PART IV
Farm, Schenectady, N.Y.
Tues., Sept. 15, 1925
After driving all the way in the rain, we arrived about 8:00 last night here at the Polish farm. The Morowski's insisted we spend the night, and as many more as we wanted, in their best bedroom upstairs, and as I still had a bad cold, that we sleep under a feather quilt. As there were no other covers, we sweltered with it and froze without it. Although everything is nice and clean, the hundreds of hungry, dazed flies in the room persist in getting under foot. There were no flies downstairs, so I presume, when shooed out below, they sought refuge up here.
Huge pouter‑pigeon pillows, the cases edged deep with lace, adorn the bed; tall tinted statues of saints stand on each end of the mantel; and brightly colored religious chromes in gaudy gilt frames boxed in mahogany and glass hang on the walls. These bright religious pictures and statuary color every room in the house.
As it continued to rain we stayed another night, but this time took up our own blankets, sleeping the night through instead of it in spurts under the feather bed.
I cooked our food my way and Mrs. M. cooked hers their way, at the same time, on the same stove. She gave us milk, pears and cake, but when I offered her one of our cheese omelets, she said she never had eaten anything like that and guessed she never would.
All day, while I cut out and sewed up a new trunk‑cover to replace the one we had lost, she talked about matrimony, her friends' matrimony, the chances of her daughters' matrimony, her own matrimony, and just matrimony in general. No wonder Leon's favorite expression is "When ya goin' to git married?"
A fortune teller had just told the daughters some remarkable truths, of course: their mother would receive an important paper from a big company which a tall light haired man would explain to her; she must do exactly as the man says. When we were here before, a letter had come to Mrs. Morowski from the state about eliminating the grade crossing of the railroad which skirts their land. She had asked Bill about it, and he, a tall light haired man, had written a letter to the state for her. Everything as the oracle foretold, with one slight exception-‑both letters were written six months before the girls visited the fortune teller.
Hudson, N.Y.
Mon., Sept. 21, 1925
Leaving the Morowskis' on Friday, we headed for Hudson where Bill wants to look into a cement plant. Because of a puncture just as it was getting dark, it behooved us to camp immediately. While Bill labored on the tire I scouted out a peach of a site, near a garden loaded with vegetables, and picked up four rather passe tomatoes and two shriveled ears of corn, from the ground. Somehow, it seemed perfectly ethical to walk into someone's garden and help myself to inferior produce, fallen off the stalk. Be that as it may, I l soon had my "come‑up‑ance," as the Irish say. With my booty safely in the motorcycle, I got permission to camp on the hill, from a man walking towards us. Then, noticing a perfectly good ear of corn on the road, I picked it up. Thereupon the man called out to help ourselves to corn and tomatoes, as he had more than he could use.
Bill swears he could tell by the twinkle in the man's eye that he saw me raiding his garden and was heaping coals of fire on my head. But I think he only saw me picking up the corn in the road, and out of the kindness of his heart, gave us the vegetables. At any rate, I surely felt cheap.
Three days after leaving our vegetable garden camp we still have corn and tomatoes. The corn, slightly old to eat on the cob, had made luscious fritters with the honey Mother sent us, making a hit with Bill.
Our new location, outside of Hudson, is not far from a pump, and also has a pear orchard handy. And, what is more, we obtained permission to pick the pears. Our tent is pitched under a cedar tree with a barberry bush at its base. Along the fence grow wild grapes and bittersweet. In the nearby field scrubby sumac and purple asters set off each other. We certainly are lucky in finding charming places to camp.
Saturday we went through the cement plant that Bill wanted to see, finding it efficient and well run.
A queer thing happened on Sunday. It was easy to do our week's washing with our two canvas pails and the nearby pump, and afterwards I hung it on a low line. Upon returning from a long walk with Bill I noticed a lot of grasshoppers on the clothes. Closer inspection showed certain garments, the woolens and silks, were simply riddled with tiny holes, while the cottons were not eaten at all. I caught a couple of grasshoppers in the act of devouring my only pair of silk stockings. How pure their taste is‑nothing cheap or sleazy for them! I can understand now what a terrible thing the plague of grasshoppers in the Bible must have been.
Hudson, N.Y.
Tues., Sept. 22, 1925
We had an annoying time at another cement plant yesterday. It must have been the irritating color of the office walls, a sickly mustard, that rubbed everyone the wrong way. Upon Bill's stating that he was interested in the company's stock, and asking if he could see the plan we were passed (like the perennial buck) from one person to another, till the assistant superintendent was called. After a long wait and endless questions he said he had no authority to give permission, but if we cared to wait he would wire the general superintendent in New York City. As Bill determined to see the plant, we waited and waited until finally the answer came that Bill could go through, but not me. Maybe they thought my purse had a bomb. At last a guide arrived and Bill was taken around the whole establishment-‑but on the run, as closing time was nearing. When the assistant super said he was afraid Bill had not had time to see very much, Bill answered, on the contrary, he had seen very striking comparisons between this and the rival cement plant. The man seemed to take the remark as a compliment, instead of the way Bill meant it.
Near Poughkeepsie, N.Y.
Thurs., Sept. 24, 1925
Again we visited the first cement plant and again we were shown cordiality by the powers‑that‑be, Bill having a long talk with the chief chemist, whom he considers A‑1. After which we drove to Hudson for an early dinner.
Stopping in front of a rather pretentious looking restaurant, he hesitated about entering in our camping togs. However, when we took the plunge the Jewish proprietor bowed and pulled our chairs out for us, and after a fairly good mean, asked if everything had been satisfactory, saying:
"I noticed you hesitated about coming in. I hope you will never do so again."
After our explanation he replied (now for the point):
"Ah, but it is not your clothes, but your personalities that count."
Leaving Hudson this noon we are now sitting in front of a huge bonfire on the same spot near Poughkeepsie where we camped the first night out of New York last April. A lot has happened, but we haven't gone very far since then.
Egypt, Pa.
Sat., Sept. 26, 1925
Our Poughkeepsie camp was so charming that we played around till almost 11 o'clock before crossing the ferry to New Paltz.
Delaware Water Gap was a great disappointment. Hot dog stands spoiled every site, forcing us to camp way down in the valley on the far side.
The country in this part of Pennsylvania, though, is fascinating, steep hills like green chocolate drops, little toy villages hidden in narrow valleys down each of which runs a brook and a road. At the frequent crossings the long Dutch names can hardly squeeze into the signboards. Formal brick or stone houses are softened with lacy iron railings and fences. One fence, realistically painted green and brown, was made to look like a privet hedge, another resembled a grapevine growing on a trellis.
We pitched our tent on the top of a hill where we could see in all four directions, but there is no brook, so we have to lug water from the not‑too‑far‑away house. Mrs. Baer, the farmer's wife, and her three little girls, came to see us this morning, bringing carrots and cabbages.
Bill is very much interested in the stock of Giant Portland Cement and has come here to look over the plant.
Egypt, Pa.
Mon., Sept. 28, 1925
Today Bill received a letter from Leonard, his brother‑in‑law, reporting a terrible car accident, in which Dorothy and the baby were badly hurt. We cannot wait to be with them and will leave in the morning.
Bill, finishing some matters in the cement plant, did not return until nearly 9. I was left with only candle light. Two of the farmer's little boys kept me company while Bill was away, Harold entertaining me with stories and riddles, and Joseph singing to his own accompaniment on the ukulele. Just as their father came for them Bill pulled in.
Egypt, Pa.
Sat. Dec. 5, 1925
We are back after nine weeks in town. Our invalids are well on their with to recovery, and it is good to be on the road again. We left Yonkers Monday noon with a brand new windshield, a great protection in this wintry weather.
When we reached lower Jersey it had looked like rain, so we decided to camp immediately, in the lee of an old deserted farmhouse near a brook; and where, because of the rain, we stayed two nights. We can drive or sleep dry in the rain, but we cannot either make or break camp dry in the rain. However, we enjoyed a walk in the rain, returning to read in our cozy, warm tent. It developed we were on some hunting preserve, for a friendly and chatty keeper came to see what we were up to.
The next day, feeling we had to go on in spite of the rain, we reached our old camping ground here in Egypt, just as it cleared long enough to pitch the tent and get our duds under cover. But it has rained and blown hard every minute of the four days since.
We have slept, dressed, read, written, listened to the radio, received visitors, cooked, eaten, washed dishes-‑and ourselves to some extent-‑in this seven‑by‑seven space for about one hundred hours and the tent and its appurtenances, including ourselves, are beginning to show wear and tear. Considering everything, however, we have kept remarkably dry, warm, clean and orderly. The trick of sleeping with newspapers under and over us has kept out wind and cold. Bill has gone down to the plant every day and I have taken several walks. I certainly wish it would clear, though!
When Bill wasn't at the plant he has used every spare minute to write a detailed report on the Giant Portland Cement Co., its management, efficiency, production, labor situation, and prospect for future growth, and is sending it to Frank Shaw, the only one of his Wall St. friends who might be interested in paying for Bill's continuing such a service.
He has bought some of the stock himself and is giving two shares ($37 worth) to Mother and Dad for Christmas.
Today being Saturday, Harold arrived at 8:30 A.M. and stayed all day. After helping Bill with the motorcycle, they both drove over to North Hampton to get supplies. Harold says he is going to go camping the way we do when he grows up.
This afternoon the Baer's boarder who works at the cement plant dropped in, staying about three hours. Having had "a bit of a nip," he generously offered us anything we wanted at the farm, saying, "Just charge it to me." His language was often quite "salty." When I asked him if he had been in the navy, he replied, "Yes, mam, I'se sailorized a heap."
One afternoon the three little girls came over with apples, then later Harold brought corn he had popped. I am more and more impressed by the kindness and generosity shown campers.
Washington, D.C.
Sat., Dec. 12, 1925
During the eight days we stayed in Egypt it rained, snowed, froze or blew on every one of them. Sunday, the day it froze, the sun came out, so to celebrate, we took a long walk and had dinner in a small country inn near Ballietsville. The dinner hour being past when we arrived, the proprietor gave us what was left, but the roast duck, fresh killed pork, celery, pickles, bread, butter and coffee tasted darn good to us. The owner put nickel after nickel in one of those awful electric pianos that sound like a whole brass band off key. Between firings, a little girl played melancholy records on a raucous phonograph, so altogether we felt very festive.
When leaving Egypt on Thursday we were bundled warm, and the new windshield, the mattress and a hot water bottle made riding in the sidecar very comfortable. Shifting seats often, the driver had little chance to get really cold.
As it takes so long to pack and unpack in the cold we spent the night in a small hotel near Lancaster, where my Dad had lived as a boy. I wish I had known earlier that we were passing this way, for I would have loved to visit some of his old haunts. Because of fog we could see little of the country, but the Susquehana River was splendid, twice as wide as I had expected. Crossing it on a toll bridge I wondered where my Dad's old swimming hole had been.
Although the old machine worked irregularly, we managed to reach Washington in pretty good time. Bill immediately called a business friend, H.E.C. Rainey, who directed us to a hotel where we revelled in hot baths and clean clothes, before dining with him at the University Club. It seemed queer to be so grand after having been so otherwise. Next day we moved into a cheaper room-‑large, clean but not elegant, with a bathroom far from modern. Bill took the motorcycle to the Harley agency, not only to find out what ails her, but to save garage rent.
Today Rainey showed us embassy and residential sections of town. Bill is crazy about Washington and, having been overseas during the war, says the European cities, being older, are more picturesque, but for sheer beauty, they can't beat this town. We spent an interesting and instructive evening with the Bells, my mother and dad's best man and his wife.
Washington, D.C.
Sun., Dec. 15, 1925
This morning we visited Arlington Cemetery, solemn and impressive, the new amphitheater stunning. Walking over to inspect the Radio Station we found no visitors were allowed, so spying a trolley in the distance, ran for it, but missed. When the conductor finally spotted us he stopped the trolley, backed it up, and we jumped aboard, amid the amused glances of the whole carload of passengers. That's service for you!
The Washington monument being under repair, we could not ascend, but we walked along the tree‑bordered lagoon to the Lincoln Memorial. The whole effect is perfect, so simple and dignified yet on such a magnificent scale.
For dinner we went to a neighboring boarding house where the table was loaded with enough food for an army, all for 65¢ . One could have as many helpings as wanted, and maids were constantly refilling the serving dishes.
Washington, D.C.
Sun., Dec. 22, 1925
Yesterday morning I planned to go to the Walter Reed Hospital to visit the Occupational Therapy Department where I had worked during the war when Bill was in France. Before going I called Peggy Beckwith, who summers in Manchester, Vt., as my family does. She invited me to meet her at the Corcoran Art Gallery, have lunch with her, after which she would drive me to the hospital. Hating to remind her that it would then be Saturday afternoon and the O.T. Department closed, I succumbed to her invitation.
At the Corcoran we saw some fine portraits of Laszlo and then were driven in her grandfather's Rolls Royce by chauffeur to the Freer Gallery, where we enjoyed pastels by Whistler in the Peacock Room. Peggy's home, where we lunched, is a fascinating two‑story white house with green shutters and fir trees on either side of the front door‑like a Christmas card. Being one of the oldest houses in Georgetown, it has a passageway to the Potomac, used, they say, by freed slaves in "underground railroad" days. When Peggy drove us in her own gray Franklin roadster to the Walter Reed, where, as I had imagined, all occupational therapy was over for the week. Although we had a swell day and it was interesting to visit the hospital, I missed my sentimental reminiscing of the O.T. Department.
Bill spends hours at the patent office and is excited about all that he is learning. However, living in Washington costs too much for us to stay long.
We had a charming dinner and a second visit with the Bells one night, and on another dined with Peggy Beckwith and her mother. Most every other evening we have met Rainey, had supper and gone to the movies with him, as he is a great movie fan. On several visits to the House and Senate we enjoyed hearing the arguments of the "gentlemen," but one day it was more like a cockfight-‑anything but "gentlemanly" or dignified. We have also spent quite a time in the Congressional Library, looking at engravings, lithographs, old government documents and portraits. I was much entertained by some cartoons of the Civil War period.
My Christmas shopping is done-‑cards written, bundles wrapped, and nearly all mailed.
Robert Lee Camp, Pelham, N.C.
Thurs., Dec. 24, 1925
While we were packing our paraphernalia on the motorcycle, an old lady, poking her head out of a window, asked if we were going to Florida. Nodding my head, she gave us a long list of real estate men in Miami, haranguing for nearly an hour about the great opportunities in Florida. We did not get a word in edgewise to say that we were not interested in real estate.
Mt. Vernon was our first stop. George Washington's lovely and interesting home has a glorious location, and the grounds are superb. We both loved it.
Although all signs say, "To Richmond and the South," the sunny south seems a myth to us. When it grew dark and began to rain, we were forced to crawl for hours through slippery red clay, between endless tall dark pines, all the way into Fredericksburg.
At an old‑fashioned boarding house where we ate rabbit for the first time, our friendly and chatty supper companions were a young flying lieutenant and his wife, and a truck driver on his way to deliver a Ford chassis in Florida; the latter giving his name and address, even urged us to look him up. Certainly everybody down here is most cordial.
When finally bedded for the night, I continued to ride the motorcycle, and the reflecting silver screen of raindrops ahead, between walls of tall dark pines, kept recurring before my eyes, until at last I fell asleep.
The next day on the road a car with a New York license passed us, its occupants shouting, "See you in Miama." Later they stopped and when we asked if they needed help, they hollered back that we could help make away with their extra hot coffee and sandwiches. The excitement and comradery among those on route to Florida is as if we were all on our way to the Klondike.
It was dark when we reached a little town called Burkville and the manager of the only inn was at the railroad station to round up customers. Finding us getting gas nearby, he hauled us in. It was not much of a place, but warm, which was the main thing.
The state of Virginia has greatly surprised us, for we had expected it to be enchanting. From Mt. Vernon down we never saw another fine southern mansion or even a cute little house; nothing but ramshackle, dilapidated, unpainted shacks and log cabins. Evidently the "gentry" live out of sight or in some other part of the state. The terrain is heavily wooded‑pines, pines, pines and almost tropical tangles of briar and southern smilax, reminding one of Brier Rabbit and Uncle Remus.
Virginia is also the "shootinest" place. You'd think by the sound that each day was the Fourth of July. Every other man and boy carries a gun, particularly at this Christmas season; making as much noise as possible seems part of the celebration.
When we reached Danville, almost on the Carolina border, late this afternoon, we found lots of mail and a big Christmas package from home, filled with all sorts of good things. A delightful surprise was a check from Frank in a letter congratulating Bill on his fine report, promising to carry him for some of the stock and suggesting Bill continue his investigation and reports on other appropriate companies.
Spying a pine grove on a side hill out of the wind, we inquired at a log cabin if we could camp there. The folks seemed delighted and the old man and the boys came along to help.
So here we are, ensconsed in a tent-‑to spend Christmas. Although it is bitter cold, we hope, with the aid of the newspapers, heated stones and our faithful hot water bottle, to be cozy enough.
Robert Lee Camp, Pelham, N.C.
Mon., Dec. 28, 1925
Early Christmas morning old Mr. Brown came over to invite us to Christmas dinner. Such hospitality! We did not learn its full extent until we had been here several days.
The senior Browns live in one log cabin, their son, daughter‑in‑law and children in another, close by. Each cabin consists of two separate buildings, living quarters and kitchen, joined by a covered breezeway. Bill has to bend to enter the low doors. There is one small glassless window in each room, but the whitewash log walls help to lighten the dark interior.
The whole family gathered around the kitchen table for Christmas dinner, five of the six children standing, as there were not enough chairs. Salt pork, turnip greens, sweet potato custard, corn pone (coarse white corn flour, salt and water baked in a frying pan), cake decorated with jelly beans, and the vilest coffee we'd ever tasted. Coffee beans bought green are roasted and ground. At each boiling a little fresh coffee is added to the old grinds. The brew (I cannot again call it coffee) grows bitterer and bitterer as it is reboiled again and again, and the pot gets fuller and fuller of old grounds, until of necessity it has to be emptied, and then half an inch of old grounds is kept to "sweeten the pot."
Before dinner we women‑folks had picked the new tender greens from turnips left in the ground all winter. The sweet potato custard, more like a stack of pies, was served a layer at a time, our three days here having reduced the pile by six layers, with four soggy ones still to go. The children were too excited to eat anything but cake, jelly beans, and custard, although they drank that awful coffee. Probably having dessert only at Christmas they were allowed to make the best of it.
Raising tobacco for a living, the Robert Lee Browns are paid only once a year when the crop is sold, which generally is after Christmas. If the crop is poor very little money remains after their rent has been deducted. Mr. Brown took us into one of the delightfully fragrant tobacco barns-‑a small log building with chimney pipes from the brick fireplace, running around inside to dry the big crinkled leaves hanging from every rafter.
In spite of being terribly hard up they are a jolly crowd, with apparently no self‑pity. As the children have received no Christmas presents this year, other than a little knitted cap given the baby by his grandfather and a few jelly beans for the othes, Mrs. Junior hopes to get a doll for Barna with the first dollar she can lay hands on. Having had eight children she looks older than my mother, yet I am sure she is about my age, in her early thirties. A cheerful, capable soul, she is never at a loss for a bright answer or a joke.
Saturday we dined at the Juniors' on the identical menu we'd had on Christmas, the old folks bringing the food over with them. Robert Lee, J., away looking for Santa Claus, must have found him all right for he returned slightly "aweather." His uncle has a still hidden in a bush.
Yesterday we took over much of the food Mother had sent us, the old folks again insisting we eat with them. We feel they would be really hurt if we refused. Surprisingly the kids had never tasted butter before nor had any of them eaten celery before. Besides the things we brought, including a greatly enjoyed canned plum pudding, potato pumpkin (what we call summer squash) was the only variation from the previous meals. The youngsters "ooed and ahed" over the candy, crackers, peanuts (here called goobers), as well as the Christmas cards, fancy wrapping paper and ribbons from our gift box.
In the evenings, with the baby crawling on the warm floor boards before us, we all sit around the open fire, telling stories. There is no light but the flickering flames which silhouette dancing giants on the rear wall. The men chew dried twisted tobacco leaves kept in a jar on the mantel, while the women gnaw on sticks of snuff. The hiss of spitting into the fire is continuous, and all the honors for aim and distance should be pinned on the old lady. By the hearth stands a broom made of tassels from crown grown especially for this purpose. Several times passers‑by have stopped for hot water to thaw their radiators and have been invited to join the circle. The first night when we were strangers, and each night since, both families have urged us to sleep inside.
I don't remember ever being so cold-‑even up in Vermont--as on our hike yesterday. The folks here say the cold has seldom been so intense. The blue bird I saw today shows how unexpected this cold must be. There are also lots of cardinals and, of course, millions of buzzards. All the way down from Washington there was one or more circling overhead.
I was hoping there would be mistletoe near this camp but, although we saw plenty on the way down, we can't find a twig here. Mistletoe, little green wads in the tops of oaks, is a vampire or parasite or whatever the word is.
We plan to leave tomorrow, and near Winston Salem, only sixty miles from here, to drop in on Bill Smith (an old Brooklyn friend) and his wife, to beg the use of their bathroom. Our bathing has been sketchy these cold days.
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