Diary of Two Motorcycle Hobos #essentialsofrec #recovery #Lois #AA

By Lois Wilson

PART X

1973 NOTE

We recovered quickly from the accident, though at several periods during my later life my knee gave me considerable trouble. Bill suffered no permanent injury, except a bump on his collarbone. The little damage the motorcycle received was repaired, so, as Bill wanted to check up on the Giant Portland Cement operation, we left my father’s home on Clinton St., Brooklyn, where we were living temporarily, and took off again on the motorcycle.

Early in the summer we had been flattered and amused by a letter from Pa Goldfoot asking us to return for two months to help with the harvesting and offering us a better price than we were paid in 1925.

I kept diaries on the short Egypt trip as well as on the ones to Holyoke and Canada, which follow in Parts X and XI.



Egypt, Pa.

Tues., July 20, 1926

We reached Egypt in time to drive around the Bethlehem Steel Works, and to visit the Giant plant before setting up housekeeping in an alfalfa field near our old camping place, newly planted to corn. The views are lovely from our new spot.

After supper our old friend, Harold Baer, very much grown up, came to take us to pick blackcaps and funny little sweet red cherries. The bobwhite, and what they term here the rain-bird, were calling when we returned. The latter, more mournful than a dove, wailed coo-coo-oo-o, late into the evening.

During the night it blew, rained and thundered so violently that we had to get up to cover things more securely. When the rain stopped in the morning, we threw pump water over each other for our daily showers, but we might have saved the energy and just stood outside the tent, for it immediately began to pour again.

The chatter of guinea hens in the nearby potato field awakened us early. In Florida their call always reminded us of Egypt, for it was here that we first recognized it.

Bill has gone to the cement plant, and I am enjoying the radio and writing on our hilltop, for it has stopped raining and the sun pops in and out of the fast-moving clouds. This time of year the country is colorful. Tawny patches of wheat and lighter green fields of oats pattern the distance, while near at hand wild roses not only tint the hedgerows but sweeten the air.

It seems our luck to always have rain in Egypt, but it doesn’t dampen our spirits, because the open road and living close to nature always puts us in fine fettle; seemingly we absorb a “certain something” from contact with the earth itself. In the city we both felt stodgy and stupid, but one night in the open has already set us up remarkably. We hate to go back tomorrow.



Holyoke, Mass.

Wed., Aug. 25, 1926

Bill and Frank have a new interest, the American Writing Paper Co., which is in receivership, so we came here to investigate. We had been at The Camp since returning from Egypt, and because of saying goodbye to so many folks in East Dorset and the Center, we made a late start on Monday. Having hankered for some time to revisit our old location on the brook near Bennington, although only thirty miles away, the rain clinched the matter and we went no further.

To our disappointment, however, some painter has ruined the place by dumping his debris all around--plasterboard, empty paint buckets, papers, bottles, and excelsior in a barrel. We had a great time in the rain, picking it all up and trying to turn the water-soaked stuff in the barrel. The turpentine in the paint and the excelsior helped.

The next day, rather cloudy, was fine for travel. Crossing the mountain to Wilmington we followed the Deerfield river all the way to its junction with the Connecticut, a perfectly stunning drive. Bill wanted to see the new dam and power station they are building just below the Reedsboro Power plant, so we stopped there before driving through Shelburn, Greenfield, lovely Deerfield and North Hampton, arriving at Holyoke in time to locate the paper factories and to find a splendid place to set up our living quarters--on top of a hill of course, about a mile from town.

Mt. Tom, our nearest neighbor to the north, at night wears a crown of lights. Both nights we have watched the moon, large and red, rise over the city. In the daytime we can see another large river running parallel to the Connecticut, nearer at hand. We wonder what it can be. Three canals, leading out from the Connecticut, run through the factory section of the city.

Yesterday we just loafed, studied, took Bill’s suit to be pressed and went to the movies. This morning we were Robinson Crusoes, and our hilltop, an island in a sea of mist. However, Bill left in high glee, all dressed up in his neatly pressed old suit, to interview the president of the American Writing Paper Co.



Holyoke, Mass.

Mon., Aug. 30, 1926

Yesterday and today have been sunny and clear, delightful except for a hurricane-force wind that blew the tent down.

Paper making had always sounded dull until we came here and learned a little about it. It turns out to be complicated and quite an art. Saturday Bill took me through one of the plants where red photographic paper for Eastman and blue paper for phonograph records are made. The company has the government contract for postcards and envelopes.

Bill raves about the ability and personality of the president, Mr. Willson, and instead of a report about costs and profits, he plans to write about the power of one man to make a success of a company that had failed. All those with whom Bill has talked, whether laborer, superintendent, or official of the company, has been full of enthusiasm and pep, eager to do a good job for Mr. Willson. He has won me over, too, for Saturday afternoon he asked Bill and me to go up Mt. Tom with him.

At 5 this afternoon Mr. Willson’s chauffeur first picked us up at the Nonotuck Hotel, then Mr. Willson at the Golf Club. As no road goes up the mountain, he left us at its feet where there is an amusement park, with scenic railway, small theater, merry-go-round, and dance hall. From there we took a cable car on tracks (like the one near Bill’s hometown) at Friedleyville, Vt., straight to the top. The building there is not a hotel as we had thought, but a look-out and restaurant. We had also pictured an automobile road winding to the top, even picking it out as it followed the contours of the mountain.

Through the telescope at the lookout we spotted our tent with the towel out to dry, saw Amherst and Smith Colleges, peeked in the windows of Dr. Mary Wooley’s home at Mt. Holyoke College, and discovered what I had thought was another river was a series of fine tobacco fields covered with white sun-reflecting cheese cloth, to keep the bees from cross-fertilizing the blossoms. Our imagination has certainly played tricks on us.

The sunset was magnificent from the top, and I took it for granted that after it faded we would go our several ways, for nothing had been said about dinner. So it was a surprise when Mr. W. escorted us to the restaurant where our fine dinner included a whole broiled lobster apiece. Then descending in the cable car, we watched the dancing for a while, until Mr. W. said he had never danced there before, but he would if I would. So off we went. My husband, not too enthusiastic about dancing, even deigned to dance with me, and we stayed until well into the evening. The crowd was like that at Coney Island, with freaky kids dancing the Charleston--making it all the more fun. Mr. Willson was a good sport to dance where many of his own employees must surely have recognized him.

Monday I called up Esther Congdon Blanchard, an old Brooklyn friend, and although Esther was on vacation, her mother invited us to supper at six. I foolishly said we’d be there, without consulting Bill, who had gone with a Mr. Nickelson, superintendent of the coarse grades mills, to inspect a factory. I waited and waited for him to come home, preparing everything so he could just jump into clean clothes--but all in vain. I had to call Mrs. Congdon that we couldn’t make it before 6:30.

It was then that the tent blew down and in trying to raise it I punched the pole through the fabric, thus presenting myself a nice little job of mending. The folks at the foot of the hill, seeing my predicament, invited me to wait for Bill in their house, out of the wind, and kindly offered me a cup of tea and a piece of pie. Afraid to spoil my supper, I hesitated before accepting, but it turned out I was having it, because at 7 o’clock it was again necessary to call Mrs. Congdon, this time that we couldn’t make supper but would be there later in the evening.

About 7:30 Bill and his friend showed up. They had changed plans and gone to a factory in Connecticut, fifty miles distant and stopped for supper on their way back. We had a pleasant evening when we finally did reach the Blanchards’. Gordon, whom I had not met before, is sales manager for a rival writing paper company and evidently doing splendidly, for he and Esther have a beautiful home. We are sorry to miss her and the children.

The next day Gordon conducted Bill through the mill, more modern and up-to-date than the American Writing Paper Co., but Gordon considers Willson the best paper man in the country.

Mr. Yoerg, superintendent of fine grades mills, had offered Bill the use of his bungalow up the river in South Hadley, and while we were eating supper, he and his wife unexpectedly appeared to conduct us there, bag and baggage. We packed faster than ever before, dumping some things in their car and some in the motorcycle.

I always marvel at how good people are. The Yoergs, never having laid eyes on us until two days ago, have lent us the slickest, coziest, most convenient little cabin, equipped with heat, telephone, running water, ice and a lovely view of Mt. Tom. They have done everything to make us comfortable, even supplying clean linen.

This morning, as there was not a soul around we swam in the river “au naturel.” Later, on a long walk, we picked a lot of hazel-nuts which I haven’t found for a long time, and for supper I stewed up the blueberries and elderberries which we had gathered.

One night when Bill and I went to town to the movies, clouds of tiny white moths swarmed around the lights, whitening the ground with snow-like piles at the foot of every lamp post. Never having seen anything like it before we inquired and learned they were gypsy moths and a great menace to the trees.

One day while writing on our hilltop, a large orange butterfly lit on my shoe, remaining perfectly still with his back to the sun until he saw another butterfly and set chase. After circling around he came back to my shoe, keeping this up all afternoon, sometimes flying completely out of sight, but always returning to the same spot and always perched with his back to the sun. I had no idea that a butterfly had such a sense of location.

There are thousands of mushrooms on the hill, and one day I thought I would try out Cousin Louis Burnham’s recipe for safely picking mushrooms--those that smell good and taste good are good to eat. I smelled and tasted and picked until I struck one that burnt my tongue the minute I put it in my mouth. Believe me, I spat and spat and spat and had horrible visions of Bill hunting but not finding me, curled up in agony under a bush. However, I safely returned home, but had lost my zest for experimentation. Only safe old puff balls were served for supper.

We leave for home tomorrow.