Sherry Chapmanby Sherry Chapman
First published in Winter, 2013, Volume 8, Issue 1, The Hatchet: Journal of Lizzie Borden Studies.
My dear friends,
Where are you how are you and what are you doing? I wish to tell you with great delight that I was asked to take over Mrs. Borden’s column for this issue. As I plan to pen a script for the stage in the near future, there is little doubt that the practice shall do me good. So, without further ado—oh. Mrs. Borden says she has a sick stomach. We have all in the city have, at one time or another, suffered from Summer Complaint or Winter Complaint, or Fall Complaint or Spring Complaint. But there are few of us that would go running in broad daylight to a doctor’s house drooling they have been poisoned, as she has. I was mortified. She will be just fine if she would cut down on the fried foods and vivid imagination as well. Of course I mean this in the most cordial of ways. Let us now see what is on some of your minds . —L. A. Borden
DEAR ABBY—Does your husband, Andrew Borden, have a will?—Salivating on Second Street
DEAR SAL—What a coincidence! Why, I, too, have been wondering this very same thing. For the answer to this question, I was able to visit Mr. Charles Cook downstreet and, because I was on official business for this newspaper, I did not look as if I had an ulterior motive. Unfortunately he told me it was “privileged information”. I looked at him and said, “Why, I am privileged. My father is quite well off.” And he patted me on the hand as men tend to do to women today to show that they are being tolerated or to make an unasked-for advance, but I waited without a word and he simply removed his hand and went back to his work so I tend to doubt that it was an advance. But it could have been. In any event, I left his office without an answer. I will pursue the matter (both of them).
DEAR ABBY—I enjoy drawing, especially people in amusing situations or saying funny things—something like the political drawings that are in the papers. I have been drawing of late of a family, just a regular, normal family most persons can relate to, and these hilarious situations that seem to happen to them. I have shown them to my friends, and they all urge me to send them in to your paper. Do you think they would be interested in seeing some of my work for possible publication?—Hopeful Harry
DEAR HARRY—I do not know of these ‘regular, normal’ families you speak of, so I do not know if I can agree that most persons would be able to relate to whatever it is you are creating. Do not our friends tell us what we would like to hear? These little “funnies” will never amount to anything. I suggest you use your time to send the paper things that really matter, such as more financial news and detailed fatal criminal acts.
DEAR ABBY—I dunno. I be about sick of this place—what you call, “Full River”. I work hard. I work so hard, I come home to my family at night with a new blister on my hand every night. This how my children learn to count, they count the blisters on my hands. Every night there is more, and they learn good. I work at the Durfee High School as janitor. I work all night to make the school clean for everybody the next day. And I stay there all day in case some buddy throw up or drop something to break. Most times it is the throw up. I only get a few hours to come home, eat, and let the children count my blisters. I still tired when I go back. I have, what you call?—short fuze. I so tire, I get mad quick. Anything happen, I get mad. Some buddy tells me to clean up anudder mess, I get a-mad. Some buddy tells me I did good, I get-a mad. I tell you, I so mad that the udder day I was in the—where the kids make things—wood things. They make bird house, boxes for flowers, stuff like-a dat. One boy the other day, he was using saw. That noise, it grate not just on wood but it grate on my one nerve I gotta left. So I thought right then, I quit. I stop work or I gonna do somethin nobuddy she no like. I gave this boy my moppa and say to cut it all up, I ain’t gonna use it no more. I dunno if he done it or not. I write to ask if you now of anudder job I could do? Maybe I teach arithmatik. I good to teach kids to count. I very patient too.—Need Some Help Here
DEAR NEED— You must go back and talk to the principal of the school. Perhaps, if you apologize and ask very nicely and explain the situation you could be offered another job with less stress. But you had better check on what happened in the Future Carpenters classroom. Don’t you know—I think it is against the law, at least I know I’ve heard it before—that you can’t chop your moppa up in Massachusetts?
DEAR ABBY— I ast ya before, see. And ya said ya didn’t know. I got to thinkin’. This paper I’m workin’ on ain’t due for a while yet, so why not ast ya again? I dunno if it’s true or not, but somebody said you went all the way through (or was that ‘in’) high school. Well anyway, if ya don’t know, maybe ya’d at least know where to look. Okay. Who invented fractions? I’m countin’ on ya, Abby. —‘Brownie’ Browne
DEAR ‘BROWNIE’—Henry the Eighth. Aha! And I only went to the 10th grade.
DEAR ABBY—I am sorry to ask you this question, but I am afraid that I must. Because of your impeccable reputation, just say no dear lady and all charges will be dropped. Did your step-daughter, Lizzie, take a rubber gossamer from McWhirr’s without paying for it last April?—RUFUS HILLIARD
DEAR MARSHALL—NO. (It was in May.)
SPECIAL OFFER FOR SUBSCRIBERS OF THIS PAPER ONLY!
Some time ago, this paper offered The John Morse Memory Course to its readers. We still have a few, a very few, left. I have heard from my sister (since I have nothing to do with him) that our Uncle John has himself an impressive memory. When was the last time you rode a streetcar, then could tell someone what number was on the conductor’s hat, up to ten months after? Do you remember the exact time you arrived at a relative’s house a year ago? Can you recite the alphabet backwards as fast as you can say it forwards? (Well, I do not know if he can do that too, but you get the idea.) Learn these things and more when you send only one dime cash money to John Morse, in care of the Fall River Post Office. No need for a post box number. He forgot what it is but no matter. They all know him in there. Do it quickly before even these last few are gone.
