People often ask me how I craft my columns for The American Philatelist and other publications, as well as how I’m able to amass enough material to cover a broad range of subjects, yet delve deeply and specialized enough in each to provide insight or perspective. Good question.
Early in my writing career, I realized that unusual material of most any type is what interested me most. As I put odd pieces aside, I discovered that – eventually — similar items would usually turn up. By keeping these things in marked folders and storing them in file cabinets, I am able to accumulate related material until it reaches “critical mass,” at which time it’s “mature” enough to write about and provide fairly in-depth stories – or at least semi-cohesive/coherent narratives – on various odd aspects of philately.
In other cases, I’ve had items languishing in a drawer for many years, waiting for an opportunity to be written about. Once every year or two, I gather these somewhat disparate items together and present “Notes From the Bottom Drawer,” as I find these items very interesting, even if they don’t directly relate to other items in the same feature.
While this month’s contribution is somewhat along a theme, all items were pulled from different “someday” files, spurred by a gift I recently received from fellow dealer and APS member Scott Shaulis. I’ll get to that in a moment.
Although not exactly true philately or “postal history” (or not at all, by the strictest definition of the terms), historical content found in letters, postcards or postal cards is intimately related to those items we collect, and content has become increasingly popular and sought after in recent years. Significant historical content, once ignored by most stamp and cover collectors, is now popular. I’ve noted in this and other publications that the content and context of our postal artifacts are making appearances more regularly in the offerings of numerous philatelic writers. Many collectors respond positively to these historical nuggets. Thus, I believe it is safe to say this is now another well-accepted aspect of our hobby. Now, back to that gift.

Figure 1. The front and back of a Holiday Inn postcard, mailed from a father to his military son, from Titusville, Florida, just 38 minutes after watching the launch of Apollo 11.
Shown in Figure 1 (front and back) is the item from Shaulis I mentioned. It is a common chrome-era postcard – a generic Holiday Inn promotional postcard offered free in hotel lobbies across America. It is franked with a 10¢ Stars Runway airmail stamp (Scott C72), a common stamp and a common use. It also has the penned and double-underlined notation in the upper-left corner, reading “Save This.” Why?
This postcard (which Shaulis found in an accumulation) is notable because it is postmarked July 16, 1969, from Titusville, Florida, and contains a written and evocative snapshot of the liftoff of Apollo 11, on its way to the moon. But I’ll let “Dad” take over from here:
Dear Larry. Happy Birthday! This is best card we could find. It is 38 minutes since we saw the moon rocket take off! We were near this place since last evening. Man will walk the moon on your birthday – congratulations! …
Larry J. Plume, the recipient of the card, was then serving aboard the USS Ticonderoga (itself a historical vessel), which was on its way to Vietnam, where she participated in a number of air sorties against enemy targets. Commissioned in May 1944 (and having seen plenty of action in World War II), this was one of the Ticonderoga’s final deployments.
While there is much additional research that could be conducted regarding the sender, the recipient and more, this card’s brief message, dashed off from a motel, gives us a snapshot of the time: a son on his way to Vietnam, while his parents wait nervously (along with the rest of the country) for the eventual landing and man’s first steps on the moon.

Figure 2. A fairly common-looking cover from 1864 contains a letter that crystalizes a wife’s feelings about “Copperheads” and “Butternuts.”
Similarly, the cover shown in Figure 2 (along with a partial page of the letter) is not exactly a philatelic barn-burner. It is a manuscript-canceled 3¢ stamped envelope (on buff-colored paper), Scott U35, with a bit of wear and tear. Canceled November 30 (1864), from Martinsville, Illinois, as a cover it is not a hugely valuable item. But it contains a letter.
The four-page letter, written by a May A. Newman, speaks of some family matters and trivial day-to-day events, but takes on a darker, more sober tone when speaking of her husband.
… and James, poor fellow, I can not say how he is tonight, for he is far away in another land, he was drafted but did not expect to have to go but so many of the Copperheads ran off that he had to go in their place he has been gone two weeks to day, I do not know where he is for he did not know where he would go when he left Springfield, he was sick for more than a week before he left home … diseased or not they took him as he was, they asked a thousand dollars for a substitute … those that could not raise the amount had to go, Mr. Newman was the only Republican that was drafted in this township in the first draft. The Butternuts are making up money now and hiring substitutes for their drafted, but the Republicans do not do this, but enough of this. Suffice to say, that if Mr. Newman lives to com [sic] back and can find out what drafted rebble [sic] he had to go in the place of, that rebble will wish he had never been born.
In just a few lines to her mother, this anxious spouse captured the anger and frustration of Copperheads (also known as “Peace Democrats”) running off and avoiding the draft or deserting, as well as the Butternuts (mostly wealthy rural farmers, named for the color they dyed their clothing) who were able to pay for substitutes to serve in their stead when drafted, unfairly leaving men like Newman to fight. In this case, the Butternuts were paying substitutes – who were often Black people either fleeing slavery or trying to raise money for their families – fees of $1,000 each (about $16,500 in today’s money), roughly three times the average fee of $300 paid earlier in the war.
We don’t know whether James returned from the war or much else about his life, but this vivid snapshot helps bring some aspects of events of that time period into sharper focus.

Figure 3. This tired-looking 1940 cover bears a touching child’s letter of apology to a friend for having stolen $17.20 from his home.
But not all significant or evocative content deals with wars or other major historical events. Sometimes, what is captured on a card or in a letter can reveal a great deal of personal drama. Take, for example, the item shown in Figure 3 – a rather tired-looking cover mailed locally in Chicago, Illinois, on August 21, 1940 (as well as a partial page of the letter). The address, written in pencil, is obviously the handwriting of a child. Similarly, the letter itself was written by the same juvenile. We don’t know who the sender was, but was apparently a friend of the recipient, Robert Marzelker(?), who lived in a quiet neighborhood in North Chicago.
Without knowing anything else about the sender or the situation, this was, no doubt, a very difficult letter to write. Our sender had apparently been over at the recipient’s house to play (along with another buddy) and made a serious error of judgement:
Robert:
I am sending you $7.00 back because I didn’t need the money I got from your closset [sic] or bedroom – it was one of the worse things I think a guy can do. I’ll try and get the other guy that I was with to send his cut back to – and I hope you will forgive and forget.
$1.50 pennies
.70 Nick
15.00 bills
$17.20
7.00
10.20 Balance
I am sorry we went in your mothers bedroom but we didn’t take anything.
Don’t worry you’ll get the rest.
I wish I would have realized sooner.
This was not an insignificant theft; $17.40 in 1940 dollars had the approximate buying power of $343 today. So, unless he was caught by a parent, fessing up and writing this apology had to have been something akin to torture to a young boy.
Obviously, young Robert felt this well-worn letter was a significant enough item to hold on to and apparently read frequently. We can’t know how this story turned out, or whether this friendship survived the theft, but it does serve as a moving snapshot of a stressful time in a young child’s life in 1940.
Whether you are browsing a dealer’s cover stock or sorting covers in your own collection, it always pays to read the contents, if they are present. You never know what you will find.