Event in 1935.
Written September 1989.
It was the Mark Twain Centennial Year when Robert and I took a memorable vacation. We started out in our fancy new blue Buick, armed with “Tom Sawyer” and “Huckleberry Finn,” which Robert read aloud as I drove toward the Mississippi River and Mark Twain country. We went through Nauvoo, the ill-fated town of substantial New England architecture that the Mormons built and were forced to forsake. We went on to Hannibal, Mo. and joined in the celebration festivities as we visited Tom Sawyer’s home, Becky Thatcher’s home, and saw the river rafts which carried the boys on their river adventures. It was great fun.
We went on to St. Louis after being steeped in river lore, where we embarked on a two-week river cruise. It was the happiest and most restful vacation we had ever had. Our host was the Golden Eagle, a very old river cruise boat — double smokestack, rear paddle wheel, and staterooms advertised as having running water, which was a little past the truth. The only water that ran in our stateroom ran from a pitcher. Our bunk beds were one on top of the other. Good for honeymooners!
The purser must have smelled us out, as he assigned us to a table with some other Ohio State doctors doing the rivers for their holiday. Our meals were always delicious southern cooking, enhanced with medico humor that often became quite physiological. It sometimes was a wet blanket on my appetite, but the mood was hilarious.
Our route took us down the Mississippi to Cairo, Ill. where the Ohio River flows in, and up the Ohio to its confluence with the Tennessee River at Paducah, Kentucky. We had a leisurely journey south on the Tennessee River as far as Muscle Shoals, Alabama.
We changed river pilots about every 50 or 75 miles. When they came aboard, they were in complete command. The fat captain became only a social figurehead who honored his lady passengers by socializing and drinking with them. Those licensed river pilots guided the boat past the shoals and narrows most of the time. One day our pilot commanded all passengers to go to one side of the boat to clear a sandbar he had struck. It worked, and we went on our way.
We never traveled at night. We anchored on shore and always enjoyed a quiet, peaceful night’s sleep. We often went ashore when we passed an interesting town or village.
In Alabama, we saw our first cotton fields, which were ready for harvesting. The local children always seemed ready to sell their garish wares to the boat people. I suggested to the children that they pick little bouquets of cotton to sell us “Yankees.” They did and made a bundle from their sales.
The passengers were an interesting lot. There were three distinguished, elderly gentlemen aboard that were government officials. They were on the trip to inspect the partly completed Tennessee Valley Authority dams being built to generate electric power and make the river more navigable. Kentucky Lake and the dams that exist today were not yet built when we were there.
It seemed that these “Three Musketeers,” as we dubbed them, were along to make serious decisions about building the dams. They were always together and didn’t mingle much. There was a businessman and his wife? who were sociable and entertained us on deck with a watermelon party. (We could buy melons and fruit on shore sometimes.) After the party, one of his guests told us they knew his wife back in Chicago and that this dame was his secretary.
Our leisurely days on the river gave us ample time for sightseeing. Our most memorable stop was at the National Civil War Cemetery in Shiloh, Tenn. Thousands who died for their beliefs in the good life lie here in graves maintained by the Daughters of the Confederacy. The marble statuary there was so beautiful and touching, expressing so clearly the anguish of mothers giving their sons to die in war. It was heartbreaking to look at it long.
Gliding down the rivers on the way to home port St. Louis was much easier and less eventful than chugging up the same path. We were glad to find our precious Buick again and enjoy its comforts as it brought us home to Cleveland in a trouble-free ride. We were a little rushed coming home because David, Robert’s youngest brother, was to marry Joyce Hart of Denver the day after our homecoming.
Little did we know how much excitement that day would bring.
Mary W. Dial
Transcribed May 1991 by CED
Posted Sep 14, 1989 at 03:25.
Revised Jan 23, 2023 at 19:55. EDT.
Retrieved Jun 1, 2026 at 22:15.
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