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

By Lois Wilson

PART II

Near Somerset Dam, Vt.

Thurs., July 16, 1925

Saying goodbye to our friends took so long yesterday, that it was nearly dark and we'd covered only thirty miles from North Dorset before we found a camping spot in an orchard on a hill. It seemed ideal-‑except that apparently there was no water. After pitching the tent we set out with a lantern to find some, walking and walking until we met a man in a buggy who told us there was a good well, half a mile back, in an orchard on a hill-‑right where we were camped!

This morning, noticing that there was a house near by, we hid behind bushes while dousing each other with buckets of water. Then, gazing at the extensive view, we breakfasted on sandwiches and fresh pineapple Mother had put up for us; the pineapple having worked a little, Bill found delectable.

We were still in sight of our own Dorset Peak when the front chain of the motorcycle broke with a terrible bang. Bill tried but couldn't fix it. What a forlorn couple we were as we walked the machine into the Harley agency in Bennington-‑mechanical trouble so soon on our long journey.

However, with the cycle wearing her brand new chain, our spirits rose, as she flew up the mountain without a grumble or whimper, the grades steep but the road fine, leading through the wildest country. Five young partridges, hardly able to fly, fluttered across the road and a big hare leaped ahead of us for a long distance. We passed a few deserted houses, one bearing the sign, "Town Clerk's Office," another announced boldly that it was the "Town Hall"-‑everything handy but the town itself!

Somerset dam is huge-‑nearly a mile long, forty feet wide at the top, and sets back eight miles of lake. What Bill calls a penstock carries the water, and crawls out of the dam like a great wooden centipede, worming its way to the power house.

After carefully selecting a spot with a marvelous view of the distant hills, in no time we were attacked by every known species of gnat and fly, forcing us to eat supper inside the tent, with the netting drawn tight.


Near Bennington, Vt.

Sun., July 19, 1925

Because of the insects yesterday morning, we could hardly stay down at the river long enough to take our plunges. Later while fishing, the only bites Bill got were on his face, neck, hands, wrists and ankles, even though slathered with fly‑oil.

As we prepared to leave our "buggy" camp, a tiny field mouse played hide and seek between the cylinders of the motorcycle, remaining there unafraid until Bill started the engine. At the Seersburg Power Station on the Deerfield River, we were greeted by the most terrifying sound, like express trains rushing towards us from every direction-‑the starting of the generators. After Bill had an informative talk with the operator, we drove to Whitingham Dam, a third as long, but three times higher than Somerset, with an interesting "Tunnel to Hell," a tremendous concrete funnel preventing overflow. We camped last night near another power station, Davis Bridge, also on the Deerfield, and the coldest water in which we had ever bathed.

In the morning we drove back over the mountain towards Bennington to this attractive stop I had noticed on our way up. While I did a huge washing in the brook, Bill caught a couple of nice trout. After putting them on the fire to "stodge" for supper, I had the most ideal shower imaginable, lying back in a perfect armchair in the rocks, under a small, not too cold, falls.

In my writing now in the tent with the electric light hanging over my page, and catching faint strains of harp and fiddle from Bill's earphones. A Bonfire crackles in front, near the brook, and there is not a bug or beastie to annoy. In fact this whole camp has been perfect.

Morowski Farm, Schenectady, N.Y.

Tues., July 21, 1925

Perfection is short lived. Late that evening a thunderstorm came up, raining cats and dogs all night, the first chance to test our new tent, especially its guaranteed waterproof canvas floor. We had always dug a ditch around our army pup tent for drainage, but naively, we imagined this to be unnecessary with our miraculous new one; that we could even pitch it in a puddle and remain dry. We soon learned the truth, however.

Feeling the dampness seeping through, I awakened Bill. Whereupon, donning his waterproof zippers, he bravely launched forth into the rain and discovered that the tent was standing in a small lake, three inches deep, in a clay‑like hollow. The canvas floor hadn't done too badly, after all. Sponging up the puddle and pushing a mass of ferns underneath to raise the floor off the ground, he then ditched the tent. Inside, dry newspapers and shelter halves kept us fairly dry the rest of the night.

But what pleased us most about the test‑run was that the window I had meticulously made similar to windows in Abercrombie tents did not leak a drop. It is equipped only with mosquito netting but a waterproof shade, conveniently pullable from the inside, and running between outside flaps-‑thus preventing wind and rain from blowing inside. Pretty trappy, I can tell you, both inside and outside!

In the morning the sun and wind dried everything thoroughly. But we have learned a lesson-‑always ditch the tent, even a grand new "explorer's" one with a canvas bottom and a window!

Near Schenectady we obtained permission to camp on an attractive looking farm. The presumably Polish family‑-father, mother, three daughters and two sons‑is cordial and helpful. They all seem devoted to the younger boy, Leon, obviously sub‑normal and decidedly unprepossessing. He fell on his head when six months old, they say. The parents run the farm while the children, except Leon, work at the General Electric plant, helping with the chores when they return.

After pitching the tent under a large oak in a field and buying provisions from our neighbors, we built a table and bench for eating and cooking, from boards Mr. Morowski gave us, so we are quite elaborately established.

Yesterday and today we both looked for jobs in town, as our capital has sunk to $4. Work is slack and the G.E., as well as other companies, is laying off employees. I tried for a sales‑clerk's job in a department store, but the man would not take me on my face alone, telling me to come back tomorrow with references, and if I had experience in selling linen he would take me immediately. My selling experience being as non‑existent as my references, I am out of luck.

A sign hung in front of a restaurant saying, "Dishwasher Wanted," but I simply could not bring myself to go in. I had had a theory that it would be interesting to take any job that came along, for the experience as well as pay. But reality often explodes theory. At any rate, after three days neither of us had yet found a job.

Leon has been a big help, bringing water and keeping the stray cows and boys from disturbing our things. His conversation is unique. "You wop?" and "When ya goin' to git married?" comprise most of it. He is a good‑natured and the pet of the neighborhood. The girls never return from work without bringing him candy, or some trinket.



Goldfoot Farm, Scotia, N.Y.

Wed., July 22, 1925

We have jobs! Both of us! Working on a farm! This morning Mrs. Morowski came running out in the rain waving a newspaper, containing a want ad for a farm hand. We set out immediately to persuade the unknown farmer that he needed both of us. The rain simply poured down, but could not dampen our spirits; it did, however, dampen those of the motorcycle, causing a short circuit. We hated taking the time to fix it, scared that someone else would nab that job.

However, no one did-‑but neither did we. The man was sure he needed only one person, adding that Bill looked higher priced, anyway, than he cared to pay. Whether this was a compliment we never could determine. At any rate, the man told us about neighbors who might need two people.

Upon arriving at this second farm, down a muddy sideroad, we must have looked so wet and bedraggled that we were engaged purely out of pity, for the folks kept reiterating they should not spend the money on help this season. However, Bill's boast that he was a good milker clinched the matter. So we are hired help at $75 a month for both, with board and keep. I'm to assist with the housework and Bill to milk and work in the fields.



Goldfoot Farm

Fri., July 24, 1925

We are laboring like Trojans, trying to keep up with our bosses. Mrs. G. especially is a human dynamo. When she was younger, she says, she used to carry 2 one hundred pound bags of meal upstairs, one on each shoulder-‑a regular Amazon. As I am willing to do all the housework, she is free to work in the fields, which she loves, and is worth three of her husband who, though tireless, is a putterer, going round and round in circles. Although this rainy season has provided much time for repairs, a pleasant day was chosen for Bill to fix the mowing machine, the "boss" having little mechanical sense. In fact, besides milking ten of the twenty cows night and morning, most of Bill's time has been spent doctoring implements and tools.

Robert, a little boy about 11 years old, whom Mr. and Mrs. Goldfoot are bringing up, is a most pathetic youngster, wistful, cowed and overworked. Mr. and Mrs. G. are both good‑natured and kind to him in their way, but they don't seem to realize that a boy, particularly such a delicate, sensitive child, needs something besides work, work, work. He is most inquiring and constantly plies Bill with whys and wherefores.

It's fun experimenting. Having never made a pie in my life before, I made two today, a blackberry and a custard as well as six blackberry tarts. They were darn good, if I do say so. Let's hope my luck continues for I have not confessed my ignorance to my boss. Just before leaving The Camp, Mother tucked a little cookbook into our duffle, thus saving the day.

Such appetites and so many potatoes! I am sick of them! We eat potatoes three times a day, sometimes sliced and fried, sometimes diced and fried, sometimes baked, creamed, mashed or just plain boiled. Tonight we are having potato cakes. I wish I could think up some new way to cook them. I won't french‑fry them for this bunch, because I would be at the stove all night. Yesterday I spent over an hour frying forty‑eight slices of squash. For once I overdid it, and we had fried squash again for supper.



Goldfoot Farm

Sat., July 25, 1925

Today we have been exceptionally busy. It is now 9 P.M. and the folks are still in the fields, haying with a lantern. It will be all hours before the dishes are washed. A few of today's accomplishments will be: three meals prepared and three sets of dishes washed, a pudding, two pies and a cake with icing made for the weekend, nine milk pails and separator washed in the morning and again at night, windows and lamp chimneys cleaned, lamps and oilstove filled, range blackened, floor swept twice and mopped thoroughly, rugs and porch swept, and my knickers mended.

When we first came we got terribly tired, but now we are feeling fine and really enjoying it. After supper Bill goes up to our room (Mrs. G. calls it "the office") and studies his big books, four Moody's Manuals, while I write, and Mr. And Mrs. G. listen to our radio, Bill having rigged it up for them. Robert reads a while, then goes to bed.

The Goldfoots took us to a church social last night, where the people seemed a hard‑shelled bunch. But Robbie had a wonderful time, eating four plates of ice cream without batting an eye. Being very timid, he is afraid to do anything but eat. When asked if he wants to drive the hayrake or do something mildly adventurous, his one reply is, "I daresn't take a chancet." However, he seemed to enjoy his ride in the motorcycle last night, though holding on tight all the way.

Goldfoot Farm

Sun., July 26, 1925

It's Sunday and the day has been ours‑-except for morning and evening chores, and a runaway calf, almost as hard to catch as a greased pig.

The first thing we did on our own was to take a bath in a nearby stream. It was certainly great to wash in something larger than a basin, even though we could only splash in a shallow pool.

Ma and Pa Goldfoot are very particular about Robert's washing his face and hands, but I bet, during the week we've been here, not one of the three has washed any further. Every bit of water has to be lugged in and, after use, lugged out again and thrown away. To complicate matters, there are two kinds of water, pump water for drinking and cooking, and brook water for washing and cleaning. The pump is 100 feet from the house and the brook as many yards. Robert keeps two big milk cans filled with brook water and brings in a pail from the pump when he thinks of it. I never ask him to get water, because he has so much else to do. Besides helping with the milking, haying and churning, his particular job is feeding the livestock, consisting of four horses, hundred of chickens, eight pigs, twenty cows, one bull, twelve calves, six cats and a dog. The cats are the favorites of the establishment and have to be fed hot potatoes, mashed up in either gravy or warm milk. No cold dried up stuff for them!

After our baths we visited the Adirondack Light and Power steam plant on the Mohawk River, and experimental station for G.E. Not only is it kept in applepie condition but is decorated with potted palms; swallows fly among the high steel rafters. A grating in the floor permits one to observe masses of gayly painted pipes of all sizes, resembling a tangle of huge angleworms, and to follow the course of each pipe by means of its identifying color. The boiler room is a good place to keep cool on a summer's day, for no heat is wasted. Bill absorbed much interesting information.

The Mohawk River is used here as a barge canal and we enjoyed watching a good‑sized launch go through the nearby lock.

At Amsterdam we felt in such holiday spirits that we hunted for something reckless to do to celebrate, but nothing better turned up than gorging ourselves on three ice‑cream sodas apiece‑disgusting!

The low rolling hills in this section are covered with cultivated fields and trim prosperous‑looking farm houses. Driving home the long way around, under a flaming sunset sky, we reached here just in time for milking.

Our first week as farm hands has ended.