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.