The memoirs of Will H. Hays (1955)

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IN THE FULLNESS OF TIME 581 in day-to-day associations, Herbert Hoover's friendship, counsel, and understanding have been something beyond words to describe. As to his great seventy-fifth birthday party, it made on all of us a deep impression. This long story must be brought to a close in the spot where it opened —in my home town of Sullivan, in the southwest corner of Indiana, in the Wabash River valley. First and last, I have taken a lot of joshing about things back home in Indiana— including my story of catfish. I had told Terry Ramsaye about a time when two catfish, weighing respectively 90 and 1 1 o pounds, were caught at the same time on the same trotline. I also told him that this unprecedented event was a fine thing for the law firm of Hays & Hays, for Father was in the boat with the Wabash River fishermen when the line was taken up and was able to substantiate the authenticity of the miracle. Nothing ever excelled for local publicity the attention the name of Hays received that time in our region! Commenting humorously on my story in the columns of the Motion Picture Herald, Terry wrote: "The pursuit of the catfish is the perfect pastime of the philosopher. One drops the bait to the bottom and awaits results. They may be had immediately— or never. There is no hurry/' Well, I don't know whether I learned that lesson from catfishing, but there have been plenty of times in politics and in the motion picture cavalcade when I had to wait years for something to come about. But it didn't just happen; I was doing my best to help it along. From generation to generation our country, and the families in it, daily weave the fabric of history, whether we sense it or not. Every family is a thread woven into the fabric. For more than three quarters of a century the office of Hays and Hays has been known in Sullivan. Just as I was taken into partnership with my father, so my son joined me— and my nephew joined his father. But Bill, Jr., developed an even stronger urge to write. Following one of my other paths, he went to Hollywood and co-operated with the late Lamar Trotti on some of the latter's last productions. And then came the event toward which every writer works— the acceptance of his first book. Many a time during the writing we had talked about it. The setting is our own Indiana— but the story is Bill's. It would be a strange father who would not feel justified happiness and pride. And so I say— God bless the next generation, and the next, and the next. May they have more wisdom and a deeper understanding of the world than we have been able to develop. I hope they may learn something from what we have done. And I hope that the faith of the fathers, woven into the life of our America, may guide them.