True Talks by the Town Truth Teller

From July 18 to September 12, 1919, the Cuba City News-Herald ran a segment called "Truthful Tales for the General Good: True Talks by the Town Truth Teller." Each week, the author brought to light one thing that irritated him about Cuba City.

The column provides an invaluable snapshot of daily life in Cuba City one hundred years ago, giving us details on everything from street and sidewalk conditions to the sounds and smells of the stock yards.  No one was safe from the scrutiny of the Town Truth Teller (T. T. T.) and no doubt, readers were eager to see what next week's column would bring.

Below is an image from the first of the series of "truthful tales" and the text for all of the columns follows.


Can you figure out any sensible excuse for hanging an awning so that its iron rod supports are just at the right height to knock off the hat of an ordinary sized individual and to swat the face of a full-grown mortal, unless he salams and bends himself into an inverted capital "J" when passing under them. Such nuisances are overly plentiful in front of Cuba City's Main street shops and business places. By installing the awning's support arms a few inches higher, on the building, or else not allowing them to be lowered to their full extent over the sidewalk, this troublesome element to the pedestrian's peace of mind can be readily done away with. Possibly this is a case of "stand-in" with our hat merchants, as many a smashed "lid" has had to be replaced by a new one. But, if it is allowed to continue, a race of hunch-backs is liable to result. T. T. T.


Is Cuba City's money chest so filled to overflowing with shining shekels that our village daddies are courting a few severe injury cases, which will demand heavy damage payments, and cause the village treasurer to shovel out those shekels until the chest no longer bulges but affords an abundance of room for increased tax assessments? From the seeming total indifference manifested, this would appear to be the situation. Take a look at the condition of Main street, just north of the railway tracks, in front of the Northwestern hotel, as an example. A man-hole, as large as a full-grown wash tub, was cut through the street pavement, some two years ago, to permit of necessary repair to the water main. Last fall this huge slab of concrete paving was again lifted, further repair work done, and the slab carelessly thrown back into the opening and permitted to take care of itself. It is still doing that, by bobbing and wabbling about at an angle of anywhere from 15 to 45 degrees every time an automobile or other vehicle passes over it. Passengers are unmercifully bumped and machines are terrifically thumped. That wrecked machines have not resulted, before now, is a wonder. At an insignificant cost the danger spot could be removed, and with it would go the possibility of personal injury and property damage cases. And when our daddies get themselves into a "mending mood" let them look to the numerous patches of defective cement walk about town. Not only do these broken up walks become puddles and ponds in rainy weather; they are a menace to life and limb at all times--particularly on dark nights. Prevent damage suits, painful injuries and a congestion of cuss words by a complete job of repair work.

***Since the above was written and placed in type, Busy Barney, our worthy marshal, put in an industrious twenty minutes and repaired the woefully wicked hole in the pavement near the Northwestern hotel. Now, having given a practical illustration of what CAN be done, let the work continue on broken and uneven sidewalks. In other words, "Keep a mov'in." T. T. T.

LET THE BAND PLAY (August 1, 1919)

"I say, friend, what's become of your Cuba City Military Band, which I used to listen to with so much pleasure?" 'Twas a Chicago traveling man "homing" at the Northwestern hotel, who made the inquiry. Continuing, he said: "Three years ago now I made every possible effort, when on my frequent trips to this region, to reach Cuba City on Saturday, so as to enjoy your band's street concert, which was a regular Saturday evening event. It doesn't come off any more. What's the trouble?"

And that traveling man's query, together with the real interest he manifested, set me to thinking, good and hard. Here was a comparative stranger who went out of his way to "make" Cuba City and stay over here that he might enjoy our cornet band's Saturday evening concert. And not a living mortal in the village had I heard say a word about it. Suspension of these weekly concerts last summer was taken as a matter-of-fact necessity, as the war's draft had depleted the band's membership to a mere shadow. But now conditions are different; the boys are home; they are "fitter than fit," and Saturday evening recreational features in Cuba City are practically nil. Our visitors, from country, and town, enjoy music; our home people crave it; in a sense it is the band's duty to furnish it. But right here another duty pops up. While it is the band's duty to play, it is the public's duty to pay. To keep up their instruments, their uniforms, and devote the necessary time to tedious practice costs the band boys money; they should be remunerated, in a small way at least, by the profiting public. I see it is the village council's duty to make a modest appropriation from the village treasury, to insure the good, old-time, weekly concerts. Other towns, much smaller and poorer than we, are doing it, so why not we? Get busy, you village daddies. LET THE BAND PLAY!  T. T. T.


An exhaust is essential to any engine, be the power generated through steam, air, gasoline, or what not. To run an automobile there must be an engine, and that engine has an exhaust. The automobile also has an alarm horn. Is there any excuse for a driver to keep his alarm horn squawking continually? Not a bit. Neither does he do it. But how about some drivers and that exhaust? Does he leave it wide open, allowing it to crack; bang!! whang!! in a deafening manner, as he gives his machine the gas and goes tearing madly over the streets at a pace which would not be tolerated in any city which doesn't possess the prefix Cuba. "He most surely do!" And the worst of it is there seems to be nobody to say him nay. Yes, I am told there is a village ordinance prohibiting this. I am also told that the village marshal is supposed to see that village laws are obeyed. If this head-splitting, nerve-crushing violation of village law was only occasionally put over, we would cheerfully plug our ears with finger or cotton and try to forget it. But it has become a sort of continuous performance stunt. The "kid driver" seems to take a special delight in making this infernal racket, and many older operators of the auto wheel are close seconds to him. Put a stop to it. And don't fail to include the motor truck driver and the motor cyclist as the biggest nuisances of ''em all. They usuallly take a half hour to "warm up," and while doing it Benton, Georgetown, Elmo, Elk Grove, Leadmine, and hazel Green residents are aroused to a high state of alarm, under the impression that Cuba City is operating a dozen batteries of machine guns and 45s in repelling a Hun or some other attack. Steer a few of these flagrant violators of village law and demoralization of the public's peace of mind to the "business office" of Justice Andrew and let him instruct them in the real and intended purposes of the muffler and cut-out. The tuition fee for first termers need not necessarily be exhorbitant.  T. T. T.


Thanks to nature's order of things, Cuba City is being blessed by a brief respite from her chief nuisance. Just now the meek little bossy calf is busy growing towards cowdom; pretty piggy is fattening himself for the slaughter time, and the bovine family is mooing in peace and contentment under a shady tree in the green pastures. But, ere long, the great change will come again. Bossie calf, piggie wiggie, and the whole cow family will again be started on their annual pilgrimage to the stock yards. Those stock pens! Ye gods! Must we long endure the bellowings, the squealings, the bleatings and the conglomerate wad of stenches which the stock yards seem to glory in throwing in our faces, our eyes, our ears and our nostrils during the fall, winter and spring of each and every year? Stock yards are essential to the progress of every up-to-date town. But they should be located in a proper place. Cuba City's might as well be located in the village park as where they are. In fact, they would give offense to fewer people were they transferred to the park. There is no need of their being so located as to become a nuisance to anyone. They belong outside the village boundary, and a campaign towards accomplishing their removal should be started now. There are any number of convenient and proper places for these yards--at the St. Rose side track, just north of the village boundary, for example. Don't hesitate in the inauguration of a removal campaign through fear of "going against" a railway corporation. Railways can be forced to abolish a nuisance the same as any individual. They have been "induced" to remove their infernal stock yards outside of many villages; why not out of Cuba City? No, don't set 'em on fire; 'twould be a pity to waste fire in consuming such a mass of rotten lumber and rickety sheds. Yet,--well, let's get 'em located farther north. They would be just as handy for everybody using them, and a heap more agreeable to Cuba City's entire population.  T. T. T.


Every village, town, hamlet and neighborhood on earth probably ever has had and ever will have its chronic gossiper. But woe be to the locality which is surfeited with this breed of stench-brewing, trouble-making, evil-spreading, illicit, lying mortal. It's a good wager of a Spring bonnet against a discarded sardine can, that Cuba City is infested with more of these pests, to the square rod, than any other place this side of Jericho. An epidemic of "gossip grippe" appears to have settled down upon our fair village, and its ravages have become more severe than the "flu" ever dared to be. While this "gossip germ" has worked its way into the system of many male inhabitants, woman seems to have been its favored mark for "full nine-hour day and unlimited overtime" operations. And when this germ once anchors itself in the roots of a woman's tongue--ye gods! is there anything more despicable, disgusting, dangerous or damnable? She misses meals, shirks work, and forgets sleep, that she may gather minute crumbs of fancy, fiction and frail faults, to mix with feelings of fury, falsity and fiendishness into a gob of gossip and then scatter little wads of it in every direction, as fast as she can run about and find ears into which these wads can be pushed. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred she knows that she is a loose-lipped liar; that she is crushing the character of some innocent person; that irrepairable [sic] injury is being done, totally undeserved, to those who have been her friends and benefactors. But what cares she for all this? Nothing. She is satisfying her devilish disposition to gather and give gossip, her craving for which is fully as intense as is that of the morphine cocaine or alcoholic victim for his particular narotic [sic]. Unfortunates of the latter class are "gotten after" by national, state and municipal laws. Yet none of them do one-tenth to their fellow man that the gibbering gossips do, and for whose hellish doings there is no law for restraint. Therefore, there is but one logical remedy--get the gun! If, perchance, this remedy be though too severe, that its application would leave behind too many motherless children and relieved widowers, the old-time ducking stool might be revived and put into operation. If so, I'm a candidate for Deputy Ducker. And should the offender chance to be of the masculine gender, let his punishment be the branding-iron--a big G (for gossip) full length of his forehead. Thus labeled, decent people could see him coming, get out of his way, and avoid contact with his contaminating tongue. For his case I aspire to be Boss Brander. In the meantime, just one word (in strict secrecy) to the Gabbling Gossips--SHAME!  T. T. T.


Right now every tree in the village, if it is to be preserved as a thing of beauty instead of a thing of ugliness and a nuisance to the public, should be given a thorough pruning and "dressing up" for the coming stormy season. Nothing adds more to the beauty and attractiveness of a town than do strong, healthy, well-cared-for trees. But if they are not given proper attention, they bring down stinging anathemas upon the place. Low-hanging branches over sidewalks are just about as complete a nuisance as can be imagined--particularly in rainy and stormy times. What makes a woman give an uglier look , or a man give expression to unprintable words which come when he is thoroughly angry, than we all give when swatted in the face by a rain-soaked, swaying branch, when hurrying home after a hard day's work or rushing to meet a past-due appointment? It is upon such occasions that the property owner, the tenant, the town and everything in general gets a "cussing" which would make a member of Capt. Kidd's piratical crew prick up his ears and listen. And can man or woman be blamed for so doing, as a stream of water goes trickling down his or her back and garments are drenched to the point of ruin? Hats and bonnets are knocked off and ladies' finery is suddenly put into a humiliating condition. All these aggravating and disagreeable experiences can be easily avoided if people will but trim their trees bordering sidewalks. The man who neglects to do this, either through carelessness, cussedness, or willful stubbornness, is not worthy of recognition as a model citizen. Thank goodness we have a few who are possessed of public spirit and neighborly consideration to an extent which prompts them to attend to this. Unfortunately there are others (by far too many) who must be clubbed into doing this duty of humanity if it is done at all. So, why not begin clubbing operations, right now? Public peace of mind as well as the village's good name, demands it. Trim the trees.  T. T. T.


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