Epistles from Pap: Letters from the man known as 'The Will Rogers of Indiana'

by Andrew Everett Durham

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"