After we decided to get married, and that as soon as ever we could,--I
being a Freshman at the ripe and mature age of, as mentioned, just
eighteen years, he a Senior, with no particular prospects, not even sure
as yet what field he would go into,--we began discussing what we might
do and where we might go. Our main idea was to get as far away from
everybody as we could, and live the very fullest life we could, and at
last we decided on Persia. Why Persia? I cannot recall the steps now
that brought us to that conclusion. But I know that first Christmas I
sent Carl my picture in a frilled high-school graduation frock and a
silk Persian flag tucked behind it, and that flag remained always the
symbol for us that we would never let our lives get stale, never lose
the love of adventure, never "settle down," intellectually at any rate.
Can you see my father's face that sunny March day,--Charter Day it
was,--when we told him we were engaged? (My father being the
conventional, traditional sort who had never let me have a real "caller"
even, lest I become interested in boys and think of matrimony too
young!) Carl Parker was the first male person who was ever allowed at my
home in the evening. He came seldom, since I was living in Berkeley most
of the time, and anyway, we much preferred prowling all over our end of
creation, servant-girl-and-policeman fashion. Also, when I married,
according to father it was to be some one, preferably an attorney of
parts, about to become a judge, with a large bank account. Instead, at
eighteen, I and this almost-unknown-to-him Senior stood before him and
said, "We are going to be married," or words to that general effect.
And--here is where I want you to think of the expression on my
conservative father's face.
Fairly early in the conversation he found breath to say, "And what, may
I ask, are your prospects?"
"None, just at present."
"And where, may I ask, are you planning to begin this married career you
seem to contemplate?"
"In Persia."
Can you see my father? "_Persia_?"
"Yes, Persia."
"And what, for goodness' sake, are you two going to do in _Persia_?"
"We don't know just yet, of course, but we'll find something."
I can see my father's point of view now, though I am not sure but that I
shall prefer a son-in-law for our daughter who would contemplate
absolute uncertainty in Persia in preference to an assured legal
profession in Oakland, California. It was two years before my father
became at all sympathetic, and that condition was far from enthusiastic.
So it was a great joy to me to have him say, a few months before his
death, "You know, Cornelia, I want you to understand that if I had had
the world to pick from I'd have chosen Carl Parker for your husband.
Your marriage is a constant source of satisfaction to me."
I saw Carl Parker lose his temper once, and once only. It was that first
year that we knew each other. Because there was such a difference
between his age and mine, the girls in my sorority house refused to
believe there could be anything serious about our going together so
much, and took great pains to assure me in private that of course Carl
meant nothing by his attentions,--to which I agreed volubly,--and they
scolded him in private because it would spoil a Freshman to have a
Senior so attentive. We always compared notes later, and were much
amused.
But words were one thing, actions another. Since there could be nothing
serious in our relationship, naturally there was no reason why we should
be left alone. If there was to be a rally or a concert, the Senior
sitting at the head of the dinner-table would ask, "How many are going
to-night with a man?" Hands. "How many of the girls are going together?"
Hands. Then, to me, "Are you going with Carl?" A faint "Yes." "Then
we'll all go along with you." Carl stood it twice--twice he beheld this
cavalcade bear away in our wake; then he gritted his teeth and
announced, "Never again!"
The next college occasion was a rally at the Greek Theatre. Again it was
announced at the table that all the unescorted ones would accompany Carl
and me. I foresaw trouble. When I came downstairs later, with my hat and
coat on, there stood Carl, surrounded by about six girls, all hastily
buttoning their gloves, his sister, who knew no more of the truth about
Carl and me than the others, being one of them. Never had I seen such a
look on Carl's face, and I never did again. His feet were spread apart,
his jaw was set, and he was glaring. When he saw me he said, "Come on!"
and we dashed for the door.
Sister Helen flew after us. "But Carl--the other girls!"
Carl stuck his head around the corner of the front door, called
defiantly, "_Damn_ the other girls!" banged the door to, and we fled.
Never again were we molested.
Carl finished his Senior year, and a full year it was for him. He was
editor of the "Pelican," the University funny paper, and of the
"University of California Magazine," the most serious publication on the
campus outside the technical journals; he made every "honor"
organization there was to make (except the Phi Beta Kappa); he and a
fellow student wrote the successful Senior Extravaganza; he was a reader
in economics, and graduated with honors. And he saw me every single day.
I feel like digressing here a moment, to assail that old
principle--which my father, along with countless others, held so
strongly--that a fellow who is really worth while ought to know by his
Junior year in college just what his life-work is to be. A few with an
early developed special aptitude do, but very few. Carl entered college
in August, 1896, in Engineering; but after a term found that it had no
further appeal for him. "But a fellow ought to stick to a thing, whether
he likes it or not!" If one must be dogmatic, then I say, "A fellow
should never work at anything he does not like." One of the things in
our case which brought such constant criticism from relatives and
friends was that we changed around so much. Thank God we did! It took
Carl Parker until he was over thirty before he found just the work he
loved the most and in which his soul was content--university work. And
he was thirty-seven before he found just the phase of economic study
that fired him to his full enthusiasm--his loved field of the
application of psychology to economics. And some one would have had him
stick to engineering because he started in engineering!
He hurt his knee broad-jumping in his Freshman year at college, and
finally had to leave, going to Phoenix, Arizona, and then back to the
Parker ranch at Vacaville for the better part of a year. The family was
away during that time, and Carl ran the place alone. He returned to
college in August, 1898, this time taking up mining. After a year's
study in mining he wanted the practical side. In the summer of 1899 he
worked underground in the Hidden Treasure Mine, Placer county,
California. In 1900 he left college again, going to the gold and copper
mines of Rossland, British Columbia. From August, 1900, to May, 1901, he
worked in four different mines. It was with considerable feeling of
pride that he always added, "I got to be machine man before I quit."
It was at that time that he became a member of the Western Federation of
Miners--an historical fact which inimical capitalists later endeavored
to make use of from time to time to do him harm. How I loved to listen
by the hour to the stories of those grilling days--up at four in the
pitch-dark and snow, to crawl to his job, with the blessing of a dear
old Scotch landlady and a "pastie"! He would tell our sons of tamping in
the sticks of dynamite, till their eyes bulged. The hundreds of times
these last six months I've wished I had in writing the stories of those
days--of all his days, from early Vacaville times on! Sometimes it would
be an old Vacaville crony who would appear, and stories would fly of
those boy times--of the exploits up Putah Creek with Pee Wee Allen; of
the prayer-meeting when Carl bet he could out-pray the minister's son,
and won; of the tediously thought-out assaults upon an ancient hired man
on the place, that would fill a book and delight the heart of Tom Sawyer
himself; and how his mother used to sigh and add to it all, "If only he
had _ever_ come home on time to his meals!" (And he has one son just
like him. Carl's brothers tell me: "Just give up trying to get Jim home
on time. Mamma tried every scheme a human could devise to make Carl
prompt for his meals, but nothing ever had the slightest effect. Half an
hour past dinner-time he'd still be five miles from home.")
One article that recently appeared in a New York paper began:--
"They say of him that when he was a small boy he displayed the same
tendencies that later on made him great in his chosen field. His family
possessed a distinct tendency toward conformity and respectability, but
Carl was a companion of every 'alley-bum' in Vacaville. His respectable
friends never won him away from his insatiable interest in the
under-dog. They now know it makes valid his claim to achievement."
After the British Columbia mining days, he took what money he had saved,
and left for Idaho, where he was to meet his chum, Hal Bradley, for his
first Idaho trip--a dream of theirs for years. The Idaho stories he
could tell--oh, why can I not remember them word for word? I have seen
him hold a roomful of students in Berlin absolutely spellbound over
those adventures--with a bit of Parker coloring, to be sure, which no
one ever objected to. I have seen him with a group of staid faculty folk
sitting breathless at his Clearwater yarns; and how he loved to tell
those tales! Three and a half months he and Hal were in--hunting,
fishing, jerking meat, trailing after lost horses, having his dreams of
Idaho come true. (If our sons fail to have those dreams!)
When Hal returned to college, the _Wanderlust_ was still too strong in
Carl; so he stopped off in Spokane, Washington, penniless, to try
pot-luck. There were more tales to delight a gathering. In Spokane he
took a hand at reporting, claiming to be a person of large experience,
since only those of large experience were desired by the editor of the
"Spokesman Review." He was given sport, society, and the tenderloin to
cover, at nine dollars a week. As he never could go anywhere without
making folks love him, it was not long before he had his cronies among
the "sports," kind souls "in society" who took him in, and at least one
strong, loyal friend,--who called him "Bub," and gave him much
excellent advice that he often used to refer to,--who was the owner of
the biggest gambling-joint in town. (Spokane was wide open in those
days, and "some town.")
It was the society friends who seem to have saved his life, for nine
dollars did not go far, even then. I have heard his hostesses tell of
the meal he could consume. "But I'd been saving for it all day, with
just ten cents in my pocket." I met a pal of those days who used to save
Carl considerable of his nine dollars by "smooching" his wash into his
own home laundry.
About then Carl's older brother, Boyd, who was somewhat fastidious, ran
into him in Spokane. He tells how Carl insisted he should spend the
night at his room instead of going to a hotel.
"Is it far from here?"
"Oh, no!"
So they started out with Boyd's suitcase, and walked and walked through
the "darndest part of town you ever saw." Finally, after crossing untold
railroad tracks and ducking around sheds and through alleys, they came
to a rooming-house that was "a holy fright." "It's all right inside,"
Carl explained.
When they reached his room, there was one not over-broad bed in the
corner, and a red head showing, snoring contentedly.
"Who's that?" the brother asked.
"Oh, a fellow I picked up somewhere."
"Where am I to sleep?"
"Right in here--the bed's plenty big enough for three!"
And Boyd says, though it was 2 A.M. and miles from anywhere, he lit out
of there as fast as he could move; and he adds, "I don't believe he even
knew that red-headed boy's name!"
The reporting went rather lamely it seemed, however. The editor said
that it read amateurish, and he felt he would have to make a change.
Carl made for some files where all the daily papers were kept, and read
and re-read the yellowest of the yellow. As luck would have it, that
very night a big fire broke out in a crowded apartment house. It was not
in Carl's "beat," but he decided to cover it anyhow. Along with the
firemen, he managed to get upon the roof; he jumped here, he flew there,
demolishing the only suit of clothes he owned. But what an account he
handed in! The editor discarded entirely the story of the reporter sent
to cover the fire, ran in Carl's, word for word, and raised him to
twelve dollars a week.
But just as the crown of reportorial success was lighting on his brow,
his mother made it plain to him that she preferred to have him return to
college. He bought a ticket to Vacaville,--it was just about Christmas
time,--purchased a loaf of bread and a can of sardines, and with thirty
cents in his pocket, the extent of his worldly wealth, he left for
California, traveling in a day coach all the way. I remember his story
of how, about the end of the second day of bread and sardines, he
cold-bloodedly and with aforethought cultivated a man opposite him, who
looked as if he could afford to eat; and how the man "came through" and
asked Carl if he would have dinner with him in the diner. To hear him
tell what and how much he ordered, and of the expression and depression
of the paying host! It tided him over until he reached home,
anyhow--never mind the host.
All his mining experience, plus the dark side of life, as contrasted
with society as he saw them both in Spokane, turned his interest to the
field of economics. And when he entered college the next spring, it was
to "major" in that subject.
May and June, 1903, he worked underground in the coal-mines of Nanaimo.
In July he met Nay Moran in Idaho for his second Idaho camping-trip; and
it was on his return from this outing that I met him, and ate his jerked
meat and loved him, and never stopped doing that for one second.