December 19th, 2024
Dear Mr. Fudd,
The innards of my Royal Quiet DeLuxe typewriter have been sprayed down with a fresh coat of WD-40 and the little baby is purring like a kitten. I told my 85 year-old Uncle Bob about the WD-40, and he informed me that WD-40 stands for “water displacement formula 40.” I’m not sure how effective the first 39 formulas were, but I’m glad they kept at it.
I am eager for a resolution to your literary stunt toward Mr. Saddlemayer. I’ve never listened to KFAB, but I do have a podcast where Uncle Bob talks about growing up in Wahoo, NE. I suspect it’s similar. If you ever wish to record any dispatches to broadcast to my 108 subscribers, you have an open invitation. They’re mostly Bob’s elderly friends and the Saunders County Museum curator.
My family is nearly there with the Christmas anticipation. One of our traditions is to buy my mother anything having to do with reindeer poop. It all started with a single greeting card and jelly bean dispenser purchased by my brother many Christmases ago, and like any younger brother, I latched onto the idea and annoyed my entire family with it. The trouble is, we’ve started running out of pooping reindeer options so now any poop related gift will suffice.
Yours,
C.S. Beaty
Shortly after Haywood sent me a spiral-bound compilation of his letters to the residents of Bliss, Idaho, I sent him my own compilation of unedited essays I wrote on a typewriter. I still write a first draft of everything on one of seven functional typewriters I have in my possession, but now I go back and edit those to make them suck less. Back then I didn’t bother with that step. There was a therapeutic element to watching the typewriter keys hit the page and feeling that the message was in a permanent state. I didn’t need to edit, it just was. It was what it was, with all its grammatical errors and formatting foibles. Like a person, whatever version was birthed was the version it was going to be. It was poetic to me. And it turns out most of what I wrote on the first draft was pretty much what I intended to put down in the first place.
Now that I write more frequently, I’ve added a few steps to my writing process. I dictate all of my typewritten pages into a word doc and attempt that painstaking process of combing out all the clunky phrases and red squiggles to present myself in a more polished manner. It feels necessary, but I don’t like it. There’s a heart in the imperfection that stops beating once they’re operated on. And back in my early essays, I needed all the life I could get to keep my writing ambitions from flatlining.
For the 2023 and 2024 Christmases, I printed off all my typewritten essays from those years and bound them as family Christmas presents. Most of the feedback was a shot in the arm and led me to believe I was onto something with my writing. My raw observation and over-sharing were met with support and encouragement, but most of that feedback was from people who should probably feel obligated to give it. After all I was their son, brother, son-in-law, or friend that you stopped talking to since then. They should be on my side, even if they didn’t actually read anything until I forced a copy in their hand and scheduled a coffee date for the hour-and-a-half they were in town to attend a funeral for someone they barely knew. But I hadn’t really branched into letting strangers read what I had written, at least not until I’d mailed the 2024 version to my new pen pal.
Who not only read it, but wrote me four separate book reports on the topic.
But first, he had some updates of his own he needed to share with me.
January 22nd, 2025
Dear Mr. Beaty,
Following is the latest news from West-West Omaha for your mindfulness:
Cleeve Happ, 66, of Dunbar, Neb., wrote the Royal Canadian Mounted Police last week to inquire about becoming an honorary member. Cleeve has firewood and rabbits for sale.
Paisleigh Halix, 78, of Firth, Neb., has been square dancing for nigh on 70 years. The only time Paisleigh didn’t square dance with ungoverned pizzazz was when she was in the family way back in 1973, 1974 and again in 1975.
Persephone Hulls, 74, of De Witt, Neb., randomly informs family, friends and strangers that she’s completely naked underneath her clothes. The over the fence scuttlebutt is Persephone was a real looker back in her day.
Ennis Nichols, 78, of Ceresco, Neb., refers to German people as “Jerries” because that’s what his pop called Germans when Ennis was a whipper snapper.
Pace Tatum, 71, of Beemer, Neb., creates make-believe traffic jams in Beemer that he phones into KTIC 840 AM. Pace has a make-believe dog named Queenie that he religiously walks in the morning and the afternoon.
Arlie Kustda, 69, of Weston, Neb., is prone to buttonholing strangers to ask if they have any money they don’t want.
Moses Alder, 65, of Davey, Neb., remains devilishly suspicious that a baker’s dozen is, in fact, thirteen. Moses testifies the reason for his suspicion is that his dad drummed into him to never bet another man’s game.
Eugene Cyril, 68, of Marquette, Neb., bought his first gorilla suit at age 65. “I’m late to the party but I’m working overtime to catch up,” testified Eugene who was charged twice in 2024 was setting fire to his mailbox.
Harry Heritage, 70, of Garland, Neb., rolls his own cigarettes and instead of using tobacco he uses catnip.
Dick Weizner, 64, of Firth, Neb., has commissioned a chainsaw artist to carve a totem pole out of the eighteen foot high stump in his front yard. The chainsaw artist promised he would begin carving the totem pole next Tuesday after lunch.
Much obliged,
Haywood Fudd
