By: Quinn Mulcahy, SFU Student and Mason Mattu, Humour Editor
I never knew that the SFU archives was actually a giant room with everything about the school ever. I thought it was just a bland hallway with some memories of the school’s past. So I ventured down there one day when I had nothing else to do. I ended up stumbling across someone’s history project from 1992 on a bunch of letters from the 1800s. The report detailed Johnestenshire and Mary, a married couple on a Pitt Meadows farm. I didn’t quite understand why the archives were keeping them nor what was so important about them. But I thought I’d share them for the kick I got out of them.
October 1, 1889
The Daisy Ranch
Dear Johnestenshire,
You woeful rodent. As I pen this letter, I can hear the sobs of Daisy, your sweet baby girl. How dare you leave me all on my lonesome with an infant? Her “moo’s” awaken me in the middle of the night because the bagpiped lullabies crafted by her dearest papa aren’t there to comfort her any longer. I admittedly do not yearn for your music as much as she — but alas, there is one thing which we both yearn for.
The butter churner.
Daisy’s udders have reached a particular zenith. A zenith at which you couldn’t have enough biscuits to accompany her milk. How dare you leave us like this?
Sometimes I wish you were still here to retire with me to the parlor and enjoy our fresh butter on sliced bread. Ah, sliced bread. Such a novel invention that brings joy to my heart. Other times, I wish you brought a pie to your face for hurtin’ me so badly. Which would require you to visit the Smiths . . . our rival farm . . . nevermind. I had told you that we needed to increase our berry yields.
I implore you to bring back what ‘twas mine. Or else I’ll send papaw out hunting for you.
With desperation,
Your not so dear Mary anymore
December 20, 1889
Somewhere aboard a random train
Dear Mary,
I regret to inform you that I am currently on a train towards Stoney Creek and am in no position to return our butter churner. Bellingham and I journey forward to begin our dream enterprise of cowboy hats with hair woven into them for those gentlepersons who lack hair (as these gentlepeople still wish to feel artificial locks breeze in the wind as they gallop upon their horse . . . as if these locks were indeed their own).
Your assessment of the situation is a gross over-simplification of the matters at hand. As you know, I require the butter churner to gain the monetary means to purchase hair from the shaving saloon. Since I was nothing but a wee lad, I have dreamed of giving the power of hair follicles back to the heads of the masses. Granddaddy shaved his head because he believed he could tell fortunes in the shine, and then meemaw left him because the only fortune he had left were his golden locks. Please don’t make this all about yourself now.
Pray for a little sunshine in your soul, and perhaps I’ll think about buying you a gently-used churner. For you are not a gentlelady. And those who are not gentleladies do not deserve to retire to the parlour and enjoy fresh butter.
With disgust,
Johnestenshire
February 1, 1890
The Daisy Estate
Dear Johnestenshire,
You hornswoggling maggot. I wish I knew how much of a conniving man you were on our wedding day. My friend Beatrice tells me her husband saw you playing poker at the Rooney Rooster Pub only a day ago. A pub that is a whole FIVE MINUTES from our ranch. Your business is a sham just like the last one (you know, the one where you thought you could trade wood with the beavers to become their official dam builder).
In fact, Patricia Malcom told me that you are churning butter for eligible maidens? How dare you. You no good charlatan — RETURN THE BUTTER CHURNER!
Sincerely,
Mary
P.S.: If you don’t, I’ll call upon pawpaw to come and shave your hair off amidst your slumber. Toodle-oo.
April 25, 1890
5 minutes away from the ranch
Dear Mary,
I hope this letter reaches you fast enough you haven’t sent your father yet. Anything but my locks. I will be on the way with the butter churner soon. In fact, you will probably see me before you receive this letter.
Tell Daisy I’m sorry.
Yours truly,
Johnestenshire
