Jim
Hogg told various stories about why he named his only daughter “Ima.” He, like
she, had to live with the endless jokes. Jim Hogg made fun of himself, too, and
his sense of humor was one reason Ima adored him. He was a complex man who
could be crude and earthy in the backwoods of East Texas, and genial and
polished in the Waldorf Astoria’s “Peacock Alley.”
He
could take time from his busy law practice and oil speculations to compose a
letter to a little boy who wrote to him asking for a goat. Of all the hundreds
of Hogg letters, this is one of my favorites:
My Dear Little Friend:
Out of the thousands of
calls on me for contributions, presents and assistance I find none so unique,
terse and boy-like as yours; which simply asks me to send you a goat. I wish I
had one here now to express to you, but I have none. Down on my plantation,
several hundred miles from this place, I have some goats and I will describe
them to you. There are big goats, and little goats, he goats, and she goats,
white goats, black goats, red goats, blue goats, grey goats, yellow goats,
speckled goats, long-horned goats, Angora goats, Spanish goats, fine goats,
common goats, all kinds, classes and colors of goats, and each and every one of
them is a book-eating, tree-skinning, briar-cleaning, snake-stamping, bucking
goat, used for the purposes of clearing up the woods, brambles and thickets
around the premises. Now, the first time you hear that I am in Houston, I want you and your brother to call on
me at the Rice Hotel, so that you can explain to me whether or not one of these
malicious goats which you call for would get your father into trouble with his
neighbor. I warrant you are a nice boy, and I hope to make your acquaintance.
With sincere regards I am,
Your
Friend,
J. S. Hogg
No
wonder Ima Hogg wanted this man’s letters preserved for posterity.
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