As Told By C.S. Beaty

Letters to Haywood Fudd: Gift Giving

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 This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.chrisbeaty.com [https://www.chrisbeaty.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1]

Update on my Biography of Nomadland Star Swankie

How could a vagabond woman who lived in her van end up a co-star to Frances McDormand in the blockbuster 2020 Academy Award-winning hit Nomadland? And whose transitory existence provides valuable life lessons on surviving – and thriving – in today’s world? That’s the opening line of the query letter I wrote to send to literary agents—well it’s what my editor wrote and I slightly tweaked. Pretty good, right? My aunt and I have been working on her biography for almost a year now. We’ve made it through the first thirty years of her life and so far, it’s really damn good. Even before my aunt became a nomad and starred in an Oscar-winning movie, her life was captivating. She was born in 1944 in Indiana to a Christian Scientist mother who denied her any modern medical care. She suffered from chronic migraines throughout her life but wasn’t permitted painkillers as a child. Her father walked out on the family while she was an infant, leaving her with a deep longing for a parental bond that she never found. While in high school, her mother moved in with a boyfriend and Charlene stayed behind in their family home, living alone for the duration of her senior year. After high school graduation, Charlene traveled alone by bus from Indiana to South Dakota to locate her father, not telling him she was coming until she was at the bus station before her final stop. When she met her father, she was also introduced to five half-siblings who had no knowledge of her existence until that moment. Including my own father. After living in South Dakota for a few months, her stepmother chased her out and Charlene moved back to Indiana to begin college. During that time, she fell in love, dropped out of school, married a CIA agent, moved to Iran, and gave birth to her second son in a Tehran hospital. While later living in Liberia, the couple experienced marriage trouble. Charlene returned to the United States alone, got a divorce, started a commune, worked as a nanny for an abusive man with post-traumatic stress disorder, became a summer camp counselor, and moved to Colorado for college. And that just brings us to 1974. She hasn’t even become a nomad yet and certainly hasn’t starred in any movies. This process has been quite a bit different from when I wrote my first book. The biggest difference, is I have a partner. My Aunt Swankie is acting as my research assistant. She has spent most days when she’s not on the road actively cataloging boxes of old journals, letters, and family records for salient life events and sending me relevant documents to form the narrative. Despite being her nephew, Swankie and I never interacted until 2025 when we began working together. Because I didn’t know her until we began this project, I have an objective perspective but am admittedly searching for a familial connection of my own. We communicate every day and our growing relationship has already made this project worth it. The other difference is that I’m actually trying to find a publisher. The world of writing books is in a weird place. Amazon and other print-on-demand services have made it so you can ignore all these ivory tower New Yorkers who run the book world, and it’s very popular for all us “indie” authors to s**t on those people because we’re the artists and they’re the suits. Well, after trying out the self-published route for my memoir, it turns out there may be some perks to getting someone who actually knows what they’re doing to help. So I’m trying to do that with my aunt’s story. But here’s the thing, agents and publishers have one goal: to sell books. I mean they would love to discover the next To Kill a Mockingbird, they’re not bad people, but they have jobs. And jobs are supposed to pay you money. And to get money, people need to want to buy your books. Which means that even if you have the next To Kill a Mockingbird, it doesn’t help if no one wants to read it. And it’s really, really hard to tell people “hey trust me, you’ve never heard of this author, but he’s like really great. Easily $25 for a new hard cover great. Go ahead just buy it.” So that means, I have to try to convince these people that people want to read (and…sorry…pay for) this book about my aunt. And the easiest way to do that is with statistics. Which means, if you want to help Swankie’s story get the attention of these book people, there are some things you can do. And I’m sorry, it’s going to sound very self-serving to me. Because they are. There’s really no way around it. Here’s my desperate cry for help: * Publishers want to know that an author has a track record of selling books. Which means, it would be really helpful if I sold some copies of my current book Loser*: A Survival Guide to High School Popularity. The hardcover, paperback, and ebook are all available on Amazon. And the audiobook is available on Apple. All these links are easily found on csbeaty.com. The magic number is 1,000 copies sold in the first year. I’m a little over 300 after six months in. I have a lot of work to do. * If you don’t want to pay for my book because you’re not sure if it sucks, I don’t blame you. I don’t buy books from authors I’ve never heard of either. So what would be really awesome and FREE is if you request that your local library buys a copy. Hardcover, ebook, and audio book are all available for library purchase. I look at my own public library app every day and it makes me so happy to see when my book is checked out. * Another free option: after you read the book, or if you want to lie—I’m cool with lying, then put stars on things! Amazon, Goodreads, Apple podcasts, your library app. Anything! If you can click some stars for Loser* then I’ll take them! Agents and publishers love seeing lots and lots of stars. * Subscribe to my weekly newsletter for updates on the progress on this book and other fun stuff. If you like something, then like, comment, and do that sort of thing. All this feels silly, and I feel silly talking about it, but it’s the language the publishing industry speaks in today’s environment. If funny books about awkward, hormonal high schoolers aren’t your thing—well just do it knowing you’re helping Swankie’s book down the road. And as a thank you, if anyone sends me an email with a mailing address to alieneagle 51@csbeaty.com, I’ll mail you a free bookplate. If you read the book, the email address will make more sense. So there’s the shameless request. I feel dirty even saying it. But just to remind us all why I’m doing it, hears a portion of the query letter I wrote that will be sent to literary agents when the time is right. I really think we have something special: Charlene Swankie was an actress in the 2020 Academy Award-winning Best Picture Nomadland. The film was adapted from a nonfiction book written by journalist Jessica Bruder who befriended my aunt. When Bruder met her, she had adopted the moniker “Swankie” in honor of the surname of her late husband. When the work was later adapted into a movie, screenwriter Chloé Zhao crafted a fictional storyline about a character named “Fern” played by Academy-Award winning actress Frances McDormand. My aunt was cast to play herself as McDormand’s co-star in a film that later won three Academy Awards and two Golden Globes. Zhao took Swankie to the Academy Award ceremony as her plus-one and thanked her by name in her Oscar acceptance speech. This story follows a rags-to-riches convention, but with an ironic ending. Despite her brush with fame, Swankie’s life hasn’t changed much. She still lives in her van and keeps to herself. And she still has many of the same wounds as she did before. Despite being her nephew, I didn’t grow up with a relationship with Swankie. I first heard her story the same way the rest of the world did when she started appearing on lists of potential Oscar nominations. I felt guilty about this, so I didn’t reach out to her other than accepting a Facebook friend request she had initiated. But when I released my own memoir, Swankie was one of the first people to congratulate me. She said she always wanted to write her own story, so in an attempt to reconcile with my own distance from my family, I asked her if I could write it with her. And she agreed. I was published in the Journal of Architectural Engineering and I self-published a memoir in December 2025 titled Loser*: A Survival Guide to High School Popularity. In the first five months of promoting, the memoir has sold over 300 copies and received positive reviews from Kirkus, BookLife, and Indie Reader. Kirkus Reviews gave the title a “Get It!” designation. Between my aunt and I, we have a combined social media presence of over 4,000 followers. I believe we have a truly original and marketable concept. The movie Nomadland gripped the film community by providing a stunning glimpse into this neglected society and breaking many Hollywood conventions. But that story was just the beginning. It was a glimpse of the current state of these nomadic people, but it wasn’t an in-depth look at how generations of abandonment can shape someone’s story. This family trauma shaped Swankie, but as her nephew I am discovering how it also shaped me. The movie Nomadland has received renewed interest because of Chloé Zhao’s recent success adapting and directing the film Hamnet, which is evidenced by an uptick in the Nomadland royalties my aunt has recently received. This book will not only appeal to fans of Nomadland: Surviving America in the Twenty-First Century by Jessica Bruder, but also: The Blind Side by Michael Lewis, Travels With Charley by John Steinbeck, Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer, and We Will Be Jaguars by Nemonte Nenquimo and Mitch Anderson. These works exposed readers to stories that are familiar yet often go untold. They showed us pictures of human resilience with in-depth analysis of character conventions that we recognize but know little about. Our book about my aunt will do the same. I would love your help to give Swankie’s remarkable story the greatest reach possible. Thank you. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.chrisbeaty.com [https://www.chrisbeaty.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1]

As Told By C.S. Beaty: Escape From the Labyrinth

When we parked our diesel-powered Peugeot outside the gates of the Palace of Knossos, we waited until the tree branches stopped falling atop of the car before exiting. With each gust of wind, new tree limbs separated and slammed onto the hood of our rental car. The rental car we had elected not to insure. The Peugeot was sturdy though, and my wife and I were determined not to let a little wind spoil the highlight of our Greek honeymoon on the island of Crete. The former home of King Minos was carved into the side of a hill and sprawled several stories across several acres of Cretan landscape. You can say it’s labyrinthine. In fact, you’re obligated to say it’s labyrinthine since legend has it that this palace inspired the myth of the labyrinth. When you look at the setup, it’s not hard to imagine a bunch of children being fed to a half-man half-bull minotaur inside its corridors. Paige and I waited at the top of the entrance. We were fourth in line, our anticipation growing as we waited to enter this historic maze. At least until a small Greek man in a funny hat pulled away from the ticket counter to make an announcement. “EXCUSE ME LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THE MONUMEMT IS NOW CLOSED FOR THE REST OF THE DAY DUE TO THE WIND. IT IS TOO DANGEROUS TO ALLOW MORE PEOPLE TO ENTER THE RUIN. PLEASE COME BACK TOMORROW.” No, no, no, no, no. There was no “come back tomorrow” for us. Tomorrow we would be on a plane to Athens. If we wanted to get lost in a castle allegedly built to hide the offspring of a queen who hid in a wooden cow suit so she could be fucked by a white bull that her husband was supposed to sacrifice to the god Poseidon, we had to do it now. We took stock of the scene. Our fellow linemates who were also denied entry were thick in their protest. We thought about playing the “we’re on our honeymoon and this is the only thing we came to Crete to see and we fly out tomorrow” card, but at this point the man with the funny hat was giving the same rebuttal without listening to further arguments. The decision was made. The people we watched purchase tickets and enter the ruins ahead of us would be the last admitted for the day. If they were given a concussion from flying debris, so be it, but the rest of us would not be given the opportunity. Our tourism dollars and Greece’s bankrupt economy be damned. I started to panic. I pulled away from the crowd to take stock of the situation. I ventured around the edge of the entrance, looking for some clue to gain admittance while the attendant with the funny hat was distracted by the throngs of visitors detailing how he had just ruined their day. There was a trickle of tourists walking out of a path off to the side. I gestured to Paige, and my bride and I slowly eased closer to the source. We moved stealthily, as to not alert anyone of our covert aims to solve this riddle of entering Knossos during monsoon season. We realized we had found the exit of the ruins, and it was completely unsupervised. I looked my wife in the eyes, seeing if she was following the same clues as I to solve how we would get inside. She responded with a single word. “Yup.” After double checking that the only visible employee was still occupied with mutinous tourists declaring their outrage over the injustice they had been given, Paige and I darted through the back gate. Our goal was to quickly embed ourselves deep enough into the ruins to appear we had always been there. It wasn’t difficult to do. Once we had made entry, the zigs of walkways and zags of corridors disguised any discernible path and made it simple to appear in the middle of a tour that had begun before the hurricane winds forced the closure of the ruin. We were inside the labyrinth. Now we just had to figure out where we were supposed to go. We paused to consider our surroundings. We were far from the only ones inside the ruins, but judging from my wife’s hair standing on end, we were certain the staff would soon be in the process of shutting down the attraction. I removed my hat and stuffed it into my back pocket so it wouldn’t blow off, allowing the gusts to blast my bangs into a cow lick. We spotted the man with the funny hat. He was slowly plodding down from his post at the entrance, having sealed it from additional money paying customers, and was starting the process of hurrying up the remaining guests as quickly as possible to the exit. Our afternoon had become a game of Pac-Man. As Paige inspected a placard with a map, I bent down to pick up a weird seed pod that had blown off a tree and a rock that had chipped off from a wall. I inspected them closely and placed my treasures in my pocket. Satisfied with her research, Paige told me to follow her, but we only took a few steps before I heard a scratchy voice behind me shouting in Greek. I ignored it. The yelling increased. As I looked around, I knew there was no one else these angry Greek commands could be meant for. S**t. It got us. Wincing from the wind blowing in my face, I turned to see a Greek woman. I mentally prepared to be escorted out of the ruins and charged with trespassing. I decided we could plead ignorance and avoid getting in trouble for breaking and entering, but for the second time in a five-minute span I felt my dreams of experiencing the stomping grounds of the Minotaur vanishing. She was furious, but I noticed that her pulsing Greek cursing was accentuated with aggressive hand gestures. She kept repeating the same phrase and pointing to the ground. She wasn’t acting like she wanted us to follow her, she just stayed in place, thrusting her index finger downward and spitting venom. Still unsure of what was happening, I got an idea. I slipped my hand into my pocket and dramatically removed the rock, placing it on the ground like an armed robber surrendering his firearm to a police officer with his gun drawn. As soon as the rock was back in the dirt, the angry Greek woman muttered something, turned her back, and walked toward the exit without indicating we were supposed to follow. I looked at Paige, shrugged, and turned the corner. Once I felt safely out of sight of any pursuers, I found two new rocks and put them in my pocket. Page and I pushed further in. We found the dolphin room that contained the shittiest looking dolphin pictures I’ve seen in a while, and the big painted columns next to a painting of kids jumping over a bull that shows up in all the tourism photos. You can only see the bull’s ass—the top half has been lost to history from grave robbers or assaults from the wind hurtling seed pods at it for a millennium. We followed a rope-railing to a lower section, but as we turned on to the stairwell our path was blocked by a sterned faced Greek man in a funny hat. F**k. I guess this was it. We slowed, attempting to blend with the other nearby tourists who have been granted legal access and actually paid for a ticket. But it was too late. The Greek man in the funny hat had me. “I’m sorry sir. But this part is unsafe because of the wind, I cannot allow you to go down these stairs. Please continue down the other path.” I assured him that was no problem. After all, safety first. We found an English-speaking tour group and used them as a disguise. The strength in numbers made it more difficult to be split off and eliminated by the museum staff. We kept within earshot of the tour leader—and even learned few fun facts about some peacock-looking things etched into the walls. As we left one of the bathhouses, I asked Paige what we had left to see. She flipped through a guidebook in her backpack with less urgency than before. We were getting lazy. And we paid the price. The man with the funny hat found us. “I’m sorry sir. But the palace is too dangerous because of the wind. We are asking everyone to leave for your own safety. Would you please follow me to the nearest exit?” We obeyed. He had us. Our time in the labyrinth was now over. “I am so sorry, can we give you a free ticket to come back tomorrow?” I stuck my hand in my pocket and fingered the rocks and seed pod—my trophies from a successful assault on the Minoan palace. “No thanks, I think we saw everything. Besides, tomorrow we’re leaving Crete.” This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.chrisbeaty.com [https://www.chrisbeaty.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1]

Letters to Haywood Fudd: Joy to the World

December 12th, 2024 Dear Mr. Beaty, Your dispatch and the delightful dispatches your children sent to Santa Claus warmed the heart of the aging King of the Literary Daredevils. Congratulations on your new typewriter! For your whatnot: some years ago I read that Ernest Hemingway banged away on his typewriter while standing up. You may find this scrap of information arresting and elect to follow Hemingway’s lead (or not). Some additional chapter and verse on typewriters: gangsters from the 1930s referred to Thompson submachine guns as “Chicago typewriters.” I concluded my first book “The Kansas City Massacre, Volume II, The Digital Edition” with that delicious scrap of evidence. My current world-record literary stunt is sending Mr. Gary Sadlemyer (the morning protagonist on KFAB1110 AM) a dispatch every Monday and Friday with ungovernable news from West-West Omaha. Tomorrow (Dec 13), dispatch #43 will be mailed. Two of my West-West Omaha dispatches are attached for your bulging consideration. Merry Christmas & Much Obliged, Haywood Fudd If you do this, I’ll never forget you. Unless of course I don’t know who you are or you unsubscribe later. It’s actually pretty easy to be forgotten. My kids must have trusted me that their Christmas lists were successfully posted to Saint Nick since they never challenged me on the topic, but for good measure, additional lists of demands were penned and placed beneath our synthetic Christmas tree. I tried finding a copy of The Kansas City Massacre, Volume II, The Digital Edition online, but without success. I had a feeling that comment was a gag, but then again, what if it wasn’t? What if this magical work about mobsters and machine guns in the central plains really was out there somewhere? Just waiting for me to find it, be educated on Midwestern crime syndicates, and learn fun facts about fully automatic weapons, as told by a man whose only aim is to bring happiness to those he crosses paths with? That, is something I want to believe in. And even though the only result the Google search on the topic yielded was a 1975 made-for-TV movie that Fudd undoubtedly had seen, I still choose to believe in this digital sequel, living in a far off-realm of the Internet, that seems attainable yet so distant. Tis the season to believe after all. Or at least it was when I got this letter. The letters to KFAB public radio host Gary Saddlemyer were different. I had no doubt Fudd actually wrote those, and sent them, twice a week, just as he said he did. He didn’t need to send me proof, but he did. Twice. Which according to his note, were the 42nd and 43rd letters he had sent Mr. Saddlemyer. I never listened to KFAB and never heard of this morning-talk-show-host, but another Google search suggested that he never made use of Fudd’s news from West-West Omaha. If you place “gary saddlemyer haywood fudd” together in a search engine, the query only retrieves a link to my own website—at least those are the only results that Google thinks I want to see. But Fudd seemed undeterred by this lack of acclaim or recognition. He kept at it, up until Saddlemyer announced his own retirement after a fifty-year career on morning radio. Fudd wrote him until August 4th, 2025. Another 58 letters in all after the two that he had sent me. Making exactly 100 total. I know this because in 2025, he sent a spiral-bound compilation of them all as my Christmas present. And as it turns out, Gary Saddlemyer wasn’t the only public figure Fudd had been writing twice a week, but more on that later. Exactly 100 letters more on that later. December 9th, 2024 Dear Mr. Saddlemyer, The latest news from West-West Omaha: * Nero Haberkorn, 65, of Avoca, Neb., testifies the first things he’s going to ask the supreme architect is why he allowed the NCAA to pass the name, image, and likeness hooey that’s going to massacre any hope of the Huskers to ever win the national championship. * Henrietta Cordell, 77, of Ulysses, Neb., wears an apron everywhere including to Sunday school, the five-and-dime, and the funeral parlor. * Klaus Forrester, 72, who roosts near Plum Creek off of County Road 23, which is a country mile north of Bee, Neb., trumpets he wouldn’t live in a big city for all the gold in Fort Knox but that he’d give his eyeteeth for an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet near his spread. * Jack Moon, 85, of David, Neb., smells old. Much obliged, Haywood Fudd December 13th, 2024 Dear Mr. Saddlemyer, The latest news from West-West Omaha: * Vernon Cripple, 61, of Staplehurst, Neb., is back to saving money to buy a used tank. “Owning a tank is my sole obsession. I can’t get owning a tank out of my system,” testified Vernon who certifies quality used tanks are divine investments. Vernon previously saved for a used tank in 2014, 2016, 2017, and 2021. * Mayme Dempsey, 81, of a Abie, Neb., says Omaha should give some strapping consideration to changing its name to Omaha-ha for what she certifies are “prima facie” reasons. Mayme remains a whale of a devotee of Johnny Paycheck who achieved country music repute with his ditties “Take This Job and Shove It” and “I’m the Only Hell (Mama Ever Raised).” * Justus Crawl, 55, of Dorchester, Neb., says it’s not the brutal winters that ruffle his tail feathers, but the number of drivers he encounters on the roads who drive as though they couldn’t hammer a railroad spike into a snowdrift. * Soothsayer Poe Dansk, 68, of Prague, and Neb., is predicting the world is going out of business next Tuesday between 3:00 and 4:00 PM, but no later than 5:20 PM CST. * Celeste “Lady Godiva” Feemer, 49, lives outside of Pickrell, Neb., on SW 2nd Road. Lady Godiva’s chock full of pizzazz, oomph, and all that jazz. On Flag Day last year, she blasted through Pickrell on her Harley and the only thing she was wearing was vintage motorcycle goggles. Much obliged, Haywood Fudd This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.chrisbeaty.com [https://www.chrisbeaty.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1]

Letters to Haywood Fudd: Letters to Santa

December 9th, 2024 Dear Mr. Fudd, If you notice a change in font from previous correspondences, it is due to the use of my Christmas present from my octogenarian distant relative who stumbled upon a beautiful Royal typewriter in pristine condition at a garage sale. At least that’s the story he gave me. Congratulations on the grandchild and the successful literary assault on the good people of Bliss, Idaho. I trust both events have resulted in unparalleled merry-making by all involved. I enjoyed your Christmas letter, but found the decapitated bull an all too familiar sight. My wife and I once watched the murder of 6 consecutive bulls at the conclusion of the festival of San Fermin in Pamplona, Spain. My favorite bull was named Gabriela, and the feminine name attributed to him seemed to have really upset the poor fellow. Being murdered didn’t help the situation. When the matador went for the kill shot with his sword, Gabriela thrust herself backward, snapped the sword in half, and charged his assailant. It didn’t end well for either. I’ve included my children’s letters to Santa since I seem to have misplaced Mr. Kringle’s address and I have some promises to keep regarding posting their annual list of demands. My middle child didn’t bother to write one. She’s kind of like that. In the name of merriment, C.S. Beaty If you subscribe, I’ll put in a good word with Santa. ••• Each time I wrote to Haywood, I added a little flair of my own. I inherited my dad’s stamp collection, which he kept for roughly three years during the mid-90s before losing interest in collecting postage. Not having any other use for the 32 to 34 cent Looney Tunes stamps, I started using them to send my wife postcards. I tried to match the postcard’s theme or location with an appropriate stamp from my dad’s collection, but I was never sure what to do with all the World War II or prominent physicist stamps my dad had assembled. Until I started writing frequent letters to Haywood Fudd. I found a hipster-stationary store and bought a variety of odd-sized and odd-colored hipster envelopes, but that still felt a bit underwhelming for the treatment Fudd deserved. So, I bought a hot wax seal with the letter “B,” and then a hot wax seal of a bat, and then had a custom hot wax seal of a jackalope made. We were getting there. But the real joy came from the bonus added content I shoved in each envelope. This same hipster-stationary shop sold collectible Barbie cards from the 1980s, so I selected a few of my favorites to send to Haywood. Which then led to me keeping every intriguing scrap of paper or other flat item that I could send in a letter. When my mom bought me a very Christian bookmark with some coffee/Bible verse pun, I sent it to Haywood. When I ordered a few jars of root beer-flavored mustard and they came with a “Mustard Gift Guide” from the “Mustard Hall of Fame,” I also mailed that to Haywood. And when I sent Haywood five identical stickers of the University of Nebraska-Omaha mascot Durango the bull, Fudd sent me back a bull sticker with his head chopped off. He did it very carefully. Early on, Fudd sent me two dollars in each of his letters, but once he learned of my devotion to this correspondence, he scaled back his budget. But on occasion he still burned holes in the paper with an open flame. When I started regularly writing, I compiled my typewritten unedited essays into a booklet for my family—these were the books I was having made when Mike the Printer first introduced me to Fudd. So when I repeated the task in 2024, I sent a volume to my new pen pal. And in return, Haywood sent me a compilation of his own complete collection of letters to the residents of Bliss, Idaho—gift wrapped and with a Christmas card. ••• Dear, Santa for Christmas I really want uggs, roller skites, Taylor Swift curtains, Taylor Swift bed sheets, and led light lights. Dear Santa I also have some questions. Why do your elfs come to our houses and move around the house. Why can’t we meet you. How do you feed all your elfs. Why are you friends with our parents. From, Manuela ••• Dear Santa, I want for my presents. I want guns but not hurting ones but ball ones. I want some legos big ones so I could build them with dad. I want ohh four more smart watches. What does that say? Ohh I want some hot wheel tracks, very big ones so I can play and not bored. OK.... Are you just copying what I’m saying? And I want some costumes. I want some Batman costumes and police officer costumes and Flash and Batman one again and utility belt and some presents. Do you make elves? If not, that’s going to be cool because elves are kind of weird because in my book it looks like they’re going to go into a bathtub and they’re not going into a bathtub. Kener Beaty This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.chrisbeaty.com [https://www.chrisbeaty.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1]