Eventually conversation lagged, good-byes were said, the guests
departed. The trio went into a caucus before I could get out of
the room, and I heard Mother pronounce sentence: "We don't need
any female cigarette distributors in this family." How times have
changed!
That Fall, our Red Cross worker taught in Buffalo. Uncle Ernest
got off for a short trip to San Antonio, but caught the wrong
train and landed in Buffalo. Next Spring she taught in Cleveland.
Again, Uncle Ernest headed for San Antonio, got the wrong train,
but this time found out his error in time to get off at
Cleveland.
Last Chapter: Uncle Ernest died in 1931. As Executor, I went
through all his effects. Away back behind everything, I found a
dusty Indiana National Bank canvas sack once used to express
silver dollars and fractional silver coins. It was full of
envelopes about the size of a two-thirds grown postal card, all
addressed in the same handwriting, and all tied up in packages
with grocer's soft white twine. I didn't know the handwriting,
but eventually caught the full signature. I hadn't tried to read
the letters--just sifted through them to make sure the envelopes
contained only letters. Shortly, I came to one, the opening
sentence of which caught my eye: "I am terribly lonesome tonight,
Dear.
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