Diary of Two Motorcycle Hobos #essentialsofrec #recovery #aa #lois #

By Lois Wilson

PART I

New Poughkeepsie, N.Y.

Thurs., April 16, 1925

It is cold in April riding a motorcycle without a windshield, but breathing in the ozone as we whiz along is most invigorating! When sitting on the driver's seat and turning on the gas I feel as if the whole world were mine. The sense of power, somehow not the machine's but mine, is tremendous.

We are off at last, and such a time as we had hitching and tying all our bundles on the motorcycle, before leaving Brooklyn this morning! The passers‑by must have thought we were bound for the Arctic with presents for all the Eskimos. In the bow, on the rear of the sidecar, behind the driver, or in between, we finally found niches for everything that we could possibly need during the year--books and radio, gasoline stove and basket of provisions, seven army blankets and a mattress, a small trunk full of clothes, a tent and many odds and ends, including ourselves under several layers of underwear and as many strata of sweaters.

Our friends and relatives bid us goodbye as if in truth we were headed for the Arctic, for most of them considered it just as wild and crazy an undertaking. No doubt they are right for we both tossed up good jobs and have but slim funds for a long trip, planning to stop and earn more as soon as we run out.

He has a definite plan to make the trip useful in a business way, and has taken along to study four huge Moody's Manuals on industry, each as large as an unabridged Webster. Crazy or not, it is fun to have the open road and unknown adventures ahead!

When it began to rain soon after leaving Brooklyn, we did not mind too much, for both of us wore home‑made waterproof zippered coveralls that keep out wind and wet, and every box and bundle has its waterproof cover, laboriously home‑made out of army shelter‑halves.

The preparation for this trip has taken some time. A mattress filled with kapok is warm and soft and yet so light it can be rolled into a small bundle. Seven army blankets sewn together on three sides make a fine sleeping‑bag, better than the store ones for we can choose the proper layer according to the weather, under one on warm nights and four or five on cold ones, and each morning they can be turned inside out to air and rotate their use. A toilet article kit made out of black oilcloth, lined with rubber and bound with gray tape, looks quite stylish and has plenty of room for pajamas and towel besides the toilet articles. Our food is all in waterproof oiled silk bags which occupy very little space. It would seem we are well prepared for rain or cold.

About fifty miles from home the trunk began to rattle and bounce, so we hunted up a blacksmith and had him install an iron brace extending forward from the trunk rack to the back of the driver's seat and on to this brace the trunk was belted. We hope it will turn out to be as satisfactory as now it appears to be.

This took time and together with a late morning start it was nearly dark when we reached Poughkeepsie. Luckily we found a splendid spot for our first camp, a glade in the woods beside a brook and quite sheltered from the wind. Violets, both yellow and blue ones, spatter the grass in front of the tent and bloodroots whiten the hillside.

After studying the whims of our new gasoline stove, lighting it many times only to have it blown out by the wind again and again, we finally caught the knack and ate supper in front of a roaring fire. We could hardly wait till dark to try out the electric light in the tent which Bill hooked up to the motorcycle battery. So right after supper we crawled under the blankets to read for several hours while listening to the radio, a superheterodyne which Bill had made himself. Such comfort and luxury for motorcycle hobos!



"The Camp," Lake Emerald, North Dorset, Vt.

Friday, April 17, 1925

This morning early we took baths in the brook while the sun was drawing the frost from the ground and making a great steam about it in the tree tops. The spot was so lovely that we dawdled with our breakfast and packing, which delayed us of course in starting.

Near Kinderhook, N.Y., as we were readjusting our luggage, a large touring car stopped beside us. We thought it was out of gas, but the sober one of the two occupants got out and found the tank nearly full. Then pulling up the hood, he gazed vacantly inside. Apparently neither he nor the other, who was giving varied and fanciful directions from the dark recesses of the car, knew a thing about engines in general nor this one in particular, so he called on Bill to help.

However, my husband also knows little about a car but, being electrically minded, sought the trouble in the parts he knew best. After a few peers and pokes he called for the radio earphones and then for the radio itself, and, like a doctor with his stethoscope, he sounded the lungs of the patient. By attaching a wire from one of the radio B. batteries to the engine he discovered something wrong with the timer. Thus scientifically verifying the practically proven fact that the car could not run, Bill decided to t[ake] it to a garage, although it was heavy, being loaded with several cases of something that had played its part in unsobering the unsober one. Bill, proud of his Harley‑Davidson, thinks it can do anything. So he hitched the two machines together with a rope and our good little one, heavily loaded herself, valiantly towed the big sick one three miles to a car hospital. But the ordeal was too much for our cycle. When we tried to start her she would not budge. The strain had apparently burnt out her clutch.

We were pretty discouraged, but Bill endeavored to fix her. The other machine was soon cured, the sober occupant insisted upon giving Bill $5 for his trouble and the injury to the motorcycle. Bill would not have taken the money if he had not felt that the poor buzz‑wagon was badly hurt. Fortunately, however, after Bill had tightened a few screws, the clutch worked as well as ever. Overheated, it had only been paralyzed for a while.

So once more we started on our journey. Upon reaching Troy we bought some provisions, including half a dozen eggs, which we put in a canvas washbasin in the bow of the sidecar where it would not matter if they broke. After driving sixty miles to North Dorset, Vermont, in order to get around Emerald Lake we had to cross railroad tracks, the planks between which had been taken up, so we bumped over in great shape. We could hardly believe our eyes when we found not one egg even cracked. No wonder we are proud of our pop‑cycle.

We have just scrambled and eaten the six eggs, after pitching our tent beside the lake, as it was too late to get from Charley, the local handy‑man, the key to "The Camp," Mother and Dad's bungalow.



"The Camp"

Sat., Apr. 18, 1925

In spite of the beautiful stars last night we awoke this morning in six inches of snow. Gritting our teeth, we ran down to the lake for a most refreshing and invigorating plunge, the water being warmer than the air. We did not loiter, however, but hurried back to the warm tent heated by our gasoline stove, where, after a good rubbing down, we tingled and glowed all over.

Having gotten the keys to The Camp we are making ourselves completely at home. We plan to stay a week or so to fix up some of Bill's grandfather's affairs in East Dorset. He died last summer and his estate has a number of loose ends to be found and tied together.



The Camp

Mon., May 25, 1925

Two tragedies occurred in the insect and bird life today. For years I have wondered what funny little bugs come from the ugly brown beetle shells seen in the spring near the water's edge, and today I found out-‑to my surprise-‑a glistening, iridescent green dragonfly? Fascinated, I watched the metamorphosis.

This morning on a rock near the water I noticed a clumsy insect body, with wings tightly furled, protruding from one of these shells. Its six legs were all out and I could see just where they and the folded wings had fitted into their housing. Placing it on a chair on the porch I watched it emerge. Slowly drawing its rather chunky body free of the casing, it began to teeter and seesaw and to my astonishment, its body lengthened and grew thinner until it was twice as long as the shell it discarded. At last, appearing satisfied with its slender green length it began to unfurl its wings, which were crumpled, webby and opaque. But as they unfolded they became smooth, iridescent and transparent; then before my eyes the dragonfly lifted high four perfect, glistening new wings. They took my breath away they were so beautiful-‑so bright, shiny and shimmery. Fluttering them a few times it flew several feet to the porch railing, where it posed a moment to catch its breath before plunging into the big world. Alas, it soared only a few yards before a phoebe bird darted down and gobbled it up! I sat down and cried. It had been so fresh, young and new!

Later this afternoon one of the babies of the same phoebe bird fell out of the nest and was killed instantly.




The Camp

Sun., June 7, 1925

I have hunted and hunted during the past week hoping to find a beetle shell with the creature still inside. The nymphs must live in the water for the discarded cases are mostly close to the bank, although a few apparently crawl inland several yards. There are many empty husks, one or two with the dragonfly nearly out, but none with the complete beastie within. I did so want to observe the entire drama, to watch an earthy grub crack through its cage and emerge‑transformed.

We stay on and on, still trying to find and tie those loose ends. Although we are working hard and things have not turned out as we planned, we are enjoying our sojourn. The country never smelt so sweet, it seems, as it does this year since the apple blossoms first budded.

Everybody in the neighborhood is catching the biggest and fattest trout, that is, everyone but Bill and me, though we have often tried. Bill, however, is improving, for in the Battenkill yesterday, he caught a mess of four whappers, from about 5:30 A.M. till 1:00 P.M., saying he did not dare come home again empty‑handed.

Hoping for continued luck, after supper last evening Bill and I drove to the Battenkill and, as usual upon leaving the machine, locked it. Returning later with three nice trout, we discovered we had put on the wrong lock to which we had no key. Perhaps it would be a long drawn out chore to remove the lock and better be left until daylight, so we departed to Grampa's near‑by empty house to spend the night, and hopefully, in the morning, to enjoy a tasty trout breakfast.

The whims of fate are often trying! In the morning there were no three nice trout, not even one! A neighbor's cat had had a piscatorial treat instead of ourselves. Luckily someone had left a sample of wheatina at the door, which with milk from the creamery, made a passable breakfast after all. And to think, in two minutes, the garage man knocked off the lock with a hammer.



The Camp

Mon., June 15, 1925

The weather was perfect this morning, crispy clear with creamy clouds casting interesting shadows on the mountains. The sun was hot but the breeze fresh and cool, blowing away the mosquitoes and gnats, which, by the way, have been terrible this year. But this afternoon in our pasture, brimming with strawberries, as soon as I started to pick them, it began to thunder, the sky grew black and the breeze died down, just the opportunity the gnats and skeets had been looking for. Even when it started to rain my companions were not deterred‑and I suffered the tort[ ] of Tantalus. A harder job I never had than to keep to my silly resolution to pick every berry in a certain luscious spot. I did it, however, and with a full quart and a half in my pail, ran for home and into the pond.

The frustrating gnats are so small they can hardly be seen and are never heard. They get inside your clothes and into your hair. They sting your eyes and lips and ears. Not one inch of your body is safe from them. Mosquitoes are far better sports, announcing their approach and challenging you to catch them before they catch you. But enough of such an irritating topic!

We had a funny lunch today, or rather, as it was nearly three o'clock, high tea without the tea (Aunt Emma used to read to us about high tea in her old English story books)-‑ice cold coffeemilk, strawberries, crackers and penuche. Too hungry to wait for the latter to harden, we spread it on our crackers‑-odd but good.



The Camp

Mon., July 13, 1925

There had been so much rain lately that our brook gushes and foams down the mountain into the lake just as it does after the melting of the snow. I have been using one of its shallow pools as an icebox and one morning when I went out to get food the cupboard was bare. After some hunting I found the butter and bacon way down under the bridge, but a whole quart of milk had disappeared entirely‑-swept out to sea, no doubt.

Recently while picking raspberries in the pasture I heard a peculiar snort and turning just in time, saw three deer waving their white tails high in the air as they leaped over the fence and bounded out of sight. Also thrilled by discovering two pink lady‑slippers, I transplanted them in front of the house for Mother.

Bill and I are having great adventures with the East Dorset Water Works which Bill's grandfather had owned. When he died, maps of connections and shutoffs from the main pipes running down the town's two streets could not be found. So Bill with Charley's help has dug and dug until every shutoff is located, repaired or its good condition verified.

We had to be sure at night that lanterns were lit near the holes dug in the roads. One night it was already dark when I placed the lanterns and not being very familiar with the locations, I walked straight into a hole and down, just as neat as could be, landing on my feet. However, I did not make such a neat job of climbing out, for the top of the hole was above my head and the sides steep and slippery.

Another night we were in bed when Bill began to wonder and worry about those lanterns, afraid that Charley, who was supposed to attend to them, had forgotten and that somebody would fall and hurt themselves. So up we got, throwing on coats over our pajamas, and down to East Dorset we steamed. Luckily the lanterns were in place, thus easing Bill's mind. Back in bed, this time we slept.

Until today when I came across an old white cloth window shade in Grampa's attic, I had been unable to find anything suitable on which to make a map of the water works. The material, length and width of the shade are just the ticket. Careful measurements have been taken and the location of every connection, every house and almost every tree in town, sketched in. From now on we will know where the shutoffs are alright, alright.

Today Mr. Shaw's cook, a singularly thin and angular woman, stopped on the path around the lake, and gazing up at the bungalow with her arms akimbo, asked, "Where does Mr. Shaw's Dr. Burnham live?" (Answer: "here.") "If this is not the Big House can I go to see hit?" (Answer: "yes.") Returning, she observed, "My God, what a 'ouse; my God, what a rookery! Mr. Shaw, 'e 'as a strong, 'ansome 'ouse."

At the other end of the lake, Mr. Shaw lives in two buildings, one a stone "Big 'ouse" and the other a wooden dining room and servants' quarters. But here at my Dad's, both bungalows are on a par, one primarily for guests.

The Camp

Tues, July 14, 1925

Before leaving Brooklyn we had decided this expedition must pay for itself and that we wouldn't diminish the scanty store left in the bank. Although we had hoped to travel a long distance before it would be necessary to earn more, the prolonged stay here has eaten up most of the $80 we brought with us; and now we must find work.

After first looking into the water power development on top of the Green Mountains near Readsboro, Bill hopes to get a job at the General Electric Co. at Schenectady, N.Y., thereby killing two birds with one stone: learning all he can about G.E., and earning enough money to travel another leg of our journey.

We hate to leave so soon after Mother and Dad's arrival yesterday but we feel we must be on our way and have been packing, tugging and tying all day. Our duffle is piled high on the motorcycle and tomorrow we become vagabonds again.