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Chapter One - The Journey Begins

Thursday, May 30, 1929

Decoration Day dawned clear and warm, and the air held a premonition of summer. Yesterday, I severed the remaining link of the chain that fastened me to the City of Newark. I had taken my last exam at the local law school. How I had fared, whether or not I had passed, didn’t interest me. My mind was too occupied with thoughts of the trip my partner and I were about to take.

We could hardly believe we were on the brink of a great adventure, but the woebegone expressions on the faces of those we were leaving behind, and the hustle and bustle of last minute preparations, were not dreams but actualities. My brother, in keeping with his promise to escort us to the state line, rushed us away just as the tears of our female relatives began to assume the proportions of a flood.

The knowledge that we were finally on our way, that we would spend the next three months roaming around the country, sightseeing and in quest of adventure, made us practically speechless. However, the expressions on our faces spoke eloquently of our feelings. Grins of delight showed how much exuberance filled our hearts. We only refrained from raising our voices in song for fear of arousing my brother's displeasure with the resulting discord.

We appeased our emotions to some extent by playfully pinching each other and exchanging punches, a pastime that made it impossible for us to believe we were dreaming.

For a while we traveled in silence, each of us busy with our own thoughts. Then our car came to a stop, and we awoke to the realization that we were about to be set adrift on a highway stretching endlessly into the distance. Before saying goodbye, my brother, in no uncertain terms, made it clear he thought we were mentally unbalanced for having undertaken such a trip with the idea of deriving enjoyment from it. He even doubted our ability to obtain a lift and stated it was his intention to follow us for some distance, on the grounds that we might decide to return home with him after we had walked ten or fifteen miles.

Here we are at the Pennsylvania state line about to leave my brother. Maybe that’s why such woebegone expressions cover our faces. But we gritted our teeth firmly, right about-faced, and with undiminished enthusiasm dauntlessly set forth on the great adventure.

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But contrary to his expectations and much to our surprise, we were picked up almost immediately by a couple who were breaking in their newly acquired automobile. The ride, which terminated in Philadelphia, was an unsolicited one.

Our schedule called for a brief visit to the home of my brother-in-law, a doctor. It was his duty to see to it that I received the first of a series of inoculations against Typhoid. But he had forsaken his office that afternoon for a baseball stadium and was not expected to return until dark. To occupy our time, we decided to go sightseeing. In our wanderings through the City of Brotherly Love, we saw Independence Hall, the cottage of Betsy Ross and Carpenter’s Hall.

The Doctor greeted us in person when we rang his bell for the second time. We spent the remainder of the evening in his company, made a few calls with him, and then shortly before we retired, he provided a home in my system for some ten million microbes.

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Friday, May 31, 1929

Although my arm was stiff and swollen when I woke, I suffered no other ill effects from the previous day's injection. I found my appetite to be unimpaired and disposed of a breakfast that added a good many ounces to my weight and left me in a lethargic condition. When our host offered to help us on our way by driving us a dozen miles beyond the city limits, his suggestion met with no opposition from either Morrie or myself. My partner had also fortified himself for the vicissitudes of the day by wolfing down as much food as myself, if not more so.

Because the Doctor was in an accommodating mood, he would have driven us twice the promised distance had we not strenuously objected. As it was, he left us on a country road far removed from the din and congestion of Philadelphia.

I was a little apprehensive as I tried to put the pack harness over my shoulders and not without reason. With a severe twinge of pain, my arm gave notice that it would not stand for such abuse. I attempted to carry the kit in my arms with the same success as I've had in the past as a holder of babies, not a voluntary one you may be assured. It proved to be too awkward a task and had to be abandoned. I finally compromised by suspending the troublesome bundle from one shoulder and, in such manner, managed to carry on with some degree of comfort.

We felt carefree and happy as we walked along the verdant and aromatic countryside. The bracing air was still damp with the morning's dew, and we inhaled a big lungful of it. We left many miles behind us before noticing the coolness had been replaced by a sultry heat.

A cloudless sky and a dazzling, blazing sun made perspiration run from our bodies in streams. Bareheaded by reason of our own foolishness because we had not thought hats to be necessities, we were being severely punished. Our heavy burdens, the hilliness of the country being traversed, and the unaccustomed method of covering ground by self-motivation were other factors that combined to sap our strength. We hailed the few cars that passed but received only haughty looks from their drivers as they sped by.

Sometime later, we came to a shady spot located off the side of the highway. Near it was a rippling brook that flowed between overhanging trees. This sylvan nook, we agreed, was created for the sole purpose of providing a suitable resting place for the weary wayfarer, and a motion that it be so was unanimously carried.

Before we had an opportunity to retire to this oasis, however, our roving gazes fell upon two men whose figures were outlined on the hill from which we had just descended.

Were they hitchhikers? When they stopped, having evidently spied us, we knew the answer was an affirmative one. The fact that they were making no further move to decrease the distance between us proved they were experienced knights of the road and intended to keep their advantageous position. We continued to stare at them, but they seemingly did not wish to engage in a glaring contest because they tired of standing and sat down.

We knew our chances of obtaining a lift while they were in the vicinity were nil. It began to look as if our rest was to be of a longer duration than had been intended. Nevertheless, I think we both secretly thanked them for their propitious appearance that made this possible.

We wondered how to make this interval pass more pleasantly. The solution presented itself when we saw a conveniently located farm and road stand. From there we purchased milk and cookies, and we ate our picnic lunch in an environment that left nothing else to be desired. A brief nap followed. Our competitors had vanished when we looked for them an hour or so afterward, and we proceeded on our way with renewed energy.

By noon, a great deal of walking and a few short and discouraging lifts brought us to a sleepy little village nestled cozily in a green and fertile valley. As we paraded down its main street, the people on the sidewalks cast curious glances in our direction, a fact that made us feel extremely self-conscious. But this was driven from our minds by a roaring noise coming from our rear. Our thumbs began to wag furiously as we turned and saw it was caused by an approaching moving van.

Although we hardly expected the huge vehicle to stop or to receive a lift, the unexpected happened this time. It rolled to a stop alongside us, and we made known our wishes to its two drivers. We held our breaths as they looked us over. When they came to a favorable decision and agreed to give us transportation to their destination in Detroit, we felt like doing hand springs.

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Introducing Jack and George. With them, and on the moving van which they are so fondly embracing, we travelled over hill and dale for two days and nights. It was a seven hundred mile lift and took us into the city of Detroit. What a ride!

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We were told to hop into the back of the conveyance and obeyed this order with alacrity, so fearful were we that they might change their minds. It was not until we were moving that our apprehensions were relieved. We made a tour of inspection immediately thereafter and discovered a heap of padded blankets.

Seven hundred miles of travel lay ahead of us. We made ourselves at home by spreading the blankets on the floor and assuming positions conducive to complete relaxation. As our hotel on wheels rumbled steadily along, its swaying motion rocked us to sleep.

When we regained consciousness, late in the afternoon, we were at the foothills of the picturesque Allegheny Mountains. Soon the encroaching shadows of night obliterated the surrounding countryside, and it grew dark.

While the drivers were satisfying their pangs of hunger at Gettysburg, Morrie and I welcomed the opportunity to stretch our legs and take in the sights of this historic town. When the trip resumed, we were invited to share the commodious front seat with the custodians of the truck. Before long we were calling the boss of the outfit and his helper by their first names.

Jack was a rugged type of individual, full of good humor and amusing anecdotes. His assistant was of a more taciturn nature and did not believe in over-exercising his vocal cords. They were men whose opinions had not been influenced by extensive educations. Their simple outlook on life, their viewpoint on things in general, was very refreshing. We learned to like them a great deal.

According to prearranged plans, Jack and I retired at about ten o'clock. We were to take the late shift of four hours at the wheel beginning at two in the morning, and George was to call us at that time. Morrie and I, of course, were not expected to do any driving. It was taken for granted, however, that each of us would keep one of the men company during his shift, and we were glad to do this.

I was only partly successful in losing consciousness, and the various sounds connected with our progress seemed like part of a dream—the occasional blowing of a raucous horn as a hasty motorist warned us of his presence and desire to shoot by, the rush of passing cars, the flashing of lights. Now and then, the stop for road information came with shouting voices, the nerve-racking clashing of gears and their increasing whine as we gathered speed.

After a short period of oblivion, I regained my senses to find the van at a standstill and the atmosphere pungent with the smell of burnt rubber. Instead of descending an exceedingly steep grade in low gear, George had used the brakes to prevent the truck from running away and had practically ruined them. He had only succeeded in reaching the middle of the hill. There we sat, without any brakes, a deep gulch on one side of the road and on the other, a formidable wall of solid rock. Either one of these hazards would have meant disaster had the eleven-ton vehicle decided to go on a rampage.

Imagine if you can the thrill of that ride as we started for the bottom of the hill; how we all peered intently through the windshield as if to help our dim headlights pierce the darkness of the night; of the terrific pressure our feet exerted on the floor as if to stop the too-rapid progress of the truck; and of the sickly grins Morrie and I exchanged as we glanced at each other to see how the experience was affecting us. The fact that I have written this account certifies Jack’s driving ability in skillfully maneuvering us to safety.

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Saturday, June 1, 1929

With tensed nerves, we continued on into the dark night. Because it had become very cold, we all rode in the enclosed seat with George who cautiously guided the huge truck over the tortuous mountain roads. Once we lost our way and blundered over deeply rutted dirt lanes until we were directed to the main highway again.

Descending a high hill, we came to a big bus parked by the roadside. Its brakes were smoking, and steam poured from its radiator. Most of the passengers remained asleep in its comfortable interior, but a few hardy souls grouped around the raised hood. The driver’s face held a worried look as he administered to his panting charge. We stopped for a moment to offer help, but there was nothing we could do.

Only once was our progress interrupted when we stopped at a cheerfully lit lunch wagon where hot coffee temporarily warmed our chilled bodies. Then for many monotonous miles, we listened to the increasing and decreasing whine of the tireless motor as it pushed our vehicle up one hill and down another. We dozed intermittently.

Reaching comparatively level stretches of ground, the truck’s speed accelerated until it seemed to fly. Sleeping villagers were awakened by the noise of our passing. It began to grow lighter. A rooster crowed in the distance, and the countryside became visible. The sun rose above the surrounding mountains, dispersed the fog-like mist, and the long night was over.

Throughout the tiresome day, the truck devoured the miles and rolled over a road lined by an endless succession of farms. It had grown hot, and the interior of the van where Morrie and I rested upon our soft bed of blankets became uncomfortably stuffy. For a brief interlude, we sat with our feet dangling over the edge of the truck while watching the receding pavement, but the unsteady progress of the vehicle nearly bounced us off our precarious perches. We rejoined the drivers in the cab, and the weary ride continued until late this night.

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June 2, 1929

Long after midnight, we awakened from a brief nap and found the truck parked in front of a brightly illuminated house. The boys informed us we were going to take on a load of furniture. It was cold out, and we were still sleepy. The idea of working did not appeal to us, but we did not say so as we reluctantly jumped to the ground and followed the boys into the house.

Our arrival abruptly terminated a farewell party in progress. We were told to warm ourselves at an open fireplace and for a while, we stood before its leaping flames. When the chills had been driven from our bodies, we all trooped from room to room where the articles to be removed were pointed out to the leader of our expedition. He surveyed them with a thoughtful look on his face while making up his mind regarding their disposal.

The blankets that had been of so much use to us were taken from the interior of the truck, as were all the other things contained in it, and we went to work. The first and hardest job was executed with such neatness and dispatch that it greatly surprised us. Transferring a bulky piano was a comparatively simple matter to Jack and George who knew exactly how it should be done. They moved it without unduly exerting themselves and, contrary to our expectations, without our valuable assistance.

Everyone helped to carry the smaller pieces of furniture to the van where Jack quickly dispersed them. There was much shouting, yelling of directions, and running around in the dark and through the house before we were ready to leave. Preceding our departure, we were called into the kitchen and, to our surprise, were served very good hot bacon sandwiches and tea. The reason, I believe, why this beverage was served instead of the more common coffee was because our hosts were from the British Isles. Their unmistakable accent could not have been acquired elsewhere.

We were many miles on our way when George suddenly recollected that he had omitted to take an unlocking device for the piano with him. So we parked in front of a road house that was still being patronized, and George went to phone the Englishmen. One of them, he informed us upon his return, would bring it to us as soon as possible. Radio music from the nearby stand entertained us until the device was delivered, sometime later.

Early in the morning, dead tired from our exertions and lack of sufficient rest, we drove into a secluded spot. Shortly afterward, the peace of the neighborhood was disturbed by the sonorous breathing of sleeping men. This brings up the question of whether noise exists when nobody is present to hear it.

We rumbled into Detroit at noon, removed all signs of travel at a Turkish Bath, and then walked to Belle Isle, the Coney Island of the city. From there we trolleyed to the Detroit River, crossed to Windsor, Canada where we had a good meal washed down with some excellent beer, before returning to the United States. Anxious to get to St. Louis as soon as possible, we left for the outskirts of the city, found a deserted auto camp, and pitched our tent. The temperature that night dropped to thirty-five degrees, and we nearly froze.

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June 3, 1929

Fate decreed that we were not to have breakfast this morning. While approaching a lunch wagon to satisfy our gastronomical cravings, the toot of a horn attracted our attention to a dilapidated car from whose interior a hand beckoned us. An old farmer, decorated with a goatee that made him resemble no less a personage than the mythical Uncle Sam, invited us into the conveyance. When the ancient automobile, creaking as if in protest at the necessity of carrying an additional burden, started its noisy journey down the road, its owner subjected us to a severe inquisition concerning our ancestry, education and religious beliefs. When we passed the college town of Ypsilanti, he treated us to an unwelcome discourse on the respective virtues of the youth of his and present day, and decried the immorality of the younger generation. Even the fact that he said we looked like honest-to-goodness hikers didn’t make us reluctant to part from this curious individual.

More determined than ever to have our delayed morning's meal, we abandoned the road, took to the sidewalk and tried to disregard prospective rides. However, the temptation to hail an enormous Cadillac I saw from the corner of an eye, was one I could not resist. The man who drove the car was exceedingly fat, and when he pulled up to the curb, we noticed he practically filled the driver's seat. As is usually the case with persons who have more than their share of avoirdupois, he was a good-natured chap and willingly agreed to take us to South Bend with his other passenger, a ministerial student whom he was also giving a lift.

Later, while walking through the above-mentioned town after a satisfying lunch, a man whose rather irregular walk and alcoholic aroma probably accounted for his uncalled-for interest, insisted we were broke and tried to make us accept a quarter from him. We finally convinced the man as to our solvency, and he staggered away muttering at the lack of appreciation of people.

Then a big truck came along, and although we had made no effort to solicit a ride on the overloaded vehicle, it nevertheless stopped. Much to our subsequent regret, we accepted the driver's suggestion to ride on the front fenders, the only available place. With our feet braced against the bumper and our hands clutching not very substantial supports, we embarked on a ride that caused us much physical and mental pain and suffering before we completed it.

The sensation of sitting in front of a heavily laden truck as it thundered down hills that were a little too steep for comfort, was not a pleasant one. It seemed we