Doug WaltersBy Doug Walters
First published in May/June, 2007, Volume 4, Issue 2, The Hatchet: Journal of Lizzie Borden Studies.
“Neither Rain Nor Sleet Nor Dark Of . . . ”
or
Junk Mail on Parade
Neither rain nor sleet nor dark of Night
Shall keep this Courier from his appointed rounds!
Now lest you think fair reader, that you’ve somehow made a wrong turn and stumbled by sheer accident thru the front doors of the Fall River postal agency, let me assure you that no mistake has been made and that in fact that threshold you tripped over on the way in does indeed mark and so otherwise adorn the entry to the office of ye humble Compositor.
You’ve just caught me on the way out to the local optometric establishment, actually. I think I have sufficient time though to explain, and perhaps make sense of that which might seem to be nonsense above—or chuck the sense out the window altogether and make even more nonsense. Who will succeed, and at which endeavor? That, fair Reader, is the ultimate question of the day. With any luck, however, sense will prevail. I must, however, warn you in all good conscience: It’s been one of those days!
As you may well have gathered by this time, it would seem your humble Compositor is in need of updated “visionary assistance” so to speak. But of course you would know that, particularly since an optometrist is generally known for eye care and is for the most part ignorant of . . . oh, things such as the finer points of making red dachshund sausages, for instance. Except that is, unless we’re thinking of that feller up near—well, no I haven’t time to tell that one today, and likely as not you’ve not the slightest interest in hearing about an optometrist who is also, as fate would have it, well-schooled in the finer points of making red dachshund sausages.
He does do a good business though, and is a thoughtful feller generally, as examinations scheduled slightly before or just after the noon hour may include a red dachshund sausage lunch if the patient desires.
Now then . . . I came to the realization that new glasses were required after the following incident, which took place just this morning as I was sorting through the daily mail. As fate would have it, I inadvertently opened someone else’s mail!
It’s really rather embarrassing. Mis-routed mail is a rare thing in my experience. In hindsight I suppose I ought to have been more attentive. At first I took it to be something related to cutting implements, particularly since the word “Hatchet” appeared on the outside of the envelope. I very nearly put the envelope aside to be discarded. I have no need of more than one hatchet—in fact just purchased a new one last week. The timing intrigued me I suppose—or, that is to say, simply the fact that only a week should pass between my purchase of aforementioned spanking-new implement and the odd arrival of this envelope which so clearly bore the word Hatchet . . .
I will here admit that I did open the mail, only to make the oddest discovery: Despite the word so clearly printed on the outside, the contents had nothing at all to do with cutting implements of any sort. It appeared to be a letter, and was written to an editor who is apparently female.
I give the letter here, as best I can make it out:
Dear Madame,
While I have never before felt the need to communicate with you, I feel it my duty to do so today. Let me say first, however, that I am a reader of your publications—as regularly as time and circumstances allow. Your subject intrigues me, honestly, particularly as Miss Borden is and has been now for a good while an unbound private citizen able to go, do, and have as she may please.
My communication today, however, regards a matter which causes me some concern, and I should much appreciate your earnest attention.
Do you, Madame, find yourself utterly appalled—flat out disgusted by the inhumane treatment often suffered by one of New England’s oldest and dearest names? She is hated, vilified, kicked about and otherwise looked-down-upon by far too many without a single shred of evidence that such ill repute is deserved.
If you feel the same—as I am assured you do based upon very close reading of your various publications – I encourage you to do all you can do to see this cruelty stopped!
What can you do—and how? Madame, we are so sure that you appreciate and deeply share our concern and anguish at such an undeniable travesty that we are prepared to offer you the chance of a lifetime!
For the small sum of 17 cents per share, you may take pride of ownership in what can only be described as a never-before-attempted-but-sure-to-be-a-winner ground-breaking experiment:
The Fitchburg Lobster Spa and Emporium
New England’s First Establishment
Devoted Solely To The Luxury & Care
Of Our Most Precious Resource—
The Crustacean!
Interested? Come See Us Today!
“We Don’t Eat ‘Em, But So Good We Do Treat ‘Em!”
The Fitchburg Lobster Spa and Emporium is a joint venture sponsored in part by Wharton, Weeks & Co., Poulterers, of Fitchburg and the makers of Mrs. Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound.
Well, now isn’t that odd . . . There’s a subscription list included. The topmost name is faintly penciled, it appears, so is hard to make out. The listed address, however, clearly reads “7 French Street, Fall River.” Hmmmm . . . Miss Borden must have soured on the ASPCA? Or is she somehow branching out?
As the folks at the Fitchburg Lobster Spa and Emporium might express it: “I haven’t a claw.” But as always . . . time will tell.
