Bicycle Dreams

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1

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Chemung County, New York

1889

I tried hard to ignore the perspiration on my forehead. I couldn’t wipe it off anyways since I needed both hands to grip the casket’s handle as my brothers and I carried the remains of our father from the church to the gravesite where relatives and neighbors had assembled. It was late morning in the spring of 1889 and the sun bore down mercilessly. Clothed in a dark woolen suit, starched shirt and tie, with the brim of my felt hat pressing tightly against my forehead, I was uncomfortable even before the funerary procession but now felt immeasurably worse.

      But discomfort was something I was used to, having worked for my father on the family farm ever since I’d left school at the age of sixteen. I was now twenty-five. Anyway, I had bigger things to worry about than how best to ignore the beads of sweat rolling off my forehead. With Father dead, and Mother having passed away some years earlier, the fate of the family farm was up for discussion. And it was my two older brothers and I who would be making that decision. What worried me was the likelihood my brothers wouldn’t agree to the farm remaining in the family. I’d hoped to operate it even in the absence of my father, and to continue living in the farmhouse—the farmhouse where both my brothers and I had grown up.

      The minister leading the funeral procession motioned for everyone to stop.

Let’s hope we’re there, whispered my brother, Dyer, this casket’s getting heavy.

I expect we are, I said as I looked around and saw we’d reached a spot where tight clusters of people had begun to congregate. Those in attendance were a mixed bunch. Relatives and friends of my mother were mostly colored folk—her being half colored herself. Father’s kin were white, as were most of Father’s friends. Neighbors attending the burial were also mostly white.

The minister signaled the pallbearers to bring the casket up and place it on the planks suspended over the grave. The three of us, together with a friend of the family who gripped the fourth corner, carefully stepped over to the grave and once astride it lowered the casket on to the planks. We then stepped back and let the minister say his piece.

It was mercifully brief, and once over we lifted the casket just high enough for the planks to be removed and then slowly lowered the casket into the grave using ropes.

* * *

I didn’t linger at the gravesite. After accepting the condolences of those assembled I set off in a brisk walk along Seneca Pike, hoping to arrive at the farm with time to spare before the carriages of my brothers could be expected to make their appearance. I wanted to make sure everything was in good order so there’d be no obvious cause for complaint.

Daniel and Dyer had their families to attend to, and since they were seldom seen in this part of the county they’d be obliged to visit with old friends and neighbors who’d come out to the cemetery to pay their respects. I didn’t think they’d break free for some time.

My brother Daniel was forty-one, married with children, and living some distance away but still within Chemung County. He was self-employed as a mason, a trade taught to him by our dad who himself was a highly regarded mason, but who’d retired from that kind of work some nine years earlier to devote himself exclusively to farming.

My brother Dyer, one year younger, had also apprenticed with our father and had taken over the family masonry business back in 1880 when Father found the work too much for a man his age. He also was married and now lived in his own home in a community not too far from the farm. He had no interest in trying to operate both the masonry business and the family farm the way Father had.

I stood on the porch and waved at the approaching carriages. I came off the porch as the carriages pulled to a stop and hurried over to assist my sisters-in-law climb down. Daniel’s children needed no help; scrambling down effortlessly, with squeals of delight at having escaped the somber discipline of the funeral. They headed for the barn where they could play without the scrutiny of their parents. Their mothers headed for the kitchen with baskets of food under their arms. I greeted my brothers soberly, beckoning them to follow me into the parlor.

I was shorter than my two brothers and more slightly built, but I shared with them the dark hair and dark eyes we’d all inherited from our mother. Otherwise, I was the spitting image of my father. I had my father’s receding hairline, facial features, and light colored skin. I knew this was a sore point with my brothers, for both of them tended to resemble our mother more. Daniel could never pass for white and had no desire to. At the age of fifteen he even enlisted in the 26th Regiment of the Union Army—a colored unit that fought in the Civil War. He’d been wounded in action at the battle of John’s Island but reenlisted, spending a total of almost four years in uniform. And when it came to finding a bride he chose Jennise, a woman whose dark skin matched his own. Dyer, on the other hand, had the lighter shade of skin of Mother and could pass for white if he tried real hard. But he was comfortable with a mulatto identity and made sure nobody mistook him for a white person. Frances, his wife, was also proudly mulatto.

      So I was always the odd man out. My two older brothers formed a tight unit: their shared age, skin color, and occupation having brought them ever closer together over the years. In their eyes I was just that little white boy who was good for nothing much except to look after the needs of our parents and to tend to the chores around the farm. Now they’re gone and the question of what to do with the farm brings us all here—probably for the last time.

Daniel looked around the room as he made his way to the sofa. The place looks about the same as it always did, he said. None the worse for wear.

      That’ll make a difference once we put the place up for sale, said Dyer as he examined family photos displayed on the fireplace mantelpiece.

      I take it then you’re both set on selling the farm, I said.

      Can’t think of any reason not to, replied Daniel. We can all use the money. Even after splitting the proceeds three ways it’ll probably come to a tidy sum."

      I was thinking maybe I could continue to run the farm, using part of the income to gradually buy you both out. That way it would stay in the family—something I think Father would be pleased about.

      Even in good years the farm doesn’t generate much income—you know that Lemuel. It’d take you a lifetime to pay us off and we don’t fancy waiting that long for our share, said Daniel.

      Anyways, added Dyer, the farm’s too much for just one person to manage. You don’t even have a wife. And you certainly couldn’t afford to bring on a hired man and still expect to pay us off.

      I could try, I replied. I’ve been doing pretty well these past years.

      Be honest, Lemuel, countered Dyer, Father’s been here to see things get done at the right time and in the right way. He’s also lent a helping hand. You’re no more than a farm laborer. He didn’t take you out of school so you could learn how to run the farm. He just wanted somebody to do the chores he could no longer do.

      But I’ve learned how to run the farm whatever his original intentions were. I know I can do the job. All I need is for you both to give me a chance to prove myself.

      That may well be, Lemuel, said Daniel, but the fact remains we don’t wish to wait for our share of the estate. Anyway, farming’s no life for a young unattached man. You should take your share of the money we earn from the sale and hightail it out of Chemung County. Go some place where you can make a better life for yourself.

      I think we’ve argued this matter as much as we can rightly be expected to, said Dyer. The decision’s made. We’ll notify Hank Evans out at the realty office to handle the sale. We’ll expect you to look after the place until it’s sold.

      I reluctantly agreed to go along with the plan but knew full well it’d be the last dealings I’d willingly have with my brothers.

* * *

      While we’d been talking, Jennise and Frances had been busy assembling the midday meal from the prepared dishes they’d brought with them. They’d used Mother’s large serving platters. Places had been set for all of us at the old wooden table in the dining room. Once everything was ready, Jennise called us to come sit down. Dyer and I came directly but Daniel slipped out the front door, heading for the barn to retrieve the kids.

      Have them wash up before they come in here, shouted Jennise as Daniel led the kids into the house.

      Once everyone was seated, Dyer reached for the platter of fried chicken.

      Lemuel, when you planning on getting a wife, asked Frances as she passed the bowl of greens.

      Now Francis, don’t nag, said Jennise. Lemuel’s doing just fine without one. Anyway, he’s still got some settling to do before he can think about a wife and family.

      You going to get yourself a nice colored girl? asked Francis, ignoring her sister-in-law, or are you set on one of those pretty white girls that live hereabouts?

      Leave the poor boy be, said Daniel. We’ve just busted up his plans to remain on the farm. I expect he’s got a fair amount of thinking to do about all sorts of other things before he’ll put his mind to the question of settling down.

      I smiled but didn’t say anything—just continued to add food to my plate as the serving platters made their way around the table.

      After the meal, Daniel and his family made a hasty departure. They had the longest distance to travel and hoped to make the trip in the remaining hours of daylight. Dyer’s wife, Frances, saw to the cleanup of the kitchen while Dyer and I settled into a couple of chairs on the front porch.

      So d’ya have any thoughts as to what you might do now see’n the farm is to be sold? asked Dyer, as he lit his pipe.

      Can’t say as I do, I replied. But whatever it is it’ll probably be something where I can work with machines—maybe in a factory.

      You thinking of one of the factories hereabouts? asked Dyer.

      Don’t think so. Without the farm this county just won’t seem the same to me. Can’t imagine being holed up in one of those township flats, heading over to the glassworks or some other outfit each morning knowing my dream of having my own farm slipped away just a short distance down the road.

      You’re taking this whole thing pretty hard I’d say, observed Dyer as he lifted one foot up onto the porch railing and hooked his thumbs under the braces of his suspenders. A young guy like you, able to look forward to a goodly stake from the sale of the farm, should be full of fresh ideas, not grumbling about the loss of what had to be a hard life working these miserable fields.

      You just don’t understand, Dyer. You always hated farm chores but I took to them right from the start.

      That may be, but the fact is the future lies in manufacturing and town living. You’ll find Daniel and I did you a favor forcing you to abandon the notion of trying to make a living as a farmer.

      Well, it’s a favor I’ll not be thanking you for. I’ll be heading out of this part of the country just as soon as I can and I’ll not be coming back. Don’t suppose we’ll be crossing paths afterwards—leastwise not if I have anything to say about it.

      Suit yourself, Lemuel. You always were a different sort of fellow. Well, We’ll be off now, he said as he got up slowly from his chair. Sounds like Frances is finished in the kitchen.

      Just at that moment Frances came out on to the porch carrying a bag containing leftovers and carrying dishes she’d brought from home. Lemuel, you take good care of yourself, she said as she started down the front steps. Don’t let those white girls charm you, she added with a chuckle.

      I held the traces of the horse carriage as Dyer and Frances climbed up. I’ll be all right, I said as I handed the reins to my brother once he was properly seated.      

* * *

      By early summer, Mr. Evans had sold the farm and I’d received my share of the purchase price. Dyer was right. There wasn’t a whole lot of interest in the place and we were lucky to find a buyer. The final settlement was much less than he and Daniel had planned on, and my share was not much with which to hoist extravagant plans. But it was enough to pay for some fancy city clothes and a one-way ticket to Chicago—with enough left over that I could set some aside for future undertakings as well as cover my living expenses until I found a job.

      The final few days of my stay in Chemung County were spent in town. I’d taken a room at the Globe Hotel—a place a little fancier than I needed, but I reckoned with my new clothes, ample pocket money, and a hankering to leave town in style, I’d splurge just a bit. Anyway, the hotel was close to the railroad station, making it convenient once I needed to catch my train.

      I could be found most evenings at the Red Lantern saloon on Pennsylvania Avenue. I’d put on my new suit, a freshly laundered white shirt and all the rest, walk the few blocks separating the two establishments and step through the heavy wooden door into the dimly lit interior. Clarence Carpenter, the proprietor, would usually spot me coming in. He’d motion for me to take a chair at one of the tables towards the rear. The room was narrow but extended back some considerable distance, with tables lined up in two rows and a long bar off to the left. Melissa or Anne, the servers, would bring me out a plate of that evening’s special—usually ham or mutton with all the fixings—and a tall glass of beer. I’d generally finish eating before the place really began to fill, get up from the table and head to the bar.

      Andy Watkins, an old school buddy, made a point of coming in the days I’d be there. He was married with a couple of kids and worked at the local glassworks making pint-sized bottles for the Schlitz Brewery in Milwaukee. We’d talk and drink beer for a couple of hours each evening—a kind of dragged out farewell party, with others at the bar joining in.

* * *

But this morning I’m scheduled to board the Number 3 train of the New York, Lake Erie & Western Railroad arriving at the Elmira station at 5:44 AM. I was up and dressed by 5:00 AM, collected a parcel of food to take on the train prepared for me by the hotel kitchen and then stopped by the front desk to hand in my key and pay my bill.

As I walked over to the boarding platform to await the train’s arrival I savored the warm early summer air. The sky was clear blue and there was just a hint of a breeze. I hoped it would remain a pleasant day so passengers would feel free to open the coach windows so as to avoid the buildup of stale air in the cramped space of the compartment. The trip promised to be a long one—some eighteen hours. We were not scheduled to arrive in Chicago until around midnight.

The boarding platform was almost empty. Those needing to get to jobs at a town up the line this early in the morning would have taken the Number 7 train that left the station just minutes earlier. I reckoned the few remaining travelers awaiting the arrival of the Number 3 train were bound for more distant towns south of Lake Erie.

I walked to the edge of the platform and leaned out, hoping to learn whether the train had come into view. It had. Some distance down the track a thick column of smoke could be seen rising from the steam engine at the front of the train. Within minutes the train came to a noisy stop: loud hisses of steam, the rattle of wheels over breaks in the track, and the sharp report of the steam whistle as the engineer signaled the train’s arrival.

I climbed aboard, heading for one of the Pullman day coaches that sported an empty seat. The train also had sleeping coaches but I figured since the trip was mostly during daylight hours it made no sense to pay the extra amount. A guy about my age—maybe a little younger—occupied the window-half of a seat towards the back of the second coach. He motioned for me to take the other half. I nodded, placed my luggage on the overhead rack and sat down.

My name’s Lemuel Dearce, I said, as I shook his hand, and what might yours be?

Aaron, he replied.

Hope you didn’t have to sit here all the way from New York City—it’d be a brutal place to try and sleep.

No, said Aaron, with a quick laugh, I boarded the train at Binghamton only about two hours ago. Plan to get off in Jamestown sometime before noon.

I looked him over, trying to figure out what line of work he might be in. He was clean-shaven, wore a freshly brushed woolen suit, and didn’t seem to show any of the telltale signs of having worked out in the fields or with the kind of machines that scar your hands. I don’t suppose you’re heading to Jamestown to hire out as a laborer—what with the clothes and all.

No, he replied, my uncle owns a small confectionary in Jamestown and I’m to clerk for him. Been working in my father’s store back in Binghamton until now but with an older brother promised the business there’s better prospects for me elsewhere.

Your uncle have any sons or sons-in-law aiming to claim the business? I asked.

That’s the beauty of it, he and his wife never had any kids. They see me as the rightful successor, assuming I can learn the confectionary business.

Once all passengers and freight were loaded the train started up with a jerk, with the engineer letting out a blast from the steam whistle. It picked up speed quickly, heading for Corning—a little over a half-hour away.

How about yourself, you heading west looking for work?

Only as far as Chicago, I replied.

What d’ya do?

Up till now I’ve been helping my dad run the family farm but now it’s been sold so I’ve got to look for something new…thought I’d have more to choose from in a big town like Chicago.

I’d imagine that’d be true. Still, it’s a fearsomely large town from what I’ve heard.

I suppose it is. Still, there’s got to be a lot to see and do in the hours after work. I’d say it’ll be a far cry from the way I’ve spent most evenings up till now—sitting on the front porch of my family’s farmhouse.

You gonna miss farming?

I suppose so. Mostly I’ll miss working my own land. I don’t relish having a boss though I guess you might say that’s what my dad was all these years.

* * *

Our conversation lasted off and on for a good part of the morning. It was a welcome distraction from the worries that beset me as I thought about what I’d encounter upon arriving in Chicago. Just before noon the train rolled into the station at Jamestown and Aaron got off. The coach had emptied a fair bit by this time so I had the whole seat to stretch out in. I opened the food parcel I’d brought along and took out a sandwich. The weather continued to be fine and the air slipping in under the half-open windows gave the coach a welcome freshness.

I took a long nap bunched up on the seat and didn’t really wake up until the train reached Meadville, Pennsylvania. From then until our arrival at the station in Marion, Ohio, I passed the time staring out the window of the coach inspecting the neatly arranged farms and occasional towns that came into view. At Marion I changed trains, boarding a Pullman day coach of an express run by the Chicago and Atlantic Railway.

It was close to six o’clock in the evening before the train pulled out of the station. Feeling hungry, I pulled out the remaining food from the parcel prepared for me at the hotel back in Elmira and proceeded to eat. My seating companion was a man in his late forties. He had a slender build, dark curly hair, and wore a clean but fairly worn suit of clothing.

You also heading for Chicago? he asked.

I nodded, continuing to chew.

You got a job lined up?

Nope. I’ll start looking around for one soon as I get there, I said, putting the rest of the food away.

What’d you have in mind?

I’m thinking I’d like to get a job doing something mechanical—you know, a machine shop or a factory of some sort…somewhere I can use tools to build or repair things.

You ever thought about building bicycles?

Not really. Why?

They’re hiring at Western Wheel Works. That’s why I’m on this train. Hope to get a job there—making bicycles.

What kind of bicycles do they make?

From what I’ve heard, they make those new safety type bikes—the kind built on a diamond-shaped metal frame, with same sized wheels, a chain drive to the rear, and big rubber tires.

There must be lots of shops that make bikes in Chicago, I said. Why’ve you settled on this particular factory?

They’re one of the bigger operations and use all the new manufacturing techniques, like sheet metal stamping, so I’ve got to believe they’ll still be in business a few years down the road. Anyway, as I said, talk is they’re looking for workers.

Where are they located? I just might look them up…see if maybe I can get a job there also.

I’m told their plant is over on Wells Street in the northern part of the city. Hey, you’re welcome to join me. I’ll be heading over there first thing tomorrow. By the way, my name’s Henry…Henry Parsons.

I’m Lemuel Dearce…and yes, I’d like very much to accompany you tomorrow, I said as I shook his hand.

Where you planning to spend the night? asked Parsons.

I thought since we don’t get in until past midnight it’d best to find a room somewhere right next to the train station. That way there’d be no need to lose even more sleep looking for some particular place elsewhere, especially since I don’t know my way around.

Sounds like a good plan, Parsons replied with a yawn. Right now though I think I’ll try to get some sleep.

As Parsons began to doze off I retrieved the remainder of the food from the bag and settled back to eat. Parsons seemed like a nice sort and his offer to let me accompany him to the factory took much of the worry off my shoulders. After finishing up the food I also sought out a comfortable position and closed my eyes. It was still daylight but the angle of the sun—now fairly low on the horizon—shown most brightly through the windows on the other side of the coach, leaving the place where I sat free of glare. In no time at all I was asleep.

2

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Chicago

Parsons and I headed south down Canal Street after leaving Union Station. Despite the lateness of the hour the street was busy with traffic: some like ourselves were intent on exiting the station; others scheduled to leave on one of the trains having an early morning departure time were just arriving. Freight wagons pulled by horses and laden with boxes trotted up and down the street. We were tired, to be sure but the hustle and bustle of Canal Street was an invigorating tonic.

      Two blocks past the station we spied a modest hotel that still seemed open for business—through the windows we could see an attendant standing at the reception counter. We pushed open the front door, dropped our luggage, and walked up to him.

      I guess you fellows need a room for the night, he said.

      What’s left of it, Parsons replied.

      I can give you a double—save you a little money.

      We’ll take it, I said.

      Once we’d signed in and paid our money the man at the desk gave us a key and directed us to a room