The Mornin' Mail is published every weekday except major holidays
Tuesday, September 11, 2007 Volume XVI, Number 60

did ya know?

Did Ya Know?... Carthage City Council will meet on Thursday, September 13th this week, instead of the regular Tuesday meeting. The meeting will be held at 7:30 p.m. in the Council Chambers of City Hall.

Did Ya Know?... The seventh annual Festival of Friends, a multicultural celebration, will be held Saturday, September 15th from 3 to 7 p.m. in Central Park

Did Ya Know?... A C.A.N. D.O. Senior Center Fundraiser breakfast will be held Saturday, September 22nd from 7 to 10 a.m.. All you can eat, Adults $4, Kids 12 and under, $3.00. 404 E. 3rd Street, call in advance for carryouts, 358-4741. Proceeds benefit the C.A.N. D.O. Senior Center

today's laugh

We have a new baby at our house. It weighs seven pounds.
How much was it a pound?

The dance floor is slippery.
Don’t be silly - that isn’t the floor, I just had my shoes shined.

What’s the difference between a jeweler and a jailor?
One sells watches and the other watches cells.

The dog was certainly cute, but he was so covered with hair that no one could tell which end was which.

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

Will Assist Dr. Barnett.

Dr. Hargle returned from Gallatin yesterday where he was called a week ago to the bedside of his mother. She was not expected to live then but is very much better now. The doctor came back to take charge of Dr. Barnett’s dental practice for a few days, the latter being off duty because of his runaway bruises received Saturday night.

Wanted Here.

A telegram from Santa Cruz, Cal., says "Arthur Owings, who is wanted in Jasper county, Missouri, on charges of seduction, is under arrest in this city awaiting extradition papers from the governor of Missouri. The complainant in the case is Mrs. Bertha Shonable, member of a prominent family in Jasper County."

Miss Mabel Zilhardt returned yesterday morning to her position in St. Louis after a vacation at home.


Today's Feature

Maple Leaf Applications Available.

News release

The 41st Annual Maple Leaf Festival, hosted by the Carthage Chamber of Commerce, is scheduled for October 13-20. The annual event, which brings over 50,000 visitors to the local community, is being sponsored by The Carthage Press, KMXL/KDMO, KSNF-TV, Leggett & Platt, Inc., Southwest Missouri Bank, Beimdiek Insurance Agency, Hometown Bank, McCune-Brooks Hospital, Grundy’s Body & Frame, Fair Acres Family YMCA, Four Corners Quilter’s Guild and the Carthage Humane Society.

The theme for this year’s festival is A Hometown Celebration. The festival design, which is featured on all festival promotions and event shirts, was created by local artist Bill Terrell. The design incorporates renderings of recognizable hometown symbols such as the Jasper County Courthouse, a civil war cannon, a classic car and the festival’s trademark maple leaf.

Maple Leaf arts & crafts and food vendor applications are available at the Chamber office. Fees to participate in the arts & craft display are $50 for a single and $100 for a double booth. Food vendor slots are available at a cost of $150 for a single and $250 for a double. Contact Linda for more information on craft booth and food vendor slots.

Parade entry forms are also available. Commercial vehicles will be required to pay a $50 fee to line-up in the parade, while Political entries will be required to pay a $25 fee. Special entries already noted for this year’s parade are the Willie Arthur Smith’s Marching Cobras drum core from Kansas City and the Budweiser Clydesdales based out of St. Louis.

Other applications currently available at the Chamber office include: Maple Leaf Quilt Show entry forms, Maple Leaf 5K Run & Mile Fun Run forms, Maple Leaf Baby Contest entry forms, Three Minutes of Fame Lip-Sync Competition forms and Maple Leaf Auto Show applications. Many of these forms can be downloaded through the Chamber’s website, within the Calendar of Events link.

For more festival information or to inquire about an event application, contact the Chamber at 358-2373.

Just Jake Talkin'
I suppose the fact that opinions are so common, most fall into the category of bein’ mighty important to those who have ‘em, but don’t mean much to anyone else.

I’m sure everyone realizes that the other guy’s opinion might have some merit, but they’re afraid to admit it for fear he might think he’s right for a change. There’s nothin’ worse than a know-it-all who’s right. Makes folks fightin’ mad when that happens.

I personally make a habit of keepin’ my nose out of other people’s business. but I like ta listen to other people’s opinions. Not ‘cause they’re right necessarily, but because they may have thought of somethin’ I haven’t. Or they may be so far out in left field they start makin’ sense ‘bout somethin’ they aren’t even talkin’ about.

This is some fact, but mostly,

Just Jake Talkin’.

Mornin' Mail

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

Heartburn Poses Cancer Threat to Only a Few

DEAR DR. DONOHUE: I have had heartburn for many years, and it has gotten worse this past year. My doctor sent me to a specialist, who looked into my esophagus and stomach with a scope. He said I have Barrett’s esophagus and that it can turn into cancer. I’ve been quite nervous about this. What are the chances that I’ll get cancer? -- M.T.

ANSWER: Heartburn’s official name is GERD -- gastroesophageal reflux disease. Reflux is a backup of stomach acid into the esophagus, a place that’s not designed to tolerate stomach acid. The result is heartburn. In some people with chronic heartburn, stomach acid causes a change in the lining cells of the lower part of the esophagus. That’s Barrett’s esophagus.

Barrett’s can progress to esophageal cancer. Keep in mind that heartburn is common and cancer of the esophagus is uncommon, so the cancer progression is rare. Even though it’s never been shown that control of reflux prevents cancer, you should be taking steps to limit heartburn. Stay away from chocolate, peppermint, caffeine, alcohol, fatty foods, fried foods, citrus fruits and many tomato products. Elevate the head of your bed by placing 6-inch blocks under the bedposts so gravity keeps stomach acid in the stomach during the night. I have to believe your doctor has you on medicines that greatly diminish acid production, like Nexium, Prilosec, Prevacid, Aciphex or Protonix.

The cancer scare is real but remote. It shouldn’t dominate your life. You’ll be on a schedule of follow-up scope exams, and the doctor will take immediate steps if dangerous changes are seen. You are actually in a safer situation than are people who develop Barrett’s esophagus without any symptoms. You’re being watched.

to his SON.

by George Horace Lorimer

First published October, 1902

Being the Letters written by 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, facetiously known to his intimates as "Piggy."

FROM John Graham, at the London House of Graham & Co., to his son, Pierrepont, at the Union Stock Yards in Chicago. Mr. Pierrepont is worried over rumors that the old man is a bear on lard, and that the longs are about to make him climb a tree.


LONDON, October 27, 189-

Dear Pierrepont: Yours of the twenty-first inst. to hand and I note the inclosed clippings. You needn’t pay any special attention to this newspaper talk about the Comstock crowd having caught me short a big line of November lard. I never sell goods without knowing where I can find them when I want them, and if these fellows try to put their forefeet in the trough, or start any shoving and crowding, they’re going to find me forgetting my table manners, too. For when it comes to funny business I’m something of a humorist myself. And while I’m too old to run, I’m young enough to stand and fight.

First and last, a good many men have gone gunning for me, but they’ve always planned the obsequies before they caught the deceased. I reckon there hasn’t been a time in twenty years when there wasn’t a nice "Gates Ajar" piece all made up and ready for me in some office near the Board of Trade. But the first essential of a quiet funeral is a willing corpse. And I’m still sitting up and taking nourishment.

There are two things you never want to pay any attention to--abuse and flattery. The first can’t harm you and the second can’t help you. Some men are like yellow dogs--when you’re coming toward them they’ll jump up and try to lick your hands; and when you’re walking away from them they’ll sneak up behind and snap at your heels. Last year, when I was bulling the market, the longs all said that I was a kind-hearted old philanthropist, who was laying awake nights scheming to get the farmers a top price for their hogs; and the shorts allowed that I was an infamous old robber, who was stealing the pork out of the workingman’s pot. As long as you can’t please both sides in this world, there’s nothing like pleasing your own side.

There are mighty few people who can see any side to a thing except their own side. I remember once I had a vacant lot out on the Avenue, and a lady came in to my office and in a soothing-syrupy way asked if I would lend it to her, as she wanted to build a crèche on it. I hesitated a little, because I had never heard of a crèche before, and someways it sounded sort of foreign and frisky, though the woman looked like a good, safe, reliable old heifer. But she explained that a crèche was a baby farm, where old maids went to wash and feed and stick pins in other people’s children while their mothers were off at work. Of course, there was nothing in that to get our pastor or the police after me, so I told her to go ahead.

She went off happy, but about a week later she dropped in again, looking sort of dissatisfied, to find out if I wouldn’t build the crèche itself. It seemed like a worthy object, so I sent some carpenters over to knock together a long frame pavilion. She was mighty grateful, you bet, and I didn’t see her again for a fortnight. Then she called by to say that so long as I was in the business and they didn’t cost me anything special, would I mind giving her a few cows. She had a surprised and grieved expression on her face as she talked, and the way she put it made me feel that I ought to be ashamed of myself for not having thought of the live stock myself. So I threw in half a dozen cows to provide the refreshments.

I thought that was pretty good measure, but the carpenters hadn’t more than finished with the pavilion before the woman telephoned a sharp message to ask why I hadn’t had it painted. I was too busy that morning to quarrel, so I sent word that I would fix it up; and when I was driving by there next day the painters were hard at work on it. There was a sixty-foot frontage of that shed on the Avenue, and I saw right off that it was just a natural signboard. So I called over the boss painter and between us we cooked up a nice little ad that ran something like this:

Graham’s Extract:

It Makes the Weak Strong.

Well, sir, when she saw the ad next morning that old hen just scratched gravel. Went all around town saying that I had given a five-hundred-dollar shed to charity and painted a thousand-dollar ad on it. Allowed I ought to send my check for that amount to the crèche fund. Kept at it till I began to think there might be something in it, after all, and sent her the money. Then I found a fellow who wanted to build in that neighborhood, sold him the lot cheap, and got out of the crèche industry.

I’ve put a good deal more than work into my business, and I’ve drawn a good deal more than money out of it; but the only thing I’ve ever put into it which didn’t draw dividends in fun or dollars was worry. That is a branch of the trade which you want to leave to our competitors.

I’ve always found worrying a blamed sight more uncertain than horse-racing--it’s harder to pick a winner at it. You go home worrying because you’re afraid that your fool new clerk forgot to lock the safe after you, and during the night the lard refinery burns down; you spend a year fretting because you think Bill Jones is going to cut you out with your best girl, and then you spend ten worrying because he didn’t; you worry over Charlie at college because he’s a little wild, and he writes you that he’s been elected president of the Y.M.C.A.; and you worry over William because he’s so pious that you’re afraid he’s going to throw up everything and go to China as a missionary, and he draws on you for a hundred; you worry because you’re afraid your business is going to smash, and your health busts up instead. Worrying is the one game in which, if you guess right, you don’t get any satisfaction out of your smartness. A busy man has no time to bother with it. He can always find plenty of old women in skirts or trousers to spend their days worrying over their own troubles and to sit up nights waking his.

Speaking of handing over your worries to others naturally calls to mind the Widow Williams and her son Bud, who was a playmate of mine when I was a boy. Bud was the youngest of the Widow’s troubles, and she was a woman whose troubles seldom came singly. Had fourteen altogether, and four pair of ‘em were twins. Used to turn ‘em loose in the morning, when she let out her cows and pigs to browse along the street, and then she’d shed all worry over them for the rest of the day. Allowed that if they got hurt the neighbors would bring them home; and that if they got hungry they’d come home. And someways, the whole drove always showed up safe and dirty about meal time.

I’ve no doubt she thought a lot of Bud, but when a woman has fourteen it sort of unsettles her mind so that she can’t focus her affections or play any favorites. And so when Bud’s clothes were found at the swimming hole one day, and no Bud inside them, she didn’t take on up to the expectations of the neighbors who had brought the news, and who were standing around waiting for her to go off into something special in the way of high-strikes.

She allowed that they were Bud’s clothes, all right, but she wanted to know where the remains were. Hinted that there’d be no funeral, or such like expensive goings-on, until some one produced the deceased. Take her by and large, she was a pretty cool, calm cucumber.

But if she showed a little too much Christian resignation, the rest of the town was mightily stirred up over Bud’s death, and every one just quit work to tell each other what a noble little fellow he was; and how his mother hadn’t deserved to have such a bright little sunbeam in her home; and to drag the river between talks. But they couldn’t get a rise.

Through all the worry and excitement the Widow was the only one who didn’t show any special interest, except to ask for results. But finally, at the end of a week, when they’d strained the whole river through their drags and hadn’t anything to show for it but a collection of tin cans and dead catfish, she threw a shawl over her head and went down the street to the cabin of Louisiana Clytemnestra, an old yellow woman, who would go into a trance for four bits and find a fortune for you for a dollar. I reckon she’d have called herself a clairvoyant nowadays, but then she was just a voodoo woman.

Well, the Widow said she reckoned that boys ought to be let out as well as in for half price, and so she laid down two bits, allowing that she wanted a few minutes’ private conversation with her Bud. Clytie said she’d do her best, but that spirits were mighty snifty and high-toned, even when they’d only been poor white trash on earth, and it might make them mad to be called away from their high jinks if they were taking a little recreation, or from their high-priced New York customers if they were working, to tend to cut-rate business. Still, she’d have a try, and she did. But after having convulsions for half an hour, she gave it up. Reckoned that Bud was up to some cussedness off somewhere, and that he wouldn’t answer for any two-bits.

The Widow was badly disappointed, but she allowed that that was just like Bud. He’d always been a boy that never could be found when any one wanted him. So she went off, saying that she’d had her money’s worth in seeing Clytie throw those fancy fits. But next day she came again and paid down four bits, and Clytie reckoned that that ought to fetch Bud sure. Someways though, she didn’t have any luck, and finally the Widow suggested that she call up Bud’s father--Buck Williams had been dead a matter of ten years--and the old man responded promptly.

"Where’s Bud?" asked the Widow.

Hadn’t laid eyes on him. Didn’t know he’d come across. Had he joined the church before he started?


Then he’d have to look downstairs for him.

Clytie told the Widow to call again and they’d get him sure. So she came back next day and laid down a dollar. That fetched old Buck Williams’ ghost on the jump, you bet, but he said he hadn’t laid eyes on Bud yet. They hauled the Sweet By and By with a drag net, but they couldn’t get a rap from him. Clytie trotted out George Washington, and Napoleon, and Billy Patterson, and Ben Franklin, and Captain Kidd, just to show that there was no deception, but they couldn’t get a whisper even from Bud.

I reckon Clytie had been stringing the old lady along, intending to produce Bud’s spook as a sort of red-fire, calcium-light, grand-march-of-the-Amazons climax, but she didn’t get a chance. For right there the old lady got up with a mighty set expression around her lips and marched out, muttering that it was just as she had thought all along--Bud wasn’t there. And when the neighbors dropped in that afternoon to plan out a memorial service for her "lost lamb," she chased them off the lot with a broom. Said that they had looked in the river for him and that she had looked beyond the river for him, and that they would just stand pat now and wait for him to make the next move. Allowed that if she could once get her hands in "that lost lamb’s" wool there might be an opening for a funeral when she got through with him, but there wouldn’t be till then. Altogether, it looked as if there was a heap of trouble coming to Bud if he had made any mistake and was still alive.

The Widow found her "lost lamb" hiding behind a rain-barrel when she opened up the house next morning, and there was a mighty touching and affecting scene. In fact, the Widow must have touched him at least a hundred times and every time he was affected to tears, for she was using a bed slat, which is a powerfully strong moral agent for making a boy see the error of his ways. And it was a month after that before Bud could go down Main Street without some man who had called him a noble little fellow, or a bright, manly little chap, while he was drowned, reaching out and fetching him a clip on the ear for having come back and put the laugh on him.

No one except the Widow ever really got at the straight of Bud’s conduct, but it appeared that he left home to get a few Indian scalps, and that he came back for a little bacon and corn pone.

I simply mention the Widow in passing as an example of the fact that the time to do your worrying is when a thing is all over, and that the way to do it is to leave it to the neighbors. I sail for home to-morrow.

Your affectionate father,


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