Part Love Story, Part Travelogue Pt 3

Our
Love – Story

My Grandmother Margaret E. Winslow, 1908

BY SWEETHEART (SHARED BY J. STEWART)

( click here for other installments)

Installment #3:

Previously: ...wherefore you turned your gaze upon the streaky landscape until you felt someone sit down beside you.

There was the minister from home who was to be your guardian on the trip. You thought of him as needing a guardian in turn but he was from home and a minister besides. You felt bound to respect any judgment he considered it his duty to make, in spite of his youth and conceit.

“How are you, Miss Margaret, all settled and cosy? Now don’t fall in love with more than one at the same time and remember that you are growing younger every day.” That was an attempt at wit, which delighted him so hugely that he blinked his eyes rapidly and then looked at you meltingly from their corners. You recognized the joke and it was not the speech. With all the dignity you could command, Other Girl, you assured him that you were doing nicely and intended to fall in love with nothing but the scenery and the Wanderlust. You must be laughing at yourself wherever you are, Miss Runaway, because considering how soon you were put to the test after that brave intention you retreated rather precipitately.

On a tour of inspection thru the train, you met the Eckert girls and their mother, whom you knew slightly at home, and they invited you into their drawing room. The girls informed you that there wasn’t a decent man aboard but “your minister,” and to alleviate their suffering on that score you introduced them to him and watched him roll his eyes at them with marked effect.

My Grandmother Margaret being silly with a feather in her hair! This photo was taken in Sedgwick, Maine (1908) and so I assume it could be a seagull feather.

When the porter had come thru with paper bags and you had been initiated into the hat-swather’s society, you began to arrange your house so that you might feel at home. The opening of your suitcase sounded like the announcement of a French Revolution, for it was packed so full that with the springing of the lock, a scattering shot off articles of all descriptions, flew about the section. You glanced at the Missus Perkins only to see them jerk their heads guiltily toward their window. Of course you can’t have forgotten the final settling of your window sills and opposite seat, which caused the loquacious porter to remark, “Pardon me, Miss, but I just naturally got to observe that you certainly are a bum housekeeper.” Two diaries, three books, notepaper and envelopes, timetables, folders, and catalogues were scattered in tempting confusion on the seat. Father’s picture and your big bottle of tooth-powder decorated the sills; a pair of pumps peeped out from under the seat. Consequent upon your “bum housekeeping,” the porter discovered that you were born in Chicago; a sportive crowd auctioned off your tooth-powder from a station platform; and several visitors asked sarcastic permission to remove the “library” that they might employ the seat for its original destiny.

I haven’t forgotten either, Other Girl, how intensely interesting everything was that first day. At Syracuse ~ you don’t know why I jumped at that name ~ most of the party promenaded for a little change, and watched with quickened observation, the trainmen testing the wheels by the light of flaring torches. After supper and a foregathering in the Eckert’s drawing room where you all repeated for the fortieth time in awed chorus, “Can it be true?” you went back to your section, swept everything impartially to the floor and waited for George to allay your curiosity. Soon he came thru the green-curtained aisle, gleaming white as to the lower part of his face, for you amused him. His skill displayed and your seat transformed into a white bed, you crawled into the curtains and struggled. While the suit-case was being wrestled with to give up some of its contents which were necessary for retiring, the kindly-faced conductor passed your berth and patted your shoulder which protruded from the curtain. “Goodnight, little girl,” he said and you thanked him with your eyes which soon were closed in an effort to woo sleep to their tempted lids.

From my Grandmother Margaret E. Winslow's "Western Trip" photo album. "in Clotho" will (sort of) be explained in the text. Margaret is on the left. Maybe the other woman is one of the Eckert sisters that she refers to.

The train stopped and your watch said midnight. Then this was Buffalo, and you strained your eyes for a glimpse of the Falls. Under the light of the full moon you could imagine them fairylike but they were not to be seen. A commotion of baggage and voices at the other end of the car caused you to satisfy your curiosity. Impetuously you thrust your head between the curtains; your long, dark braid swung down and your eyes looked straight into the eyes of a man who was evidently to be a passenger in your car. That look made you withdraw your head quickly and lay it down upon the pillow where it tossed and turned the rest of the night.

The morning found The Special at Detroit and most of the passengers descending from the train to the deck of the ferryboat upon which the cars were being convoyed to the Canadian shore. You heard the Conductor ask one of the ladies if the little girl in Clotho were up so that he might show her the river, but the little girl referred to was not in clothes and had to miss a conductored tour. With that second day you began to love “Grandma,” the dear old lady in Section 4; classify and analyze your neighbors, write voluminously in your journal, and enjoy the trip beyond your expectation because of your new acquaintance, the man who had boarded at Buffalo. He proved to be a minister of unusual mental attainments and exceptional personality. Abrupt and epigrammatic as to speech, rough and countrified as to appearance, sympathetic, fine and reverential as to personality, you felt as if you had met a man whose friendship you would prize and whose approval you desired. In the days which followed you were reminded often of Abraham Lincoln because of the continued strength and sweetness which you discovered in Mr. Baldwin’s nature. “Grandma” admired him, too and called you two her “grandchildren” which gave you the liberty to do all the little things for her that you had been wishing you might do.