Epistles from Pap: Letters from the man known as 'The Will Rogers of Indiana' Part 4

It may happen you have heard of that disaster, and are charitably giving me an opportunity to redeem myself in the eyes of Shelbyville people. Your surname indicates such. . .

Experience has taught me a repet.i.tion is generally more dangerous even than a first offense. It is in law, and it generally is in other things. Let me ill.u.s.trate from my own experience.

Years ago, my home town, Russellville, Indiana, had a home talent company. In fact, we have had many of them. The town and community was surfeited with them. The epidemic would break out, die down, and then break out afresh. Warner Kinkead was the cause of most of it. Warner was our self-imposed "leading man" on all and every occasion. For one thing, he was a bit older, but his princ.i.p.al claim to "stardom" was due to the fact he had spent two years away from Russellville, and was therefore more sophisticated and worldly-wise. The rest of us had ventured no farther than an annual pilgrimage to Crawfordsville for the County Fair. . .

Warner's parents had emigrated to Kansas. The second year the gra.s.shoppers "took them," with the result they all came back to Russellville, and along with Warner came a "make-up" box which he had in some manner acquired, together with a yearning for a theatrical career. Therefore, he was an actor, none could successfully dispute. He had the evidence. Warner put on many home talents, advertised under the auspices of the Rathbon's Sisters, the Mt. Pisgah Aid Society or other neighborhood organizations.

From a comparatively modest beginning, we aspired to greater things--harder plays and more cast. Warner soon learned the more there were in the cast, the more doting fathers and mothers, aunts and uncles, would turn out in the audience to see and admire his uncanny histrionic abilities.

Eventually, we a.s.sayed a tragedy--an unavailing struggle against fate. "Sea Drift" was the name of our first--and last--tragedy.

The climax was to come in the 8th or 9th Scene of the 10th or 12th Act, when in point of actual time it would be after midnight and our remaining audience (those who, of necessity, had to stay to take 95% of the cast home in time to help with breakfast or the milking) either somnolent or clear "gone."

The script went like this: The heroine is stranded on a bit of driftwood far out on the storm-tossed sea. From the lighthouse the startling cry rings out: "A fair maiden in dire peril in the sea beyond the breakers! Oh, Oh! Who will save her?"

"I will save her, or lose my life!" responds the hero (Warner), who thereupon hurls himself into the angry waves from a beetling cliff. A fearful struggle ensues between man and watery elements (ably aided and abetted by several bucketsful of real water from the wings). The maiden is rescued and brought to sh.o.r.e, but for some reason known only to the author the effort is too much for the hero. With a choked and exhausted murmur, "Call her Sea Drift. She is G.o.d's gift from the sea," he then and there expires from overexertion and exposure.

This called for an ocean scene--a considerable of an ocean scene-- and none of us had ever seen it. But we had read geographies and seen pictures, and Uncle Bud Nichols had several stereopticon views of the ocean at its worst. The Clodfelter girls sewed long strips of sheeting together and Jess Carrington, our local barn painter, painted the result of their labors to look like what he, in his artistic mind, thought the sea ought to look like. We borrowed two hand-power blacksmith's bellows from Fred Fink's blacksmith shop to put at either wing, and under the loosely-laid sheeting. The bellows pumped air underneath, thus causing undulation after undulation, making what we though was a most realistic semblance of the ocean in active operation. My particular part, among others, in this theatrical venture, was to operate one of these bellows, and operate it like "h.e.l.l," as Warner said, at the proper time.

A few of our props and effects are worthy of mention: the lighthouse was built from four round old time banana s.h.i.+pping crates fastened end to end, with a lantern from the livery stable hanging cheerily in the top. . . David Henry Burton, local inventor, hooked up immense quant.i.ties of old baling wire to some sort of wooden structure representing the driftwood the heroine was to cling to so perilously, in such a way that when Jude Glover, concealed beneath the ocean, turned the handle of a lop sided grindstone, the "driftwood" and beautiful maiden clinging thereon would bob up and down. A hand cornsh.e.l.ler sh.e.l.ling corn into a tin bucket emitted most of the noises we thought an ocean would make on an occasion like that.

Shep Wilson, who could bark like a dog, and who, it was said, did go with a show one whole summer in that capacity, and who, concealed in the corn field out alongside Hebron School House, did scare the little girls almost into hysterics one afternoon, lent us generously of his caninal talents.

Eventually, we eventuated into the Big Scene--the maiden was adrift, the cry of alarm rang out.

"I will save her or lose my life," quoth Warner, in a voice that sounded like an auctioneer at a farm sale. Jerking off his coat, he plunged into the raging sea. Buffeted by the angry waves, he crawled to the fair maiden. He grasped her tenderly and started for the sh.o.r.e. Midst the noise of the corn-sh.e.l.ler, the barking of the dog, the efforts of the bucketeers and bellowsmen, and encouraging cries from on sh.o.r.e, his foot caught in a seam of the sheeting, ripping up about two yards of the ocean. The air we had so industriously pumped in, rushed out at the rent. The sea collapsed. The corn-sh.e.l.ler ceased sh.e.l.ling. The barking dog and frenzied sh.o.r.e cries were hushed. A dead silence fell until some sacrilegious individual in the audience whispered loudly, "It's a miracle boys; he's walking on the sea." . . . Some good Samaritan finally got the curtain down.

But what I started out to ill.u.s.trate was the mistake we made--I mean the big mistake. We had advertised "Sea Drift" for two nights, thereby giving our second night's audience an opportunity to get ready for us--which they did in due and ancient form, as will be quickly sensed. A shame, since as a whole, the show probably progressed more smoothly the second night--up to the Big Scene--which was never finished.

Later on, the male part of the cast met on the bench in front of Sam Brown's meat market to talk it over, and inquire of Warner how he was getting along. His talk was short and much to the point: "Boys, we're not appreciated, and they needn't never ask me to put on a play in this town again. . . I didn't mind the tomatoes, or the potatoes much--or even the eggs--could see 'em coming and dodge 'em. But I would like to know the SOB who threw that china door k.n.o.b."

I presume you see my point by this time concerning a second effort in Shelbyville--oratorically.

Seriously, I . . . shall have to refuse your very kind offer. My father-in-law has been very low for months. He lives in Pennsylvania. My wife was called to Pennsylvania by the family, who thought the end was about come. . .and I shall have to hold myself in readiness to go at any time.

Respectfully,

SWAMPED

Greencastle, Indiana Oct. 2, 1929 Mr. D. Ray Higgins 937 Illinois Building Indianapolis, Indiana

Dear Sir, I have your very kind letter inviting me to make the talk before the Shrine Club. . . I should be delighted to make whatever talk I could, but the truth is I am sort of swamped in a small way with things of that nature. I am having some important cases tried this month, and I just must get ready for them. . . There must be an epidemic of Masonic meetings, or rather dinners, just at this time. I had a call yesterday from Terre Haute for a similar purpose, and last Sat.u.r.day one from Logansport.

Now the truth is, and I told the other parties this same thing, I am more than rusty on Masonry. . . What talks I make are nearly always directed toward the Legislature, or some sort of politics, and are more in the nature of fun along those lines than serious stuff.

Mr. Cooper, whom you know, has very kindly put me on the program at a National Meeting of Insurance Men for the 10th, and the Lord knows I don't know anything about insurance, except to pay the premiums when I can get the money sc.r.a.ped together.

And so if you will kindly excuse me for the present, and then, after consulting . . . on my real inability to make an interesting Shrine talk, if you all still want me, perhaps we can get together at some other time.

Respectfully,

ADVICE TO A YOUNG PRISONER

Greencastle, Indiana Oct. 1, 1929 Mr. Harold M--, #6347 Was.h.i.+ngton State Reformatory Monroe, Was.h.i.+ngton

My dear Harold, The writer of this letter may be unknown to you, although the chances are you know, or have heard of me. Anyway, your mother and I grew up together, girl and boy. I knew your grandfather and grandmother--fine, fine, old pioneer folks. . .

I am not only the boyhood friend of your mother, but have also probably done all her legal work here. And so, in view of all of this, and for other reasons, I am quite naturally interested in you and your welfare. . . I have tried to find out the facts in your case, and probably have them fairly straight. . .

Now, Harold, of course we both realize you have done wrong--very wrong in fact--and you are paying the penalty to society for that wrong doing. But do it like a good sport--like a good loser--and not be a whiner or welcher. . . Do not imagine that I am a maudlin and mouldy old lawyer, or that I am magnifying the error you made, because such is not the case. I come in contact with this sort of condition all the time. I realize that what you did will be done again and again in the future by others. What I insist is that it shall never again happen to you. I know there are those a.s.sociated with you now who are fools enough to maintain an air of bravado about them, and pretend they have been wronged by society . . . and they go about here and there telling what they are going to do when they get out, and how they're never going to get caught again. That type is hopeless and utterly worthless, but their greatest trouble is that they lack brains. They prate about this and that rich man breaking the law and getting by with it; or this and that bootlegger or what not, has a pull, or has the authorities bought and paid for, or is too smooth to get caught. All of which is 90% bosh. Confirmed crooks are never smart. They invariably . . . get caught. Why? Because there are smarter and shrewder men after them than they are, and so, the smarter man wins.

And all the time, the crook is a restless and furtive fugitive, never feeling safe and secure . . . and never knowing what the next hour will bring; never having any peace of mind; and never having any respect for himself.

I am not talking about the boy who, due to youth and inexperience, or stress of circ.u.mstances, or in a spirit of half excitement, picks a pocket, or sells some hooch, or steals a watch. . . You come of the right stock. The big thing for you, or anyone else who has made a mistake, is to get the right mental att.i.tude toward that mistake. When a fellow finds he is wrong, reverse then and there. Don't wait and don't try to "bull it through". . . and make friends, not enemies, of the reformatory authorities. You will be surprised, yes, amazed, to learn how badly they want to be friendly with you. . . Show by your actions and att.i.tude that you realize your mistake, study hard to fit yourself for life after you get out, don't whine or complain, don't sulk or slight your work. Brighten and cheer up. And for G.o.d's sake, prove you're a man and not a coward, because all confirmed criminals are cowards, without exception. . .

For your information, and to play square with you, I think within the year I shall write your warden or someone, asking how you are getting along and what sort of young fellow you are, because he will know, and I hope and trust my good opinion of you will be verified.

And so, why is it, Harold, that I am taking my time away from my business, and writing you this long and rather rambling letter?

Surely, I can have no motive of personal profit in it. No, it is to let you know that not only me but thousands of people all over this big, free country are interested in you and anxious for you and those others of you who have made a slip, all of us hoping and trusting and many praying for your welfare. So don't think you are friendless or forgotten, or ostracized. And each day and every hour and conscious moment, never lose sight of the fact that your coming away from there with the right att.i.tude, the correct vision, and firm determination of rect.i.tude of future conduct, depends solely on you.

Write me sometime.

Sincerely,

A LONG WAY FROM HOME

July 17, 1930 Hon. Harry N. Quigley, General Counsel C.C.C. & St. L. Railway Co.

230 E. 9th St.

Cincinnati, Ohio

Dear Sir: I was in Houston, Texas, about two months ago on some business with the Humble Oil Co. An old Chicago lawyer named Hait or Haut or something like that had business with the same company. . . It was the time Houston was celebrating the fact they had come to be the second city in size in the South--a gain of over 100% in ten years. Parades. Newspaper head lines. Everybody talking "Houston, Houston." We outsiders got a bit tired and bored with all the talk. One of the vice presidents of the company took us riding and to see his country home, all the way out talking up Houston, and occasionally giving the old man a little peck about Chicago lawlessness, racketeers and gunmen.

We saw the house and flower gardens and then went to see his bird collection. Our host took us to a big cage and pointed out a long-necked bird of brilliant plumage, and said: "That is a Bird of Paradise. What do you think of him?"

The old lawyer replied: "Well, I think he's a h.e.l.l of a long ways from home."

It was a knockout.

Respectfully,

THE DEMOCRATIC 'STRIKE' OF 1925

One of the most colorful escapades in the political history of the Hoosier State took place in 1925. Pap, who represented Putnam and Montgomery Counties in the Indiana State Senate, was an enthusiastic and imaginative partic.i.p.ant.

The spark was the proposed "Penrod Bill" (named for the Senator who introduced it) which, not unlike legislation offered from time to time even today, contained a hidden provision.

The bill (S.B. 300) proposed the transfer of a central Indiana county (Lawrence) from the Third U.S. Congressional District to the Second. The invention was to make sure there would be sufficient Republicans in that district--Senator Penrod's--to insure his election to Congress. Naturally, his good fortune would have come at the expense of the Democrats.

The Indiana State Senate in 1925 was almost totally controlled by the Republicans, but there was one small hitch. Unless a quorum was present, no votes could be taken and no legislation could be pa.s.sed--not just the offending Penrod bill, but any business at all. And there were just enough Democrats to threaten such a "political blockade." As expected, the Republicans presented the Penrod Bill of Feb. 25.