The first letter

Sometime during the week of June 4, 1933, Lewis Thaddeus Nordyke of Cottonwood, Texas (really, a farm nearby) and Dorothy Alice Beeman of 2202 Fillmore, Amarillo, Texas received their Bachelor of Journalism degrees from the School of Journalism, The University of Missouri, Columbia, Missouri.

The next task, getting back to Texas. Easy enough for Dottie. Her dad worked for the Santa Fe; that meant railroad passes for the family. (This explains Dottie's multiple coming and goings later in the story.) Her mom, the inappropriately named Fred Brown Beeman, had made a quick journey up when they discovered Dottie would indeed graduate and not have to take a summer correspondence course. (More about this later as the tale unfolds in the letters.) Easy enough then, Fred and Dottie hopped on a westward heading Santa Fe, probably on Wednesday, June 6.

Things weren't going to be that easy for Lewis. He had no money. Family legend has it that he went to the station to tell Dottie goodbye. He explained in this letter that he didn't kiss her because of the "kids" who were there. I think it was more likely that it was Fred who was there. Nevertheless, when they touched hands for a final good-bye, Dottie slipped Lewis the $5 bill that was her spending money for the trip home. I told this story at her funeral, and not one of her four brothers disputed me. One of them thanked me for telling it.

Lewis then headed out in the car of his friend Dunn (apparently first nameless for purposes of this story) to the highway home, wished Dunn good luck on his adventures, and

 "walked up the highway a short distance and started the business of thumbing (not my nose)at people. It was eight o'clock. I stood there until one-thirty in the afternoon before a car even slowed or showed signs of stopping. Finally one stopped and I rode in it eight miles."

It was the launch of a hard trip. He says he almost turned back convinced that he'd never make it to Texas, but he caught another ride and was on his way. Sunday, he arrived home.  He had a reunion with his family. And, to his delight, found a letter from Dottie waiting for him. [Aside--wish I could find her half of this correspondence--dare I go look in the attic?. Scary thought.]

This had to be a huge reunion. I'm guessing here, and unless it comes out in the letters , I will never know, but, probably, he had not been home in almost two years. Lewis had no money, and his family had less. They were hard scrabble central Texas farmers in the middle of a drought in the middle of the depression. Their energies all focused on keeping the farm, not helping out a son in his late twenties who was going to school instead of working. Likely from the time he head to the University probably in fall of 1931 until this Sunday morning he had not seen a kinfolk.

He reported that it was a long day.

“Getting home and seeing all the folks was grand; with your swell letter added, yesterday was one great day for me. Why, I didn't even go to bed until nine-thirty last night, and it had been just exactly thirty nine hours since I had closed an eye.”

Now, on  Monday, rested up and forward-looking he took pen in hand, lamenting the lack of a typewriter and started off on eight pages of cramped handwriting recounting the details of the trip--some good times, a couple of funny ones, one scary encounter. Life on the road is an adventure.

Dottie had apparently asked if he got hungry on the trip.

"No, dear, I didn't get hungry but once on the entire trip. . .See I was getting so many good rides I didn't get a chance to eat anything from six in the morning to six-thirty in the evening; that that was the day I rode with the [new] friend who gave me food, drink and lodging."

I'll share some of his adventures in the next entry--maybe.

Now he was home, and about to leave again. He had a job interview Tuesday with Rufus Higgs, the publisher of the Stephenville weekly newspaper. Lewis had worked on the paper when he moved to Stephenville several years before to attend John Tarleton, then a two years school, and then to teach there while he accumulated the money for Missouri.

The Texas Press Association had elected Higgs president; he was going to need help with the paper since he'd be traveling a great deal. But there were lots of applicants and one very nervous young man on the farm near Cottonwood.

“I'll let you know what comes of the trip. I feel, tho, as if I've nearly got to get the job. I just don't know what I'll do if something knocks me out of getting that place. Guess I'll make it somehow tho.”

He closes (they were after all in love) with tender words and hope for an early reunion.

In an early entry here, I'll share some of Lewis's on-the-road experiences, and then I am going to back up, give some details of the early lives of Lewis and Dottie, and share some of my own feelings and thoughts about these letters. Oh, how I could reach out and embrace this young man. Tell him not to worry so much. But there are other things I would not tell him.

Harder than I thought

This is harder than I thought. Or, maybe more precisely, I’m making this harder than I have to. I’m trying not to work on this. I work on other things. I finished one assignment—a social history of Houston in 750 words—almost impossible! I did the proofs on article for Houston History making it a much bigger job than necessary. I’m going to the Organization of American Historians annual meeting later this week. Monday, I’ll hop on another assignment from Houston History. I’ve done gardening at “the house without a yard.” (See my other blog  http://trillap.blogspot.com/ for more about that.)Do I sound busy? I should sound like I’m stalling since that is exactly what I’m doing.

            I have the letters sorted by year; I have 1933 by month; June by date. I read the first one. It is the only long handwritten one—and is it ever long! I transcribed it—the paper is too frail to stand handling. It’s almost 3000 words written by hand in one afternoon. I'll share some of the details.

            Now that’s something to look forward to.

            Next time.

More about Lewis

What a treat. I’ve decided that before I decide what to do about this trove, I need to read the letters. So, slowly, I’m starting. And as I said—what a treat.

            For lots of reasons. First, Lewis, as I’m beginning to think of him more and more, was an excellent writer. The letters are fun to read.

            But, for me, of course, there is more. Lewis died when I was 19 as I’ve mentioned. I’m getting to know him, and my mother as well, for the young woman who is the recipient of the letters and clearly the object of so much love springs alive from the pages as well.

            As I’m reading, I don’t have a great deal to blog about—although I may tell some good stories as I uncover them.  I have two I’m thinking about. But meanwhile here’s a bit more about the man I’m getting to know.

            He grew up on a farm in rocky, dry Texas not far from Abilene. He wrote a book about his boyhood there—Nubbin Ridge. It was published the month after he died in 1960.

            And here’s one story about one of my sons. He knew his father’s father—Grampa—who was a reticent though loving man. One day Patrick said to me, “I feel like I know Granddaddy (Lewis) so much better than I know Grampa, because I knew Granddaddy when he was a boy.” He’d been reading Nubbin Ridge.

             Meanwhile, meet Lewis as a dapper young man. Isn't he dashing?

     

And here's more about Lewis--       

http://www.cowboydirectory.com/N/n-or.html

http://www.tshaonline.org/handbook/online/articles/fno04

I like the Cowboy Directory, but it does have the year of college graduation wrong. It was 1933. I’ll contact them and get it right.

Quick Count

First year counted. Between June and December, 1933, (They graduated from the University of Missouri in late May or early June) between 150 and 160--hard to tell exactly since some envelopes are empty and some letters aren't in envelopes. Most are typed, single-spaced and two pages.

The Bag--finally--is empty

The bag--finally--is empty, as of this morning.

And

I’m back with the blog; so is the story. A couple of reasons for the absence. The one I’ll readily give is that I got busy, busy in a writing project and this fell by the wayside. That’s a reason, but the real reason is that I got overwhelmed.

So much! So many memories. More than just the letters, letters, letters. But notes and clipping from Mother’s high school days, my sister’s baby book, mine too, but come on! second child, not much stuff, and then suddenly a “young wife” letter from me, my family’s WWII ration books, a letter from my uncle away at war. What to do? How to sort?

            Mostly though, it was the youngish man who wrote those hundreds of letters full of hope and dreams. I feel like a peeping tom, and worse. I know what is going to happen. I fill with sadness that his life would be so short—barely 25 years left to live those dreams. I know. He doesn’t.

            I touch a letter written on my birthday—five years before the day I was born, and another sadness fills me. I, the grown-up me, never really knew this man. When he died, I was 19, just nibbling on the edges of being grown. I was always the little girl and he was Daddy, in charge. We never got to be friends. I didn’t know until my own children grew up and I watched them become friends and pals with their dad that I realized the gap in my life.

            These letters bring it back. I ached. I walked away.

           

            Now I’m back. But where to begin? It is my mother’s box. They are letters to her. But the story in the letters is Lewis’s.

           

            Then, that’s where I’ll start. That’s where I have started. I’ve pulled both 1933 files. I will count them; put them in order, and then, begin to read. My knees almost lock again. Do I want to do this?

Simple answer.

Yes.

This blog is going to go in three directions, all with the same final destination: what is in the letter, more about Lewis (and some about Dorothy), and some about me and my memories as I begin this adventure.I’m back

 And, now to work at the empty table on the newly vacuumed rug. (Oh! how it hurt to let those 80-year-old scraps of paper go! First, I'm going to count. How many letters in 1933?

Further down the road

I’m underway! But not there yet—still have about a third of the letters to go. And, yes, I am finding treasures. First the guy, my new friend, wasn’t kidding. My dad wrote to my mom almost every day—usually three pages, single-spaced on his little portable typewriter—from the time they graduated, both of them in journalism, in spring of 1933 until they married in 1935. This while he was working as editor of a weekly newspaper in Stephenville, Texas, writing free-lance for several other papers, and starting a novel. The man wanted to write!

            Some of the letters are, no other way to say it, soppy with love and loneliness, but others trace out his efforts in turning journalism classes in everyday work, and lots and lots tell about his dreams of writing, and what he was doing to make them come true.

            He was in his late 20s when he wrote these letters—more about that in another entry. He died at the young age of 54. But many of his dreams managed to come true in those 20 years. He wrote for major magazines, published five books, and was able to nicely raise two daughters as a freelance writer.

            This is a treasure indeed. Now I’m mostly sorting, getting things in chronological order. When I start reading—who knows what I’ll find?

            

On the verge of discovery

It took awhile. It did not appear the next Tuesday. Or Wednesday. Finally on Friday I called. Problems. Family concerns. Shipping costs. Conversations.
I could send money. No. Maybe I’ll drive up and get it. Talk and talk and finally, a FedEx shipping number on Thursday afternoon.
Friday afternoon, I was in the yard before the FedEx guy heaved the package off the trunk. What an apparent treasure!
Apparent? Yep. I’m going to be grown up about this. I’ve turned the guestroom into a workroom. I acquired folders and storage boxes. I’m going to be a researcher not a kid in a candy shop! I hope. I hope. I hope. Hard not to dig right in.
Ok. I’ve tempted myself. The earliest date so far is from my mom’s high school days in 1927. What will I find?
I’m on the verge of discovery.