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.