Jim
23. Back and wondering why. December 22, 1958–August 25, 1959
The Vossberg Building, suite 7, redux
Upon their return from Ireland, the Powers family stayed with Betty’s parents, the Wahls, in their place on the Mississippi. The idea was to find a house to buy with the ten thousand dollars that Art had promised to give them for that purpose if they returned to the area.
KATHERINE ANNE PORTER
[North River Road, St. Cloud, Minnesota]
December 22, 1958
Dear Katherine Anne,
Back and wondering why, of course, and wishing I’d got this off to you in time for Christmas. We sailed from Cobh on Nov. 30, docked late in N.Y. (8:00 p.m.), which is no time to arrive with five children and nineteen pieces, including five trunks and five packing cases. There we were more or less slaughtered (our sensibilities and finances) by the porters and coopers and agents for the one “approved” transport company, all of whom struck me as members of the Mafia. A Negro customs inspector, however, proved to be a human being, by getting Betty and the children out of the place so they could get a cab to a hotel.
We had hoped to go on west the day we arrived, but the boat being late fixed that. I had tried for three weeks before we left Ireland to find out what would happen to my trunks and cases, especially them, when I docked, whether the railroad freight people would pick them up. I tried to find out what railroad we’d be traveling on when we got to New York. (My publisher, as it turned out, hired a travel agency to handle all this detail, and I was to be met by a man who would nurse us through customs, etc.) I called from Newfoundland, off Newfoundland, that is, to say we’d be late but didn’t manage to get a word in edgewise; the girl at the publisher’s kept saying DO NOT WORRY. NO MATTER WHAT TIME YOUR SHIP DOCKS, OUR MAN WILL BE THERE TO MEET YOU. Me: “About the freight…” DO NOT WORRY. THAT’S IN THE PACKAGE TOO. “About the train, our Pullman reservations…” DO NOT WORRY. Me: “Well, thank you.” THANK YOU! WE ARE CANCELING OUR CABLE TO YOU SAYING DO NOT WORRY. “Yes. Well, thank you.” THANK YOU FOR CALLING.
As it turned out, I had to pay the Century Transportation Company for transporting my packing cases to, as it turned out, a trucking shipper; because of the airline strikes, there was trouble about the Pullman reservations, so that we were left with one unredeemable double bedroom ($25), my ship-to-shore call not having been conveyed to the travel agency; no allowance was made for “family plan” from Chicago to Minnesota ($25 loss); the [travel agency’s] man left early, after being absent for the first fifteen minutes after disembarkation (picture man and wife and five children standing under the letter P not worrying).
Betty and children got out of it, though with no night clothing, and three hours later I followed, having had the worst time of my life. The cooper who axed into the packing cases in which I had things like a Sheraton barometer, Waterford glass decanters, and satinwood cane chairs cut his finger and therefore had to be adequately compensated for his injury: my heart broke to see how he nailed up the cases again (for which I had had stencils made which said FRAGILE and an arrow pointing up), but I was able to have them strapped with steel bands by paying the Mafia. I got a very good deal from Al of Century Transportation Company, who thought I ought to “take care” of Joe, who was writing up the tickets for the packing cases; Joe later thought I ought to take care of Al, who had given me a very good deal; and so on; and on.
I managed to borrow forty dollars the next day from a friend in New York, and so we left in a blaze of prosperity for Chicago. The train was an hour and a half late, and our plans went awry again. But we did get to St Paul ultimately, and then here by car. The barometer is on the wall in this knotty-pine basement room, and an 18th-century print also, both fruits of my attendance at auctions in Dublin, and the trunks, which went as baggage, finally arrived, after a week of not worrying about them. (I relaxed Sunday afternoon in N.Y. and forgot to redeem them at Penn Station and arrange that they be sent on as baggage, relaxed with Betty and my friend and his wife over some of our duty-free Irish whiskey, that is.)
Oh, the joys of travel! And yet, unless we find a house we can stand to look at here, which seems unlikely at the moment, I see no course open but to set out for somewhere again. Meanwhile, we swarm all over this little rambler house, and I don’t even think of working. The prospect isn’t promising, but I suppose I at least will have to pull myself together and start working pretty soon somehow. Now how are you? Happy New Year.
Jim
Art and Money left for their place in Florida, planning to return in April, by which time everyone expected that Jim and Betty would have found a place of their own. Happily, Jim was able to rent his old office in downtown St. Cloud.
HARVEY EGAN
St Cloud
January 5, 1959
Dear Fr Egan,
The last words typed by this typewriter originated in my office on Westland Row. I am now writing from my old office above Walgreen’s — which is somewhat singed from the fire next door, but then aren’t we all? It was not my intention to write to you today, or tomorrow for that matter, for there are times when silence is the better part, but something just happened — something so symbolic that I thought you ought to know about it. You recall King Alfred’s hard times, don’t you, when it was a spider who gave him strength, inspiration rather, to go on. I seem to remember that Bruce, or Douglas, had a similar experience. Well, in my case, it is a ladybug. It was lying half frozen against the sill, and then the sun trickled in, shining first on the diocesan exchange building, which is a powerhouse of Catholic Action, and then, having nothing better to do, shining in here on me and the ladybug (we are both wearing orange-red, by the way). Now the ladybug has gathered its strength and is walking around the envelope which I intend to put this letter in. I’d say the bug, if it watches itself and sticks close to the radiator, will be all right. As for me, I anxiously await inspiration, wondering if I’ve already had it and if I need a stronger charge than Alfred and the others.
Let me telescope it for you. I’ve spent fifty on the car and a certain amount of time waiting on the garageman. I’ve been to several affairs sponsored by members of the Movement up here: no change except for a little ram’s wool in Leonard’s beard. The Wahls left for Florida yesterday. The girls are enrolled at Holy Angels school, and by a singular combination of circumstances I drive them to school (today is the first day): school begins at 8:15 a.m. We have found one house that just might do, though I personally feel very shaky about it (and about the whole picture — as does Betty, I think, but she is slower to entertain thoughts of turncoatery). Anyway we are now prepared to entertain you and George anytime you care to venture up. My radiator gives off a keening sound, and I must draw closer to it. This building has only about a year to live. My shirt is threadbare, and my cushions are dead. Our bishop gave a talk on TV yesterday (Alexandria station), only a half hour, all too short.