My dear Mr. Beymer:
On March 23, 1951, I wrote my nephew in California by Air Mail
concerning the proposed sale of our quarter section in Kearny
County.
I look back. When I was about the right age for such things, my father's $12 to $15 suits and 10 cents socks, especially the latter, looked pretty common to me. Also a lot of other things about him and the family generally. I expressed as much. At first he paid no attention. I persisted. He wakened one day with this:
"I've been thinking about your case a good deal. You seem to have the making of a fine merchant tailor and big city haberdasher. I've accordingly made arrangements. Next September you are going to a Military School (in those days considered more or less of a high class reform school) where they all dress alike, and where you can do them a lot of good in dress reform. So get ready."
And you know, after graduation there in 1899, on coming home, and thereafter, Pap's 10 cent black socks and unvarying gray suits got to looking better and better as the few remaining years went by. . . Respectfully,
SKIP THE 'HEARTS AND HANDS'
October 22, 1951
Hemphill, Noyes, Graham, Parsons & Co.
15 Broad Street
New York 5, N.Y.
Gentlemen: I am just in receipt of a faded and washed-out 8x12" sheet of paper . . . that at first glance would seem to indicate I am now the proud owner of 100 shares of the common stock of Dun & Bradstreet, Inc., but subject to enough whereases, to-wits, here inserts, and/ors, etc., as to make me wonder just what it is I do have. . .I say "faded and washed-out." That is a true Churchillian understatement. I feel rather sure some of the Dun or Bradstreet children must have thrown my whatever-it-is in the creek back of their house where it has laid immersed since Oct. 2, 1951, the date I was supposed to have bought 100 shares of D&B.
Said certificate bears this hopeful imprint near the top— "TEMPORARY CERTIFICATE: Exchangeable for Engraved Certificate when ready for delivery." That is more or less encouraging but a bit vague. Who or what is referred to in that statement of readiness—the Company, or me, or the Engraved Certificates after they get dried-out from being in the creek too?
The above reminds me of the marriage license situation in Indiana. Here, prospective brides and grooms appear together before the Clerks of the various Circuit Courts to make out preliminary papers and then buy their licenses. The State furnishes a plain, printed 8x12 license for $1.50. That one is authoritative and originally intended to end the fee then and there. But our Clerks of today are away ahead on Court House psychology. And anybody who has ever been a groom knows grooms are totally non compes mentis on such occasions. So here is what happens to them. . . The affable Clerk says nothing about the $1.50 license, but with solemn and measured tread goes to the safe, which is always in plain view, fumbles with the combination and, after a bit more fumbling in the dark recesses of the safe, as solemnly returns with three shiny, crackling parchment rolls of different lengths—a 10x14 lithographed Sheaf of Wheat with the usual recitals in scroll, price $5; a 12x18 Gates-Ajar beauty with even more scrollwork, price $10; and a magnificent 16x24 Heart and Hand master License, with a beautiful red heart just over the clasped hands, and endlessly scrolled, price $15—something I knew you fine young citizens of our County would want the moment I first saw you come in the door," etc. . . .
But to get back. Would you please enlighten me as to just what I do have, and what, if anything, I can expect in the future, and when? If you are on speaking terms with any of the Messrs. Dun & Bradstreet, tell 'em your corn-fed Hoosier customer, while considerably puzzled with what he has, is onto the County Clerk's racket in Indiana, and he doesn't want any Heart and Hand permanent D&B Certificate, but just an uninundated one the Company furnishes, and he wants it free, including postage both for the new Certificate and the return of the water-soaked variety—although he doesn't think the latter is worth return postage. . .