My father’s reduced salary during the Depression did not deter my parents from riding our black Chevrolet bus. Most of the trips were necessary. Grandma Stuart spent half the year with us, the other half with Mom’s sister. Twice a year, I would see the countryside between Pittsburgh and Ritchie County, West Virginia, as I sat amid Grandma’s prized possessions piled up between us in the backseat that neither of us could escape until one of my parents got out of the car and tilted their seat. forward.
Although West Virginia was our main destination every time we left Pittsburgh, we took several more trips as I grew up to satisfy my mother’s love affair with history and her desire for new perspectives.
Lack of money was our biggest restriction. Our car was ready to travel, but my parents couldn’t afford to spend the night in tourist homes run by widows or elderly couples. With cleanliness being the main criterion for her selections, Mother developed a regular inspection ritual that allowed her to find the perfect tourist home. Clean bathrooms with Lysol and stain-free mattresses were high on their list of requirements. His sensitive nose was alert to mold, mildew, and other troubling conditions; at the same time, he sought out sun-dried sheets and jars of herbs or potpourri for the pleasant scents he considered vital to gentleness.
One trip took us to Cleveland, where Mom and Dad had spent their honeymoon. We were drawn in by an Expo designed to generate tourism and business in the city during the depths of the Depression. What impressed me the most was the delicious orange sherbet that was sold at the fair stalls, a group of dwarves dressed in Western garb singing “I’m An Old Cowhand” and a deceptive display of mirrors that separated the head of a woman of his body.
Just as the Dionne Quintuplets fascinated the rest of the world, they also amazed my parents. Both former teachers interested in all aspects of studying the children, they followed the Quint’s progress from the day Dr. Defoe broke the news of their birth to the world. When the caregivers of the children created a unique playroom where their children could play happily, oblivious to the fact that they were being monitored through a one-way window, my parents began planning a trip to the far away country of Canada. Perhaps they continued their daring journey in hopes of discovering new ideas to become a model child.
We left Pittsburgh in August, but the weather turned chilly the second night as we passed the Nabisco Wheat Mill in Niagara Falls. Several days later, we arrived in the small town of Callender, Ontario, not far from North Bay, in the middle of a heavy snow storm.
That journey, risky for the time, provided my parents with experiences that they relived over and over again through the photographs my father took with his Kodak brownie camera. We and other tourists divided into small groups and were led into a hallway from which we could look into a game room where the Quint played. They were not disturbed by the crowds passing through the structure because they could not see anyone through the magic window. As we emerged from the hallway into a gift shop, we were propelled over to Papa Dionne, who was sitting at a table signing photos of his daughters. His older sons collected the coins they charged everyone, presumably contributions to family expenses. I remember the father reluctantly handing over a quarter, but when we were out of range of the audition, he muttered to Mom that people without the funds to support children shouldn’t have them. This was the philosophy that the concerned public espoused during the Depression, when the typical family had one and a half children. Most of my friends were just kids like me.
On the way back to Pittsburgh, we stopped near Erie, Pennsylvania, to view the lake where Commodore Perry’s flagship, “Niagara,” defeated the British during the War of 1812 by flying the flag of “Do not renounce the boat “made by my mother’s ancestor. , Margaret Forster Stuart. The charred remains of the “Niagara” protruded from the lake bed, a pitiful sight, but one mother exclaimed in amazement at its historical value and dark family connection.
After a walk around Presque Isle, we returned to the car. I had already gotten into the back seat and Mom was getting into the front. Believing that she was settled, the father showed his gentlemanly manners by closing the door for her. Instantly, Mom’s screams broke the afternoon calm. Father had accidentally closed the door on her hand. Although it took several months for her to regain use of the fingers on her right hand, Mom considered that trip one of the most enjoyable she had ever made.
His favorite trip, by all accounts, was the visit to Williamsburg, Virginia, shortly after it was restored and opened to the public. Along the way, we stopped at Monticello and Mount Vernon and took a winding, unpaved road part of the way into West Virginia just so my parents could show me “The Saddle,” the dip in the Blue Ridge Mountains believed to be the site of the cabin where Nancy Hanks, mother of Abraham Lincoln, was born.
The road from Winchester (where we saw the famous tree growing outside the house and the cannonball embedded in the side of a house) to “The Saddle” was very poor. Paved with steep rocks, it invited puncturing tires at every turn. I remember four on that one stretch of road. As he always did for these types of emergencies, the father donned the mechanic’s overalls that he carried in a kit before meticulously repairing the inner tubes and tires.
While my father worked, my mother and I stood by the road studying the wildflowers and looking for small creatures that ran through the tall grass. Progress was slow on the tires, giving us ample opportunity to examine the flora and fauna of the countryside and allowing me to learn about American history and that of our family in particular.
Through my parents’ conversations, I met the Pritchards as they progressed from Thomas the Carpenter, who came to Jamestown in 1620 to help build a fort for the Virginia Company, to their descendants as they advanced through the Commonwealth of Virginia. . Each generation moved twenty to thirty miles westward, from Westmoreland, Prince William, Fairfax, and Loudoun counties of Virginia to Allegany and Garrett counties of Maryland, and finally to the westernmost reaches of Virginia (destined to become West Virginia) through Monongalia, Harrison, Lewis and Ritchie Counties. Along the way, they became the strong West Virginia clan dedicated to each other and to their home state.
On Mother’s side, the Bells and Stuarts, Scots transplanted to Northern Ireland, came to the United States in the early 18th century to escape British oppression. Like the Pritchards, they easily moved into the wild and established their own El Dorados in western Pennsylvania. For my parents, their car trips were opportunities to retrace the paths their adventurous ancestors had opened. I often found that my father was less enthusiastic than my mother in following these treacherous ways. After all, he was responsible for repairing the tires in less than desirable condition.
No matter where my parents traveled, West Virginia cuisine was their hallmark of excellence. Whether they were in Clarksburg, Parkersburg, Wheeling or out of state, they viewed the YMCA coffee shops as exceptional adventures in fine dining, as indeed they were for many years, with prices that were unbeatable for their value. Where else can you get a delicious chicken and meatball dinner for fifteen cents?
My parents never forgot the delicious meals served to them at the YMCAs of West Virginia. When, many years later, my father dined in the legendary dining room of the Algonquin Hotel in New York City, he compared the YMCA food of his memories to the lone piece of haddock and a single boiled potato that a caring waiter carefully served in his dish. Neither the dried fish nor the high price of the meager food met with approval. For the first and only time in his life, the father “made a scene.”
As he shoved the waiter the money, he straightened up and said, “We’ve eaten at some of the best restaurants in the east, including Bailey’s Cafeteria in Huntington, West Virginia, and this is hands down the worst.” food I’ve ever had! “
The waiter tried to refrain from expressing his amusement and replied seriously, “I’m so sorry that the Algonquin didn’t live up to your expectations. Maybe our chef can visit Bailey’s cafeteria … uh … one day to try to improve. our menus “.
“It would be a good idea,” said the father. “I could learn a lot.”
As we ran out of the dining hall famous for years as “a gathering place for smart and interesting people,” the mother laughed appreciatively and agreed with the father that the reputation of a celebrity chef does not guarantee that his food will meet his expectations. expectations.