The Mornin' Mail is published every weekday except major holidays
Tuesday, November 27, 2007 Volume XVI, Number 114

did ya know?

Did Ya Know?... The 35th Annual Carthage Christmas Parade, sponsored by the Carthage Technical Center’s SkillsUSA, will be held Monday, December 3rd at 7:00 p.m. The parade will begin on the corner of Chestnut and Main and proceed north on Main, circle the Carthage Square. Grand marshal for the parade is Neel Baucom.

Did Ya Know?... Magic Moments Riding Therapy, an accredited provider of therapeutic horseback riding, is currently accepting applications from people with special needs, age 3 years and up, to participate in our program. For applications or information call 417 325-4490. The center is located just a few miles south of Carthage.

Did Ya Know?... The Carthage Historic Preservation will present a Holiday historic Tour, "Upstairs Downtown" on Saturday, December 8, from 10:00am -3:00pm. Tickets are $10 each advance purchase, $12 each the day of the tour. For more information, call Judy Hill at 417-358-9688, Karen Herzog 237-0723 or Judy Goff 358-8875.

today's laugh

I knew an actor once who took his bows before the play even began.

Why did he do that?

He wanted to be sure there was somebody there.

He sewed sleeves on his father’s toupee and wore it as a raccoon coat.

A Chronological Record of Events as they have Transpired in the City and County since our last Issue.

Fell From A Pony.

Carl Hubb, the grandson of D. A. Innes, who lives on north Maple street had a serious accident about five o’clock yesterday afternoon.

He and a friend were out horseback riding, and as they entered the yard upon their return home, Carl fell from the horse striking on his head. He received a severe wound and was unconscious for some time. He is better today.

Miss Pearl Taylor lost her gold watch out of the pocket of her dress on Case street this morning and quite a search party was organized to look for it. Mr. J.W. Ragsdale, who was passing, was so fortunate as to see it and restore it unharmed to its owner.

J.M. Kerr, a Webb City confectioner, has made an assignment to C.M. Gaston and deed of assignment and inventory have been filed.


Today's Feature

Rezoning On Agenda.

The Carthage City Council will meet this evening at 7:30 p.m. in the Council Chambers of City Hall in a regular session. Items on the agenda include the second reading of an ordinance requesting the rezoning of property at 1926 S. Garrison from "A" First Dwelling and "D" Local Business to "E" General Business. The rezoning was requested by property owner Vince Scott.

At the first reading of the ordinance, several neighbors who live near to the property were in attendance urging the council to vote against the rezoning. The owners cited various reasons, including concerns of potential decreased property values and close proximity to a business that would be zoned to serve liquor by the drink.

A representative for Scott urged Council to approve the rezoning, saying that it was in keeping with the trend of City expansion and would generate more tax money.

The requested rezoning of this particular property has been brought before Council numerous times over the past several years, the most recent of which was August of this year, when the item was not approved.

Just Jake Talkin'

One a the most basic implements of the old gold diggers was a box with a wire mesh in the bottom of it. The earth would be shoveled in and the box shook. The idea was ta eliminate the large rocks and other debris that only slowed the process of filterin’ out any gold that would eventually settle to the bottom.

Now, if a 49er was ta see a chunk a gold the size of a baseball rollin’ on top of the mesh, he wouldn’t be foolish enough to discard it just because the policy was to discard large rocks.

Policy should not be in place to make exceptions, but should be flexible enough to recognize exceptions when they occur. Exceptions should be scrutinized and if a policy recognizes enough exceptions, perhaps the policy needs adjusting.

This is some fact, but mostly,

Just Jake Talkin’.

Mornin' Mail

To Your Good Health
By Paul G. Donohue, M.D.

Finger Nodules a Sign of Arthritis

DEAR DR. DONOHUE: I am 56 and have just been told I have arthritis. Aren’t I slightly young for arthritis? I saw the doctor because of tiny bumps that popped out on the top knuckles of some of my fingers and because my fingers had become stiff. Only my hands are affected. Everything else is fine. I’m having trouble accepting this as arthritis. What do you think? -- R.K.

ANSWER: I go along with the arthritis diagnosis -- osteoarthritis, the most common kind of arthritis. It used to be called "wear and tear" arthritis, but it doesn’t occur simply from wear and tear. We know many factors that are involved, and there are many factors we don’t know. Aging, genes, previous injury and hormones are some of the known factors.

You’re not too old for osteoarthritis. It’s infrequent before age 40, and it’s most often diagnosed in the late to mid 50s. You’re at the right age.

What happens is that the cartilage that covers the ends of two bones splits, fissures and crumbles. The result is a stiff, painful joint. Pain increases with activity. Osteoarthritis most often affects the hands, fingers, knees, hips and the spine in the lower back and neck.

One form of osteoarthritis is more common in women, and it appears you have that kind. It happens in the fingers and hands. Small bumps appear on the knuckles closest to the fingertips. They’re called Heberden’s nodes and are indicators of osteoarthritis. The bumps are bony growths.

For most, osteoarthritis is a slowly progressive illness. Your kind might remain limited to the hands and fingers.


More Letters from

a Self-Made


to His Son

by George Horace Lorimer

First Published 1903

From John Graham, head of the house of Graham & Company, pork packers, in Chicago, familiarly known on ‘Change as Old Gorgon Graham, to his son, Pierrepont, at the Union Stock Yards.

No. 7

From John Graham, at the Union Stock Yards, Chicago, to his son, Pierrepont, at Yemassee-on-the-Tallahassee. The young man is now in the third quarter of the honeymoon, and the old man has decided that it is time to bring him fluttering down to earth.


CHICAGO, January 17, 189-.

Dear Pierrepont: After you and Helen had gone off looking as if you’d just bought seats on ‘Change and been baptized into full membership with all the sample bags of grain that were handy, I found your new mother-in-law out in the dining-room, and, judging by the plates around her, she was carrying in stock a full line of staple and fancy groceries and delicatessen. When I struck her she was crying into her third plate of ice cream, and complaining bitterly to the butler because the mould had been opened so carelessly that some salt had leaked into it.

Of course, I started right in to be sociable and to cheer her up, but I reckon I got my society talk a little mixed--I’d been one of the pall-bearers at Josh Burton’s funeral the day before--and I told her that she must bear up and eat a little something to keep up her strength, and to remember that our loss was Helen’s gain.

Now, I don’t take much stock in all this mother-in-law talk, though I’ve usually found that where there’s so much smoke there’s a little fire; but I’m bound to say that Helen’s ma came back at me with a sniff and a snort, and made me feel sorry that I’d intruded on her sacred grief. Told me that a girl of Helen’s beauty and advantages had naturally been very, very popular, and greatly sought after. Said that she had been received in the very best society in Europe, and might have worn strawberry leaves if she’d chosen, meaning, I’ve since found out, that she might have married a duke.

I tried to soothe the old lady, and to restore good feeling by allowing that wearing leaves had sort of gone out of fashion with the Garden of Eden, and that I liked Helen better in white satin, but everything I said just seemed to enrage her the more. Told me plainly that she’d thought, and hinted that she’d hoped, right up to last month, that Helen was going to marry a French nobleman, the Count de Somethingerino or other, who was crazy about her. So I answered that we’d both had a narrow escape, because I’d been afraid for a year that I might wake up any morning and find myself the father-in-law of a Crystal Slipper chorus-girl. Then, as it looked as if the old lady was going to bust a corset-string in getting out her answer, I modestly slipped away, leaving her leaking brine and acid like a dill pickle that’s had a bite taken out of it.

Good mothers often make bad mothers-in-law, because they usually believe that, no matter whom their daughters marry, they could have gone farther and fared better. But it struck me that Helen’s ma has one of those retentive memories and weak mouths--the kind of memory that never loses anything it should forget, and the kind of mouth that can’t retain a lot of language which it shouldn’t lose.

Of course, you want to honor your mother-in-law, that your days may be long in the land; but you want to honor this one from a distance, for the same reason. Otherwise, I’m afraid you’ll hear a good deal about that French count, and how hard it is for Helen to have to associate with a lot of mavericks from the Stock Yards, when she might be running with blooded stock on the other side. And if you glance up from your morning paper and sort of wonder out loud whether Corbett or Fitzsimmons is the better man, mother-in-law will glare at you over the top of her specs and ask if you don’t think it’s invidious to make any comparisons if they’re both striving, to lead earnest, Christian lives. Then, when you come home at night, you’ll be apt to find your wife sniffing your breath when you kiss her, to see if she can catch that queer, heavy smell which mother has noticed on it; or looking at you slant-eyed when she feels some letters in your coat, and wondering if what mother says is true, and if men who’ve once taken chorus-girls to supper never really recover from the habit.

On general principles, it’s pretty good doctrine that two’s a company and three’s a crowd, except when the third is a cook. But I should say that when the third is Helen’s ma it’s a mob, out looking for a chance to make rough-house. A good cook, a good wife and a good job will make a good home anywhere; but you add your mother-in-law, and the first thing you know you’ve got two homes, and one of them is being run on alimony.

You want to remember that, beside your mother-in-law, you’re a comparative stranger to your wife. After you and Helen have lived together for a year, you ought to be so well acquainted that she’ll begin to believe that you know almost as much as mamma; but during the first few months of married life there are apt to be a good many tie votes on important matters, and if mother-in-law is on the premises she is generally going to break the tie by casting the deciding vote with daughter.

When a young wife starts housekeeping with her mother too handy, it’s like running a business with a new manager and keeping the old one along to see how things go. It’s not in human nature that the old manager, even with the best disposition in the world, shouldn’t knock the new one a little, and you’re Helen’s new manager.

As long as fond fathers slave and ambitious mothers sacrifice so that foolish daughters can hide the petticoats of poverty under a silk dress and crowd the doings of cheap society into the space in their heads which ought to be filled with plain, useful knowledge, a lot of girls are going to grow up with the idea that getting married means getting rid of care and responsibility instead of assuming it. A fellow can’t play the game with a girl of this sort, because she can’t play fair.

It’s been my experience that both men and women can fool each other before marriage, and that women can keep right along fooling men after marriage, but that as soon as the average man gets married he gets found out. But even if she’s married to a fellow who’s so mean that he’d take the pennies off a dead man’s eyes (not because he needed the money, but because he hadn’t the change handy for a two-cent stamp), she’ll never own up to the worst about him, even to herself, till she gets him into a divorce court.

I simply mention these things in a general way. Helen has shown signs of loving you, and you’ve never shown any symptoms of hating yourself, so I’m not really afraid that you’re going to get the worst of it now. So far as I can see, your mother-in-law is the only real trouble that you have married. But don’t you make the mistake of criticizing her to Helen or of quarrelling with her. I’ll attend to both for the family. You simply want to dodge when she leads with the right, take your full ten seconds on the floor, and come back with your left cheek turned toward her, though, of course, you’ll yank it back out of reach just before she lands on it. There’s nothing like using a little diplomacy in this world, and, so far as women are concerned, diplomacy is knowing when to stay away.

What you want to do is to keep mother-in-law from mixing up in your family affairs until after she gets used to the disgrace of having a pork-packer for a son-in-law, and Helen gets used to pulling in harness with you. Then mother’ll mellow up into a nice old lady who’ll brag about you to the neighbors. But until she gets to this point, you’ve got to let her hurt your feelings without hurting hers.

Whenever I hear of a fellow’s being found out by his wife, it always brings to mind the case of Dick Hodgkins, whom I knew when I was a young fellow, back in Missouri. Dickie was one of a family of twelve, who all ran a little small any way you sized them up, and he was the runt. Like most of these little fellows, when he came to match up for double harness, he picked out a six-footer, Kate Miggs. Used to call her Honeybunch, I remember, and she called him Doodums.

Honeybunch was a good girl, but she was as strong as a six-mule team, and a cautious man just naturally shied away from her. Was a pretty free stepper in the mazes of the dance, and once, when she was balancing partners with Doodums, she kicked out sort of playful to give him a love pat and fetched him a clip with her tootsey that gave him water on the kneepan. It ought to have been a warning to Doodums, but he was plumb infatuated, and went around pretending that he’d been kicked by a horse. After that the boys used to make Honeybunch mighty mad when she came out of dark corners with Doodums, by feeling him to see if any of his ribs were broken. Still he didn’t take the hint, and in the end she led him to the altar.

We started in to give them a lovely shivaree after the wedding, beginning with a sort of yell which had been invented by the only fellow in town who had been to college.

As I remember, it ran something like this:

Hun, hun, hunch!

Bun, bun, bunch!

Funny, funny!

Honey, honey!

Funny Honeybunch!

But as soon as we got this off, and before we could begin on the dishpan chorus, Honeybunch came at us with a couple of bed-slats and cleaned us all out.

Before he had married, Doodums had been one of half a dozen half-baked sports who drank cheap whisky and played expensive poker at the Dutchman’s; and after he’d held Honeybunch in his lap evenings for a month, he reckoned one night that he’d drop down street and look in on the boys. Honeybunch reckoned not, and he didn’t press the matter, but after they’d gone to bed and she’d dropped off to sleep, he slipped into his clothes and down the waterspout to the ground. He sat up till two o’clock at the Dutchman’s, and naturally, the next morning he had a breath like a gasoline runabout, and looked as if he’d been attending a successful coon-hunt in the capacity of the coon.

Honeybunch smelt his breath and then she smelt a mouse, but she wasn’t much of a talker and she didn’t ask any questions--of him. But she had brother Jim make some inquiries, and a few days later, when Doodums complained of feeling all petered out and wanted to go to bed early, she was ready for him.

Honeybunch wasn’t any invalid, and when she went to bed it was to sleep, so she rigged up a simple little device in the way of an alarm and dropped off peacefully, while Doodums pretended to.

When she began to snore in her upper register and to hit the high C, he judged the coast was clear, and leaped lightly out of bed. Even before he’d struck the floor he knew there’d been a horrible mistake somewhere, for he felt a tug as if he’d hooked a hundred-pound catfish. There was an awful ripping and tearing sound, something fetched loose, and his wife was sitting up in bed blinking at him in the moonlight. It seemed that just before she went to sleep she’d pinned her nightgown to his with a safety pin, which wasn’t such a bad idea for a simple, trusting, little village maiden.

"Was you wantin’ anything, Duckie Doodums?" she asked in a voice like the running of sap in maple-sugar time.

"N-n-nothin’ but a drink of water, Honeybunch sweetness," he stammered back.

"You’re sure you ain’t mistook in your thirst and that it ain’t a suddint cravin’ for licker, and that you ain’t sort of p’intin’ down the waterspout for the Dutchman’s, Duckie Doodums?"

"Shorely not, Honeybunch darlin’," he finally fetched up, though he was hardly breathing.

"Because youa ma told me that you was given to somnambulasticatin’ in your sleep, and that I must keep you tied up nights or you’d wake up some mornin’ at the foot of a waterspout with your head bust open and a lot of good licker spilt out on the grass."

"Don’t you love your Doodums anymore?" was all Dickie could find to say to this; but Honeybunch had too much on her mind to stop and swap valentines just then.

"You wouldn’t deceive your Honeybunch, would you, Duckie Doodums?"

"I shorely would not."

"Well, don’t you do it, Duckie Doodums, because it would break my heart; and if you should break my heart I’d just naturally bust your head. Are you listenin’, Doodums?"

Doodums was listening.

"Then you come back to bed and stay there."

Doodums never called his wife Honeybunch after that. Generally it was Kate, and sometimes it was Kitty, and when she wasn’t around it was usually Kitty-cat. But he minded better than anything I ever met on less than four legs.

Your affectionate father,


P.S.--You might tear up this letter.

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