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PART
IV
Farm, Schenectady, N.Y.
Tues., Sept. 15, 1925
After
driving all the way in the rain, we arrived about 8:00 last
night here at the Polish farm. The Morowski's insisted we
spend the night, and as many more as we wanted, in their
best bedroom upstairs, and as I still had a bad cold, that
we sleep under a feather quilt. As there were no other covers,
we sweltered with it and froze without it. Although everything
is nice and clean, the hundreds of hungry, dazed flies in
the room persist in getting under foot. There were no flies
downstairs, so I presume, when shooed out below, they sought
refuge up here.
Huge pouter-pigeon pillows, the cases edged deep with lace,
adorn the bed; tall tinted statues of saints stand on each
end of the mantel; and brightly colored religious chromes
in gaudy gilt frames boxed in mahogany and glass hang on
the walls. These bright religious pictures and statuary
color every room in the house.
As it continued to rain we stayed another night, but this
time took up our own blankets, sleeping the night through
instead of it in spurts under the feather bed.
I cooked our food my way and Mrs. M. cooked hers their way,
at the same time, on the same stove. She gave us milk, pears
and cake, but when I offered her one of our cheese omelets,
she said she never had eaten anything like that and guessed
she never would.
All
day, while I cut out and sewed up a new trunk-cover to replace
the one we had lost, she talked about matrimony, her friends'
matrimony, the chances of her daughters' matrimony, her
own matrimony, and just matrimony in general. No wonder
Leon's favorite expression is "When ya goin' to git
married?"
A fortune teller had just told the daughters some remarkable
truths, of course: their mother would receive an important
paper from a big company which a tall light haired man would
explain to her; she must do exactly as the man says. When
we were here before, a letter had come to Mrs. Morowski
from the state about eliminating the grade crossing of the
railroad which skirts their land. She had asked Bill about
it, and he, a tall light haired man, had written a letter
to the state for her. Everything as the oracle foretold,
with one slight exception--both letters were written six
months before the girls visited the fortune teller.
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