, who is principal or sole owner of the Indianapolis Star, gave her some sort of shower yesterday at Indianapolis. Footser evidently went, as did about all the girls down at the Theta House. . .

Time to quit, except to say that, with the European War about over, in my judgment Japan won't be hard or very long to clean out, once the Allies get started, so Ralph should be heading this way in the more or less near future.

"Pap"

Note: The "Pulliam girl", referred to above, later became an aunt of Dan Quayle, U.S. Senator from Indiana and Vice President under President George Bush.

MEAT SCARCE, EVERYTHING UP BUT FARM INCOME

June 6, 1945

My dear Sarah Jane: . . . Of late, Ira has had me on the seed wagon, filling up the drill for him with seed and commercial fertilizer, while he rides the tractor and does the sowing. Between fills I try my hand on thorn and other sapling stuff, and Tuesday night I came home almost a physical wreck. Each year it gets harder and harder climbing up and down on wagons. I used to climb the fences but now I take to the gates. Ira says I should work in "gopher hole coal mines" if I really want to know what work is. In one of those things is where Ira got his hip busted-the darned thing caved-in on him. As a result he is crippled in one leg and can't run very fast.

But you should see him running to get between young ground hogs and their holes. Monday we drilled soy beans on what Ira calls the "wind mill field." This field has a big tile ditch running through it, and along that ditch is a clump of willows. Ira was driving the tractor pulling the drill behind, when all of a sudden he flew off his tractor and ran to the willows. He had caught three young ground hogs up a bush. He ran to the holes and kicked them full of dirt-and here the young hogs came. Having no club he used his feet. His foot batting average was .666, meaning he got two of the three. That noon he "butchered", and that took half an hour. Skinning ground hogs isn't quite like skinning rabbits. Ira eats them and says they are fine. I say nothing because long years ago, Lum Alspaugh and I went to Eel River Falls to run his grandfather's farm while the family attended Methodist Conference at Greencastle, and we tried eating everything about in wild life that wears hair or feathers- rabbits, squirrels, quail, crows, chicken hawks, buzzards, ground hogs, skunk, domestic chickens, etc. Both did the hunting but Lum was head cook-in fact he was sole cook.

I did the dish washing, if it could be called that. . . I ate enough of whatever it was to be able to say I had partaken. . . Young ground hogs are not bad, but they aren't very good either- too greasy. Ira relishes them. I prefer corn fed beef. . .

And that brings me to your questions about beef. . . The hotels and restaurants hereabouts have very little meat. Sugar Foot tells me they have red meat at the Theta House one meal each week, so that may be an indication of the general situation. . . I killed a beef in April. He has been a Godsend for Aunt Margaret and me. What we haven't eaten and the attendants out at the Locker Plant haven't stolen is still there. If you or Bob could hunt around and find a box of the right sort that would hold, say, 50 pounds of meat together with 50 pounds of dry ice, and if shipping meat to children is not contrary to law, I think something could be done to relieve you and the rest of the children in this part of the country. . . I am too busy on all this land we have to be finding out all the details and hunting up all the containers. I get up from 3 to 4 a.m. and get to bed from 9 to 10 p.m.

Now about your so-called black market. A lot of that is "old wives" and political talk. There are black markets, especially in the big centers of population, but Worcester is no big center, and if the people there are the right sort, then there is no opening for much of a black market-unless the people themselves make it. Whenever you hear of a black market you can rest assured the inhabitants themselves are to blame, because if there is no patronage then there will be no market. I am sorry to hear you say you will patronize such a market if you can find it. That is exactly what causes black markets. Blaming it all on the government or anything else is not the remedy-it is only a flimsy excuse. . . We had an embyro black market at Russellville even. Two men went down to the Hazlett boys and tried to buy a steer they were fattening for the Indpls. market. They offered a good price-more than the steer would have brought on the legitimate market. They said they would butcher it there on the farm, then in the evening they would come down and truck it home. The Hazlett boys got a bit suspicious and came to me. I told them nobody could buy a steer and butcher it then and there, farmer or no farmer. The owner would have to feed it for not less than 30 days. They refused this sale. I told them to report the prospective buyers. Don't think they did. If they come to me- which they won't-I'll report them. We don't need that sort of people in and around Russellville, or anywhere else. . .

Footser goes to Mexico City, leaving St. Louis June 20 on the Missouri Pacific Lines. She has a lower to San Antonio, then another lower to Mexico City. . . So she is set for what she thinks is a nice time in Mexico in school at that University, taking Spanish. Just the fare there and back will take a sizable steer, at the price we get for our steers, so there is where I can put in a howl, good and loud. . . George Spencer told me that before the War he paid $1.39 for shirts at Montgomery Ward's. Today the same shirt costs him over $5.50 per shirt. And George doesn't lie or resort to his imagination. Just the cold fact. At the price we pay for shirts, we should be getting $50 for cattle on the hoof. We get $16 to $18. . . Yesterday I bought 5 bananas at A&P for 23 cents. I think they were the first for two or three years. Based on that price, cattle should be bringing between $30 and $35. So if anyone has a kick coming it is the farmer-just like it always has been. . . Now the thing for me to do is quit howling and get out of the cattle business and into the banana or textile business-for both of which I am too old and inexperienced. But better still, is to wait until this War is over and go into politics for the farmer, teeth and toe nail-for which I am also too old to do the very best job. "Pap"

CONTROLLING SQUIRRELS IS TOUGH ON THE ROOF

June 28, 1945

Dear Frank: . . . We had a lot of corn in the crib at Ernest's place over in Montgomery County. The squirrels were eating it at a fearful rate. I expect they ate about 50 bushels of corn. The whole top of the corn in the cribs were solid cobs. I didn't know squirrels could do so much eating. Ira had been telling me about it . . . Anyway, we went over one day to bring a couple of loads back to the home farm. When we got there, there were four squirrels in the crib that we counted. They went out the back end like flying squirrels. I had the gun along. The crib had a galvanized roof. One squirrel got right up in the apex of the roof . . . I let him have it. The shot splattered more than I had thought it would, so the roof is like a sieve. Another squirrel was on the "plate" just below the tin roof, outside the crib proper. So I let him have it, and that punched about 50 holes in the tin roof outside the crib. That was darned poor judgment, but the sight of those cobs had made me see red. They came to the crib by way of the walnut trees and other trees along the west line fence. As Ira loaded, I watched that string of trees. Didn't take long for them to start a procession toward the crib. When they got on the last walnut tree, closest to the crib, I let go at them. In all, we got eight. . .

The second day, Ira was discing and I was at the crib alone loading the wagon we had brought along . . . and throwing out cobs. During one of my rests, I heard one on the roof. Soon he appears inside the crib going toward the corn . . . and he jumped on a plate under the board floor right in front of me. I had one of your skeet loads in the right barrel for just such an occasion. I thought the wooden floor would protect the roof. So I let him have it, and the sky appeared through the tin roof as if by magic. . . "Pap"