Near Marion, N.C.
Fri., Jan. 15, 1926
Tuesday the snow was still on the ground, but we were spending so much money in Charlotte for room and food, and extravagantly for movies every night, that we simply had to go camping again. Before we could leave, as usual Bill had to call on a few odd bankers (not that these were any odder than any other bankers). One of them phoned another that, "Mr. Wilson of New York is here." The mystic words, the “open sesame” everywhere in the south seems to be, "New York." Just whisper them and the door flies open. On the other hand, they want to think that the growth of the south is entirely due to their own energies and imagination and will stoutly say, "This town is growing from within, without any help from the outside."
Of course, what really started the expansion of the south (and evidence is everywhere, especially in North Carolina) is the influence of two men, Walter Hines Page who aroused interest in better education, and J.B. Duke, who through his power developments, has made industry possible on a grand scale. Another factor was the coming to the south of northerners with money and initiative.
The experience of Danville is an example of what happens to unprogressive towns. J.B. Duke wanted to bring his own cheaper power into the city, where there were a few small industries, the largest (we are told) cotton mill in the south, a municipal power plant and his own huge tobacco factory, but the authorities would not permit it. So he moved his factory to Durham, and Danville has rued the day ever since. Although the cotton mill remains in Danville, the other industries have moved to where cheaper power is available. As a result many merchants have failed.
Unmistakably a sectional feeling exists here. We northerners pride ourselves on having pep and initiative, while the southerner scorns these characteristics, calling them by very different names, such as "arrogance" and "intrusion."
Sunday, while still in Charlotte, we walked the five miles and back to a Ford Assembly Plant, and peeking through one of the thousand sparkling windows, were so intrigued that upon leaving Charlotte on Tuesday, we went out of our way to drive there. Unfortunately, it was not visiting hours, so again we could only peek. A man dressed in spotless white was tending gleaming, efficient looking motors--and a sign read, "Every man is required to wear clean overalls every Monday." At least we know the plant is bright and shiny.
So on we went to the Southern Power Co.'s steam plant at Mt. Holly on the Catawba River, a fine big layout with two old-fashioned 10,000 kw. turbines, and two new 15,000 kw. ones. The chief engineer told us they could not hope for the efficiency of northern plants because of the higher caliber of labor there; nevertheless the plant was very fine. At Mountain Island, three miles further on, we went through another waterpower plant with four upright 15,000 kw. Turbines.
By this time the day was nearly gone, so we found a suitable place, in the piney woods, although we had to shovel the snow away and put down boughs. When we were purchasing provisions earlier, the tiny store soon filled with curious observers. Everywhere, we are the cynosure of all eyes, and lately, of all ears, since, in a vain attempt to find what ails the motorcycle, Bill had removed the muffler.
It seems as if he had excluded every possible source of trouble, and yet the poor old buzz-wagon runs a temperature, having not been really well since we left New York. When we run fast she loses power and backfires, and now she can hardly go up a little grade in high, sometimes even necessitating a shift to first. It used to be my pride and joy to pass every car on a hill, but now it is my shame and sorrow that every car passes us--and with the muffler off we make such a hullabaloo about it!
After leaving Washington we thought she would be hunky-dory, and she was for a while, but soon the old trouble came on her again. The carburetor had been cleaned there, new spark plugs put in, and a block of wood discovered in the oil tank. Seeming to know their business, the garage men assured us they had put her in fine shape.
In Winston-Salem the brakeband had been eased up in case it was dragging. In Charlotte a new chain was put on and new spokes placed on the wheel. Bill, wondering if the new carburetor put on in Brooklyn might be the trouble, went for the old one as a last resort. But nothing seems to do her any good. In fact she seems a little worse after all this doctoring?probably just plain tuckered out, carrying such a heavy load. But enough of the poor pop-cycle!
Gastonia is called the "City of Spindles," because it has more cotton mills than any city in the south. The other day, Bill, wearing his traveling coveralls, "uber-alles," we call them, much tattered now, torn and generally disreputable, his sweater cap and pipe, strode into the Gastonia Chamber of Commerce. The man, after looking him up and down, asked what he could possibly want with pamphlets about the city, apparently it being difficult to recognize what a mighty brain and heart lay hidden behind the eccentric garb.
Speaking of eccentricities, the ramshackle barns in these parts have no doors--thus, probably giving rise to, "Close that door. Were you brought up in a barn?" I have always wondered where that remark originated, because all the barns I had ever seen had doors. Sheds on all four sides are sometimes added to barns here, making them look like wooden circus tents. In Pennsylvania the barns are wonderful, stone halfway up and the rest of red?painted wood. White scrolls decorate the windows and doors, with often a sheep, horse or cow painted white on the side wall. When it rains, cattle in an enclosed yard crowd under the deep overhang of the eaves.
Tuesday, about halfway from Gastonia to Asheville, we camped up a side road, and again snow had to be cleared away. Bill walked quite a distance for water, the nearby wells being dry. At best here, the water is not very good; it's pretty muddy from the red clay soil. When dry or not frozen, clay makes good roads, but slipperier than the dickens when wet. Most of the roads in North Carolina are concrete and marvellous.
Again Bill tinkered with the machine and corrected something out-of-whack in the carburetor, optimistically hoping this is the end of our trouble.
At Chimney Rock big realtors, expecting the bottom soon to fall out of the Florida boom, have purchased a large tract of land for a summer resort. A tremendous lake, fifteen square miles of water, is being constructed and large hotels erected. Lots twenty-five by seventy-five feet, with a view of the Rock, are selling from $2,000, to $10,000, with no building restrictions. Some of it will probably develop into what Bill calls, "A hot-dog vendor's paradise," like the Delaware Water Gap, but on the lake further from the road it ought to be truly beautiful. About halfway up the mountain, a small inn with cottages, called the "Cliff Dweller," resembles a colorful toy train of cars from below.
The sun was bright, the sky a deep blue and the ground and mountains white with snow on this cold brisk day, as we climbed into the Blue Ridge Mountains, through gorgeous scenery. The road wound, circled, horseshoed, and tied itself in knots all the way from Chimney Rock to Asheville, which we reached in early afternoon.
The mountains are not in long ranges as they are in Vermont, but poke up here and there in separate peaks, Asheville being on a high plateau with a circle of mountain caps around it--a huge pie with a crinkle crust. The city itself is higgledy-piggledy and dingy--but the surrounding scenery is superb.
While I waited at the Asheville post office for Bill, four separate individuals asked where we were from and where we were going. One woman from New Hampshire, remarking that only Yankees would have the initiative to get up such a rig, invited us to her home, giving us the address. Coming here with $2,000, she has made $6,000, in real estate, at the same time supporting her daughter and grandchild.
Journeying towards Marion, forty miles distant, we climbed down from the plateau with wonderful outlooks across deep gorges at every turn. Mt. Michel, down the side of which the road alternately snakes and plunges, is the highest of ten peaks over six thousand feet in this area.
To top off this exhilarating trip we found a peach of a spot to camp, in the woods, near a spring and under a sheltering hill. The machine ran smoothly all the way, up and down the mountains, no doubt also exhilarated by the brisk, clean air. Let’s hope it lasts.