Diary of Two Motorcycle Hobos #essentialsofrec #recovery #AA #Lois By Lois Wilson PART VII Houseboat Diogenes, Hardy St. Pier Fort Myers, Fla. Mon., Feb. 15, 1926 My, but we were glad to get here Thursday night about 8 o’clock. The folks had been looking for us and had supper waiting. The double-decker houseboat, painted yellow with white trim, is the most attractive abode imaginable. Purple bougainvillaea covers a trellis pagoda between the boat and dock and flower boxes edge the decks. A living room, kitchen and bath with all modern conveniences are on the lower deck, with two bedrooms above. Three folding double beds, one in each bedroom and one in the living room, built-in chests, desk and wardrobes are most compact. Mother Wilson has put colorful cretonne on the chairs and at the windows, and decorated with interesting sea things and dried grasses. On the aft deck she feeds flocks of hungry wild ducks, a few coming to her hand when she calls. Most of them, though, are very shy and scatter at the least noise or unusual motion, so it had taken much patience and a long time to train even a few. Out of the hundreds of varieties of palms in Fort Myers, the only ones I have yet learned are the Cabbage, Royal, Sago and Coconut, as well as the low-growing Palmetto, from the fibrous leaves of which brushes and whisk brooms are made. The Royal Poinciana tree, sometimes called Women’s Tongues, is shaped like an umbrella, with delicate, finely cut leaves, and at this season, pods, perhaps eighteen inches long, filled with beans that rattle in the wind, hang like earrings; Banana trees bear one handsome dark purple bloom on a long stem; water hyacinths crowd all the roadside ditches; the Flame Vine, with bright orange blossoms, climbs over every available post or tree; the Sleepy Hibiscus never fully opens its blossoms as the wide-awake varieties do; poinsettias grow ten to fifteen feet high, and although still in bloom, most of the leaves have fallen off. Many challenging projects have been constructed lately in Florida; the concrete Gandy Bridge, six miles long crosses the bay from Tampa to St. Petersburg; lakes are made where there was dry land and dry land where there was water; a man named Davis has pumped sand from the sea bottom and made a large island near Tampa. A plan is afoot to make a causeway and bridge on the unfinished Tamiami Trail, by filling in this part of the Caloosahatchee River, forcing Mother W., and the doctor to move the houseboat. Stucco Spanish type dwellings are very popular here, some of which are built with imagination, but many of them are unpardonably ugly. Truly beautiful subdivisions do exist, however, like the ones outside of Jacksonville and Fort Myers; many others are poorly conceived and dismally located, the prices of all being sky high. The most depressing are the abandoned, half-finished developments, where people have lost their entire investments. Both Ford and Edison have homes in Fort Myers that appear unpretentious, old-fashioned New England homes, but dense foliage makes them almost invisible from the road or water. We are visiting with the folks, basking in the glorious sunshine, riding around the countryside, observing many interesting sights, and enjoying loafing after our strenuous trip down. Hardy St. Pier Sat., Feb. 20, 1926 Yesterday was like Christmas all over again, for we received a box of wonderful gifts from Mother--the pen with which I am writing, goodies, and a nice wooly dress for later when we drive north (it is too hot now to even think of wool); Bill has smelled grand all day from his new shaving soap. Each day we have expected the houseboat to be moved. More than a week ago the men promised to drive the piles at the Fowler St. Pier. At that time the carpenters pulled the boards off the boat’s gangplank, placing the heavy flower boxes along only one side of the deck, which of course caused a bad list. Consequently the oil would not feed into the stove, the icebox door hung open, and the water pipe was broken. While we were all away one day, the iceman, climbing over the makeshift gangplank, dropped the ice into the river, and has not shown up since. At another time I was pressing Bill’s pants, when the iron suddenly got cold--an electrician had cut the wires; but before nightfall Bill had spliced them, and we were in business again. In addition, after Bill had fixed the water pipe, a storm swung the boat back and forth so violently that the pipe was broken again. Dr. Strobel was terribly nervous during the storm, afraid the trellis and plants would be smashed; but we pulled through without too much damage. To complicate matters, Dora and Percy Strobel, with the two boys, arrived in their Buick to spend the night. Percy had just been offered a partnership in the engineering company where he works, which of course pleases his father. But we had no water, no food, no extra sheets, and as this was Sunday, none could be bought. Then Mother W. had her turn at being upset, it being the worst possible time for unexpected guests. She hates housekeeping anyway, but hates worse not to be gracious, and not to have the house neat and clean, with plenty of good food. So she scrubs and polishes and cooks for dear life, hating it all the time. Therefore, we lugged in water, washed sheets, pillowcases and towels, hung them in the quick-drying sun and took our guests to a cafeteria for supper. Fowler St. Pier Thurs., Feb. 25, 1926 Finally the piles for our new mooring are ready, and after waiting two or three days more for someone to tow us, we at last got started. It was fun being pulled up the river by a tiny motorboat. The towing man claimed to know the Caloosahatchee River, its channels and tides, but when we were about one hundred feet from the new pier, the boat stuck on the he bottom, and pull as he would, he could not budge it. So he left it there and we were stranded for the night. About 2 A.M. the doctor, feeling the rise of the tide, began to pole the boat ahead, and before long, with the aid of the rest of us awakened by the movement, had the boat tied up at the new platform. It was still a couple of days, though, before we had electricity, and as yet there is no water. Although the remainder of the lengthy pier is empty, another boat has docked so near that we can almost touch it. No one being on hand to direct the pile driving man, he did the easiest thing--used one of our piles and drove in only one new one. The doctor and Mother W. are very unhappy with the situation, not only because of the lack of privacy, but because the other boat is in bad repair, and hence detracts from the renting or selling value of this one. Mother W. has offered to pay for the driving of new piles and the bowing of the other boat further down the pier. The pile driver man told Bill that because he got stuck when here before, he would not come in again. So that is that. The first Sunday in Ft. Myers we drove to Crescent Beach for a picnic. Bill and I went bathing, strolled on the beach and found delicate shells, sea urchins, lovely orange and purple seafans, several kinds of sponges, and a type of seaweed that, when dry, resembles a snake’s skeleton. Another day we drove to Punta Russa, the little fishing village on the gulf where the news first arrived of the sinking of the battleship Maine. We were fascinated by a line of pelicans diving through the air to catch in their huge beaks, before it touched the water, the refuse thrown overboard from a fishing boat nearing the shore. Every post of the pier was decorated by a pelican finial. One day at Estero we visited a strange community called “The Koreshan Unity.” Koresh, the founder of the semi-religious, semi-scientific sect, believed that we are living on the inside of the planet Earth, instead of the outside. Upon entering the “Unity” the hundred or so members give all their worldly goods to the community and work without pay, the Unity supplying their needs. In charming thatched huts they ply their various crafts, and at the moment many are preparing for an exhibition of their handiwork. One peculiar old codger undertook to explain their “inside the earth” theory: out into the bay for several miles stakes were set at right angles to the shore, all supposedly the same height above the water and equidistant from each other. He contended, though it didn’t look that way to us, that the stakes farthest out are above the level of those nearby, thus proving to them that we live on a concave, not a convex, surface. No ship disappears under the horizon, in their book. He later took us in his motorboat for a delightful trip down a narrow, winding river, while telling us stories and reciting doggerel of his own manufacture. Probably a poser, a bluffer, or even a charlatan, he was nevertheless entertaining. For some unknown reason a reporter came to the boat the other day to ask us all “How come?” To Mother W. and the doctor--how come the houseboat, and to Bill and me--how come the motorcycle. We all tried to explain at once, with the most confusing result, as evidenced in this morning’s paper. Bill, recently turned thirty, was termed, “a youngerly man just entering middle age.” His mother rose up in arms saying, “Why, the very idea! He is barely out of his twenties!” Bill’s explanation of his stock market activities was more than wasted, for the report said he had “a deep insight into some sinister methods.” Dr. Strobel was practically in tears about his quoted remark that he had “forgotten surgery,” being afraid one of his colleagues at the Memorial Hospital in New York would see it. The poor reporter must have been dazed by the various stories shouted at him and pinned the tail on the wrong donkey, so to speak. At last we are well settled at the Fowler St. Pier. New flower boxes have been made and filled with geraniums, and the water pipes are connected. One never realizes what a blessing running water is until it has to be carried in buckets. River water is too salty for plants or even for cleaning. Water in the artesian well on shore is too sulphury to drink without boiling, but all right for cooking; the sulphur evaporates entirely when it stands long enough. The water is terrible everywhere in Florida. It is lovely at this pier in spite of the closeness of the other boat. Sunsets across the mile-wide river are magnificent, especially from the upper deck; the moon rises over the exotic gardens on the estate of Burroughs, the adding machine magnate; and an exquisite odor of orange blossoms is wafted on the air. Crab fishing off the back porch was fun the other day. All we did was to fasten a chunk of meat to a nail at the end of a string, and we caught 21 crabs in as many minutes. At the moment a crab feels the air it tries to drop off. The trick is to give it a quick flip into a pail at the water’s surface. With practice we became expert. As Mother W. had planned something else for supper, we threw them all back, thinking we could not provide a meal at any time. But the next day, when we needed them for supper, not a bite did we get. So we have never tasted Florida crabs. At first the state seems dull and “samey,” but on closer look the plants and birds are most varied and colorful; everytime we go for a ride we bring home armfuls of new and different flowers. The tall straight, ringed, cement-like trunks and feather-duster plumes of the Royal Palms, lining most every road in Ft. Myers, are very impressive. One luxuriant evergreen with spines on trunk and branch is called the Monkey Puzzle Tree. Many plants blossom the whole year around--a continuous performance, orange trees even bearing fruit and blooms at the same time. We have just had new spokes put in the wheel of the sidecar, and it nearly broke us. Prices are very high here, the only cheap thing being grapefruit. At the local packing house, we can get all we want free by simply helping ourselves to “culls”--fruit with blemishes on the skin or of odd size. I wanted to send some to Mother, but decided they were too ripe to pack. I did send her a box of nuts, shells, seafans, coconuts, women’s tongues, etc., packed in heavy underwear we no longer need. Fowler St. Pier Thurs., March 11, 1926 We had a most interesting experience today. The four of us ferried in a launch, about five miles out into the gulf, to Sanabel Island, fourteen miles long and undeveloped except for a few cottages, a small hotel, and a tanning factory for shark and porpoise skins. Mother W. wanted to see a friend there who she hoped might buy the houseboat. On Sanabel beach, noted for its beautiful and unusual shells, there was no one around except two girls, one of whom knew all the shells by name--butterfly, angel wing, turkey wing, devil’s toe nail, etc. Besides a stunning orange seafan and a huge starfish, I found a big conch with a beastie inside, its foot used as a door to lock itself in. As Bill and I played along the beach, a big ship hove in view, and after casting anchor, a motorboat shoved off towards the beach. Having heard rumors that Henry Ford had just arrived in Fort Myers, we guessed it was his yacht, and sure enough, when easing up the beach I recognized his lanky figure in straw katy and long flowing duster. The party of six, all equipped with baskets, was busily picking up shells, so the two girls and I helped them find unique ones. Mrs. Ford told us she wanted to find interesting shells for her friends, as they had never before been to the seashore. Bill would not go near the Ford party, saying, “I won’t intrude on the Dall of all flivvers.” They were gracious and friendly, and when the girls and I gave them most of our collections, mentioning we were from New York, Henry smiled pleasantly, returned, “We are from Detroit.” (As if we hadn’t guessed.) Later Bill ran into a man who said, “It must be very shallow for your yacht out there.” (His mistake is understandable, as Bill and Henry are both tall and lanky.) After telegraphing Punta Russa for a boat, we sped across the bay just at sunset. Pelicans flying low in line were silhouetted against the sinking sun. The foam in the boat’s wake reflected a lovely shade of lavender, and the peaks of the waves were touched with orange. Although the folks did not sell the houseboat, it was a glorious day. The mystery of Ford’s whereabouts is amusing to read about in the papers. “He and Mrs. Ford and his new treasurer and his wife, Mr. and Mrs. Ives, left Punta Russa Monday night in the Ford yacht and none of their agents nor employees know where they went.” We could help them out. Edison sat near us at the movies one night, so we have hob-nobbed with celebrities while here. A gusty wind this afternoon bounced the houseboat around so gayly on the choppy waves that Bill found discretion the better part of valor and did his reading in the motorcycle on the stable pier. This is the second time that the boat has given Willie the Willies. Fowler St. Pier Tues., March 16, 1926 Tomorrow we leave for Brewster where phosphate beds are Bill’s first objective, staying, we expect, only a day or so before driving on to Tampa. We are not going to Miami, at least not until after Tampa. Because the Tamiami Trail through the Everglades is not yet open, one must go north nearly to Barstow to cross the state. Besides, Bill is loath to draw money from Bayliss and Co. (where he has an account) until the market improves, and living in Miami is expensive. Several repairs are needed on the motorcycle. They did such a terrible job here of putting in new spokes that Bill thinks Tampa is a better place to have the work done. In spite of the wonderful time we have had here, we feel we must hit the road again. When Mother W. gave us $20 for the trip, Bill said he would take it only as a loan. However, she explained it was a coupon on a bond left her by Bill’s grandpa, who would want us to use it--for which we are mighty thankful.
Posted on: Sun, 21 Sep 2014 11:26:15 +0000
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