J. Powers - Suitable Accommodations - An Autobiographical Story of Family Life - The Letters of J. F. Powers, 1942-1963

Jim

I tried to tell the girls you were in line for the papacy, but they were indignant at the idea. “He’s not grand enough!” “He’s not even a bishop!”

JOE AND JODY O’CONNELL

Dalkey

November 29, 1:00 a.m., 1958

Dear Cho and Yody,8

The last night in the old house, down to the furniture and lighting we found here, and finishing off the dregs, and Hughie, whose bed has gone on before him, crying out from the foreign couch, and Betty finally going off under a heavy load of John Power and Son Gold Label; me, I’ve had the last of the Black and White. I smoked a cigar earlier, dug out in the course of packing. I have the radio tuned to a German station. I wonder what it’ll think of WJON, for we are taking it with us — leaving little behind, the baby’s Moses basket and two siphons of soda, some corrugated cardboard (kind packers like), some coal, some logs, some turf, and so on.

We have been through all this before, but this is the worst time yet. Too much stuff, too many people. We have two little leather tags, and I found myself switching the little cards around tonight — rather, Betty did, and thought it all too ironic. On one side the cards say J. F. Powers, Greystones, Co. Wicklow, Ireland; on the other, c/o A. Wahl, North River Rd, St Cloud, Minn. The latter is showing now — among other things. We have eleven packing cases, five trunks, and a number of smaller pieces. Fortunately, there is a worldwide shipping slump, and the rates are low. We may live in our packing cases, some of which are quite roomy. It now appears that the potty will have to be transported separately. […] If it were wrapped in brown paper, it wouldn’t be noticeable, we tell each other. How fair-minded can you get? Em and Arleen, yes, but they are immortal.

Sean O’Faolain was over earlier to bid us goodbye. He has been a great friend to us here, and he and his wife are sorry to see us go. But this is a feeling I cannot convey: setting forth under great difficulties and yet wondering how, if we did it again, we might do better, did return to Ireland, I mean. Whatever we do, though, in the future, it’ll be with less furniture.

Tomorrow we take the Cork Express for Cork, stay there overnight, and embark at Cobh the next morning for the New World. We are fortunate to be sailing on the SS Hanseatic , which derives her name from the Hanseatic League, a medieval association of friendly German and other European towns. Externally, the Hanseatic presents a striking appearance … a modern bow and cruiser-type stern (kind men like) and black hull (I’m black and I’m evil and I did not make myself) with white superstructure (natch) topped by two modern streamlined funnels. Each class has an attractive Children’s Playroom. The “Alster Club,” which extends the full width of the ship, will be one of the favorite gathering places for tourist-class passengers. In the attractive St. Pauli Tavern tourist-class passengers will find the gay spirit of a stroll on the Reeperbahn in Hamburg. Here conviviality will reign in an exceptionally enjoyable atmosphere. For pleasant days and nights at sea the Hanseatic is your ship. Deck games, movies, dances, concerts, gang shags, entertainment, children’s parties, fancy dress balls, and other events are included in the diversified program, which is arranged for the enjoyment of all, young and old alike. CFM groups meet under ideal conditions. Imbued with the spirit of Old Hanse, the sterling qualities of all the German personnel bespeak reliability. Taking pride in their jobs and the efficient performance of9

Jim

The Vossberg Building, suite 7, redux

Upon their return from Ireland, the Powers family stayed with Betty’s parents, the Wahls, in their place on the Mississippi. The idea was to find a house to buy with the ten thousand dollars that Art had promised to give them for that purpose if they returned to the area.

KATHERINE ANNE PORTER

[North River Road, St. Cloud, Minnesota]

December 22, 1958

Dear Katherine Anne,

Back and wondering why, of course, and wishing I’d got this off to you in time for Christmas. We sailed from Cobh on Nov. 30, docked late in N.Y. (8:00 p.m.), which is no time to arrive with five children and nineteen pieces, including five trunks and five packing cases. There we were more or less slaughtered (our sensibilities and finances) by the porters and coopers and agents for the one “approved” transport company, all of whom struck me as members of the Mafia. A Negro customs inspector, however, proved to be a human being, by getting Betty and the children out of the place so they could get a cab to a hotel.

We had hoped to go on west the day we arrived, but the boat being late fixed that. I had tried for three weeks before we left Ireland to find out what would happen to my trunks and cases, especially them , when I docked, whether the railroad freight people would pick them up. I tried to find out what railroad we’d be traveling on when we got to New York. (My publisher, as it turned out, hired a travel agency to handle all this detail, and I was to be met by a man who would nurse us through customs, etc.) I called from Newfoundland, off Newfoundland, that is, to say we’d be late but didn’t manage to get a word in edgewise; the girl at the publisher’s kept saying DO NOT WORRY. NO MATTER WHAT TIME YOUR SHIP DOCKS, OUR MAN WILL BE THERE TO MEET YOU. Me: “About the freight…” DO NOT WORRY. THAT’S IN THE PACKAGE TOO. “About the train, our Pullman reservations…” DO NOT WORRY. Me: “Well, thank you.” THANK YOU ! WE ARE CANCELING OUR CABLE TO YOU SAYING DO NOT WORRY. “Yes. Well, thank you.” THANK YOU FOR CALLING.

As it turned out, I had to pay the Century Transportation Company for transporting my packing cases to, as it turned out, a trucking shipper; because of the airline strikes, there was trouble about the Pullman reservations, so that we were left with one unredeemable double bedroom ($25), my ship-to-shore call not having been conveyed to the travel agency; no allowance was made for “family plan” from Chicago to Minnesota ($25 loss); the [travel agency’s] man left early, after being absent for the first fifteen minutes after disembarkation (picture man and wife and five children standing under the letter P not worrying).

Betty and children got out of it, though with no night clothing, and three hours later I followed, having had the worst time of my life. The cooper who axed into the packing cases in which I had things like a Sheraton barometer, Waterford glass decanters, and satinwood cane chairs cut his finger and therefore had to be adequately compensated for his injury: my heart broke to see how he nailed up the cases again (for which I had had stencils made which said FRAGILE and an arrow pointing up), but I was able to have them strapped with steel bands by paying the Mafia. I got a very good deal from Al of Century Transportation Company, who thought I ought to “take care” of Joe, who was writing up the tickets for the packing cases; Joe later thought I ought to take care of Al, who had given me a very good deal; and so on; and on.

I managed to borrow forty dollars the next day from a friend in New York, and so we left in a blaze of prosperity for Chicago. The train was an hour and a half late, and our plans went awry again. But we did get to St Paul ultimately, and then here by car. The barometer is on the wall in this knotty-pine basement room, and an 18th-century print also, both fruits of my attendance at auctions in Dublin, and the trunks, which went as baggage, finally arrived, after a week of not worrying about them. (I relaxed Sunday afternoon in N.Y. and forgot to redeem them at Penn Station and arrange that they be sent on as baggage, relaxed with Betty and my friend and his wife over some of our duty-free Irish whiskey, that is.)