A Wealthy People's History of the United States: Higgenbottom's Early Years

In honor of Howard Zinn who passed away today, we present again this excerpt from Drink At Work's satirical history series told from the vantage point of a Gilded Age plutocrat, "A Wealthy People's History of the United States." Generally speaking, we are all are deeply indebted to Mr. Zinn for humanizing history and providing the deeper connection of social justice throughout many eras. More specifically however, without Hoard Zinn's work, the story of Jonas Mayfew Higgenbottom could never have been told. For that...we thank you, sir.

More installments of this series will be forthcoming, but for those already posted, a quick google search including drinkatwork.com and "A Wealthy People's History" should turn all of them up. Good hunting.



THE YEARS ASCENDANT


Many letters written from Jonas to his parents and friends exist, but the most rife with insight into his personality are surely those that came during his formative years at the boarding school, St. Giles School For Male Youth, located in the brutal pastoral country of New Rotterdam, New Hampshire. The school is, incidentally, still standing and continues to produce a startlingly high percentage of our nation’s leaders, including the last 15 presidents, over 2/3rds of the current sitting Senate, and nine of nine of our Supreme Court Justices. Below is a small sampling of these letters, transcribed from Jonas’ handwritten journals. He once remarked sadly that he felt as if he were “born with the wits of an adult but the body of a small adult, or an infant if you will.” Truer words have never been spoken. We are positive that his keen intellect will become, after reading these treasured letters, immediately apparent to anyone who is not stupid.
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A LETTER FROM JONAS TO HIS MOTHER,
ERNESTINE RAY HIGGENBOTTOM

Dearest Mother,

I trust this note finds you in good health. I suggest you take a moment to top off your nightly dram of gin, as I have most ominous news to relate.

You may recall, fourteen letters ago, in footnote twelve, that I was beginning to suspect that I might indeed have a nemesis, as all Great Men do in the course of their lives. And you may recall, seven letters ago, in chapter two, that I was certain I would be named the youngest-ever Captain of the Saint Giles varsity crew. Well, Mother, I was wrong on both counts.

Firstly, with regard to the crew. While dominating the earliest regattas of the fall and earning the accolades of all present, I was stricken with a sudden and unexpected emptiness after vanquishing the St. George's squad. It is an emptiness unlike any I have ever encountered, and I think it fit to capitalize the "E" henceforth. Please permit me at least this amount of poetry.




I digress. As I was saying, at the finish of the singles "sculling," my chums held me high - with no shortage of "huzzahs" and "whoops" and "hollers," I might add - but while my body strode Heaven-ward, no amount of lifting could raise my soul. The Emptiness in my heart was simply un-bearable, and I quit the crew mid-way through the 8-man race that closed the day, rolling sideways into the Charles River at the turn and remaining submerged for ten minutes, alone with my thoughts and very pleased I had taken up holding my breath as an occasional pass-time two summers ago in Nanutcket.

As for the issue of my nemesis, my error was one of magnitude - as I learned that I am not to be blessed with a single nemesis - no, Mother, I found that I am surrounded by nemeses! Seven to be exact! Silly boys with little understanding of the value of Practical Arts and Honest Living. It would be sufficiently galling if these children - and, oh, they are children indeed - simply idled away their time rolling hoops and roughhousing on the fine New Hampshire grass, leaving a young man such as I to his own dark musings. Nay! These children cannot leave well enough alone! I will spare you the details of their hazings, but do thank Wilhouse, our trusty butler, for schooling me well in the un-tying of knots and the picking of even the most complex locks, despite your sternest protests!

Mother, please accept my apologies, as I am growing weary and this is not likely to be another ten thousand word missive, as is generally my custom. The Emptiness is weighing my pen down most heavily tonight, so I shall simply bid you adieu.

Stay strong, Mother. I hope this letter did not trouble you greatly. Remember, the mass of men are weak, but I trust that we shall prevail, in whatever endeavour we choose for me.

Fondly,
JH