Wilbur and Orville weren’t the only Wright Brothers

THEY WERE “PKs,” meaning “preacher’s kids,” a difficult role for nearly every child put in its unwanted spotlight. Beyond that, theirs does appear to be a tight-laced family, even with its strong strain of moral and social progress. We can even wonder what the brothers’ diagnosis would have been today; there are speculations of “somewhere on the spectrum.”

Still, they did put humans into the air and, more importantly, brought them down safely.

We’ll put their technological breakthroughs aside today and instead focus on the more personal surroundings of Wilbur (1867-1912) and Orville (1871-1948), sons of Bishop Milton Wright and Susan Catherine Koerner Wright.

Like me, they were both born in Dayton, Ohio, and we were members of a congregation their father had founded. (He also founded a seminary.)

And, gee, a photo of the house they grew up in looks almost identical to my grandparents’.

Here are ten more interesting points gleaned from the Web:

  1. Neither one graduated from high school. They were, however, friends of classmate Paul Laurence Dunbar, the school’s only Black student, now an acclaimed poet, and in time, at their print shop, they published a newspaper he created. Yes, they were printers and bicycle manufacturers before they built airplanes.
  2. They learned many of their mechanical skills from their mother, who had attended Hartville College, a small United Brethren school in Indiana, at a time when few women were permitted such an opportunity. Her focus, tellingly, was literature, science, and mathematics. In 1853, she met the future bishop. He had joined the church in 1846 because of its stand on political and moral issues including alcohol, the abolition of slavery, and opposition to “secret societies” such as Freemasonry, values she shared. Working together as his ministry developed, they brought their boys to 12 different homes across Indiana and Iowa before returning permanently to Dayton in 1884.
  3. A year or so later, while playing an ice-skating game with friends Wilbur was struck in the face with a hockey stick by Oliver Crook Haugh, whose other claim to fame would be as a serial killer. Wilbur lost his front teeth. Up until then, he had been vigorous and athletic, but the emotional impact left him socially withdrawn, and rather than attending Yale as planned, he spent the next few years largely housebound, indulging in the family’s extensive library and caring for his mother, who was terminally ill with tuberculosis.
  4. More befitting a PK, in elementary school Orville was prone to mischief, including practical jokes, and even expelled once.
  5. They weren’t the only Wright brothers. Reuchlin (1861-1920) was their oldest sibling. Born in a log cabin in Indiana, he grew into a restless young man, failed college twice, then moved to Kansas City in 1889, distancing himself from his family. He worked in Kansas City as a bookkeeper until 1901, then moved on to a Kansas farm with his wife and children to raise cattle. Though he built a good life for his family there, he remained estranged from the rest of his family in Dayton.
  6. Lorin (1862-1939) spent time on the Kansas frontier before attending Hartville College in 1882 and returning to Dayton, where he had difficulty making a living. So he left for Kansas City in 1886 (before his elder brother), struggled, briefly, returned to Dayton, and then headed west again, where he scraped out a living on the Kansas frontier for two years before returning home in 1889, lonely and homesick. He worked as a bookkeeper for a carpet store in Dayton and married his childhood sweetheart, Ivonette Stokes, in 1892; they had four children as he settled down to a quiet life. In 1893, he worked for Wilbur and Orville in their print shop, and in 1900 helped sister Katharine manage the Wright Cycle company while their brothers were in Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. He visited Wilbur and Orville at Kitty Hawk in 1902, notified the press in 1903 after their first powered flights, and lent them his barn to build the machine that eventually became the first United States military aircraft. In 1911, he helped test the first airplane autopilot and in 1915, spied on Glenn Curtiss to gather information for the Wright patent suit against the rival airplane manufacturer. After Orville sold the Wright Company, Lorin bought an interest in Miami Wood Specialties, the company manufactured a toy that Orville designed. He also was elected a city commissioner in Dayton.
  7. Twins Otis and Ida (1870) died in infancy. He, of jaundice; she, five days later, of marasmus – malnutrition.
  8. Their youngest sibling, Katharine (1874-1929), could be the subject of a Tendril all her own. She was only 15 years old when her mother died of tuberculosis in 1889. As the only female child, it was taken for granted that she would assume her mother’s role—which she did – caring for the family and managing the household. She was especially close to Wilbur and Orville, and when her mother died it became her responsibility to take over the household, seemingly ending any prospects of marriage. Yet she also graduated from Oberlin, at the other corner of the state, in 1898, the only Wright child to complete college. She then became a highly respected teacher at Dayton’s Steele High School. After Orville’s injury in a 1908 test flight for the military at Fort Myer, Virginia, she took a leave of absence from her teaching job to nurse him back to health and never returned to teaching. Instead, she became a central figure in her brothers’ aviation enterprises. In 1909, the French awarded her, along with Wilbur and Orville, the Legion d’Honneur, making her one of the only women from the U.S. to receive one. After Wilbur’s death in 1912, Orville became more and more dependent on Kate, as his old injuries had him in severe pain. She looked after his correspondence and business engagements along with his secretary, Mabel Beck, and ran the household as before. In the 1920s, Kate began to renew correspondence with an old flame from her college days, a newspaperman named Henry Haskell, who lived in Kansas City. (What is it with Kansas City for this family?) They quickly began a romance through their letters, but she feared Orville would become jealous. After several attempts, Henry broke the news to Orville, who was devastated and refused to speak to the couple. When they finally wed in 1926, Orville refused to attend the ceremony, and wouldn’t speak to them up until they moved to Kansas City. She was ridden with guilt for choosing Henry over her brother, and tried many times for a reconciliation, but Orville stubbornly refused. Two years after her marriage, Katharine contracted pneumonia. Even when Orville found out, he refused to contact her. It was their brother Lorin who eventually persuaded him to visit her on her deathbed, and was with her when she died. She was 54.
  9. None of the Wright children had middle names. Wilbur and Orville were “Will” and “Orv” to their friends, and “Ullam” and “Bubs” to each other.
  10. The parents and siblings, minus Reuch, are buried at Woodland cemetery in Dayton.

For a broader view, let me suggest The Bishop’s Boys: A Life of Wilbur and Orville Wright  by Tom Crouch.

The United Brethren denomination also figures prominently in my posts at Orphan George.

 

I do wish there were more details

My first autumn there exposed me to a mixture of New England’s intense fall foliage and that of the Southern forests. I drove many miles in the afternoon hours after my shift at the newsroom ended in explorations of the neighboring forests. The region was called the Southern Tier of New England, paired with the Northern Tier of Pennsylvania. Sometimes I got lost on lanes like this or on winding country roads.

Peak fall leaves in Athens, Pennsylvania, just downstream from Binghamton, by Gray Cat Photography at Shutterstock

~*~

The cover of Volume 9 of my journaling purposed a college geography course. I didn’t recall ever touched a map there, either. Turns out to have been Geog 314, urban geography – anything as long as it’s related to the city – part of my Urban Studies certificate program.

Includes a page torn from another notebook, about spending the night with [Judith, I presume, or perhaps Polly], and her moistness. Very confusing now.

Mostly Christmastime ’70: more winter observations.

The Kara lobster incident, quite telling: “What a little girl she is, how frightened of growing up into sex she is, of how much she is running away from herself, using work as an excuse.” Etc.

So she was home from Cornell for the holidays?

Also, reaction to getting Fay’s letter … “She’s further down than I am.” Also, my comments that we would never get back together, because “there is so much she will never tell (her friends) / bikes [motorcycles], sex thrill, freedom … she is physical” in contrast to me.

I was apparently spending time with Judith at this point, much earlier than I remembered. The book includes Christmas Eve, when D-Man and Helene moved to the second-floor place with the rounded bedroom.

I’m surprised by the lack of any record of the spectacular autumn foliage and my explorations of country roads after getting off work in the early afternoon.

Much of what was percolating in my life through these months will instead be found in my novel Pit-a-Pat High Jinks.

In general, it was a difficult time for me.

[Incinerated]

~*~

From Spiralbound Hippies, with commentary from now.

With degrees of disorientation

From banter with Esperanza, I see I was already harboring a dream house in the woods, rather than the sleek flat in a high rise in midtown. Woods, but no mention of lakefront.

From there, the volume leaps rapidly into autumn. “It’s been so long since I have written. … Vagueness replaces articulation.”

Molly says everybody talks about their problems, but very few talk about what makes them happy.

At one stretch, I ranted about how few people could relate to my love of classical music etc., yet also how little I knew of rock or Hollywood stars. I see now that wasn’t the root of my loneliness, but rather my inability to see them as feeling creatures for reasons other than what facts they might share.

~*~

Out of the blue: “Nikki’s fucking up my head. I look strange (though mystic, interesting, intriguing) when I see myself in reflection: the hair and beard: where am I? I want to run but realize the malaise is within. … I’m homesick, but for where? Not Dayton, unless it’s [her family]. Not my parents or the Moons. Or Antioch?

~*~

Molly’s “We’re going to discuss infinity.”

“Oh, that will take forever.”

A note of taking a bubble bath at Molly’s – we didn’t have a tub with our apartment.

Also, her friends had the strangest names: Leo, Lousy Ruly, Zoom-Zoom, Beaver. How would a plain James fit in?

~*~

“It kinda pissed me to discover I paid $1.95 (plus tax) for Trout Fishing in America only to see it was set not by Linotype but rather electric typewriters, probably some poorly paid secretary …”

~*~

Interesting, when I claim there’s nothing Quaker about Quaker Lake, other than being in Pennsylvania. “Nor is there a meetinghouse for miles about. … Unlike Brackley’s roadside dive.” Quakers were still way off in my future.

~*~

Recollections of Fay, her smiling baby teeth and playful body, her wordplay mind, yet eons behind … while Judith gives nothing but her body but wants my soul, says I still love Nikki and should see a shrink.

We lived in rundown housing a few blocks from downtown. The center of the city still had some charm and much potential. Photo by Yuriyt at Shutterstock

~*~

Much of the volume continued the lines of judgmental social commentary cloaked as verse. Interwoven are attempts to define the landscape, both surrounding me and for the nation at large.

There were also pages written in pencil, now too faint to decipher.

The back page has both Nikki’s brother and Pips’ phone numbers and their addresses at Cornell. [Kara was now also there, all three as freshmen.]

A typed teletype roll insert: Time is flying by on dragon wings. Let us use Chinese dragons: they are beings of beauty and magic and have a pearl between their teeth.

So who I was addressing when I concluded, “Catholic hang-ups are beyond my scope of comprehension: I hope you arrive to where you can not only name them but comprehend them: the task of living is immense: we have no other choice. Peace & love.”

[Incinerated]

~*~

From Spiralbound Hippies, with commentary from now.

Situating the experiences and place

We can wonder how much of the history I could have captured if I had owned a camera. The images I’m digging up for this series help some, but skirt much of the grittier realities I faced.

Binghamton panorama in a Jeremy Purdom photo via Wikimedia Commons.

The city itself was already well into Rust Belt decline and probably would have been intolerable apart from the hippie-era adventure of living in a college-town slum.

This was my introduction to the East Coast, and my first time of living in proximity to mountains, albeit the Allegany foothills of the Apalachin range (New York spellings). I was still spellbound. The region was called the Southern Tier, to the west of the Catskills and south of the Finger Lakes. The city,- or Tri-Cities when neighboring Johnson City and Endicott were included, was generally working-class and infused with a spectrum of ethnic minorities.

Historic map via Wikimedia Commons shows the emerging city at the conjunction of the Susquehanna and Chenango rivers.

The city was nestled into the valley and once had water-powered mills along the riverbanks.

The factories were long gone by 1970, when I lived two blocks away. The dam and bridge, closed to traffic, however, remained.

The Susquehanna itself was a fascinating river, as I present in my chapbook of poems carrying its name.

A typical highway scene in Broome County, New York, by Dougtone at Wikimedia Commons. Those foothills were quite different from what I had known growing up.

 

A little of this and a little of that

I’m guessing this is from a few weeks after my futile trip to Montana and Utah.

The pages open with some Pips at Quaker Lake details, opening with Sunday, “the most beautiful day since I’ve been here.” I arrived to find her in the water, playing with children who were climbing all over her. “The water was refreshing and clear and black. I could see my toes on the flat stones four feet under water. … Swimming together to come out somewhere beyond the weeds.” Reading the Sunday New York Times while she worked the crossword, “I felt like a lord.”

Pips, do note, was a courier at the office, fun to be with but interested in me only as a buddy. For me, she was much better than being alone.

“That night,” on the phone, “Nicki told me she’s going to Salt Lake for three weeks … and I decided to quit” the pursuit. “I feel so free, albatross from my neck.”

Yeah, right. Like a kick in the gut.

A few days later, after a big breakfast with Thor and Vivienne, I went to check out the Hawley Street apartment building, came home to throw the I Ching, and asked Vivenne to accompany me in seeing the unit. She had a coughing problem the whole time I was around her.

The coughing had in fact awakened her; she came out in Thor’s blue robe, its waist hitting her below the ass, pockets at her knees.

“Jesus, you’re short,” I giggled.

My day off, I stopped at the office to get my paycheck. It came out on Wednesdays? Also, got a new tie.

We went back to the apartment, I put $250 down – two week’ pay – and returned to Susquehanna Street, where I removed my tie, changed shoes, and put on a headband.

Then we were off to Scranton, where she would get the bus to Manhattan.

She whipped out some joints (from Thor’s stash) for a joyous ride. We picked up hitchhikers.

Back in Binghamton, though, the loneliness whammy.

Within the next week, Nikki was in Syracuse with her parents. Seeing her in the hotel suite, “our first glance, a terrified emotional rush, afraid to touch … but I put my arm around her. Her voice has changed … mellower, like feather down. She wants me to respect her.”

She’s off to Binghamton with me. We make love, it’s incredible (she’s learned new tricks), until she remembers my confession about Peter’s letter. And I cry too much, too often (like Monday night with Polly).

“In bed, lying next to me: who is this stranger? I’ve never seen her before. She’s so porcelain, such transparent skin, so fragile. And I never knew her mind, it’s so strange.

“We argued over trivia, viz., why did I get a post office mailbox?” She screamed and cried, thinking me paranoid. And I’m scared you’ll lose my other notebook.”

The weekend with Nicki in Syracuse and Binghamton. Apparently, she tore into me over many small decisions.

Why do I defend others, like clerks or waitresses? Am I trying to identify with them, like I’m OK, not freaky like you?

We hit the zoo on the hill and then the Roberson.

“Every time I leave you, it’s death. Will I see you again?”

[In revisiting this, I recast it: “Every time you leave me, it’s death. Will you see me again?” I may have been dropping her off at the hotel, but the fact was that she was the one departing.]

“I know I must avoid your father’s spell: it tears me from your mind.

“What a prison marriage can be: but what misery is this!”

What hurts most about her being with others was my fear of being second-best. Or was it of being alone, alienated?

I even admitted that she loved Bruce. The one in Utah?

“I promised you I would hide you, if necessary.” [Something that would haunt me.]

~*~

From Spiralbound Hippies, with commentary from now.

A few things you don’t know about this Aquarian

Despite all these outings as a writer, not just as a blogger but as a poet and novelist, too, let me confess, I …

  1. Almost always feel like an outsider.
  2. Struggle at small talk.
  3. Look at idealized writer’s studios and realize they could have been what’s now my bedroom.
  4. Can be blamed for too often having taken my romantic partner as a muse.
  5. Can’t stand wet feet unless I’m swimming. Or, more frequently, showering.
  6. Assume true love always involves pain.
  7. Had some horrid toilet-training that lingers.
  8. Love foggy mornings when I linger in bed, sipping decaf (these days) and reading.
  9. Add to that listening to the rain muffled on the metal roof just overhead, perhaps while falling asleep.
  10. Can’t keep up with all the reading I attempt to do, much less any of the rest I should be tackling.

Welcome to the riverside ghetto

My first residence after college was sharing the upstairs apartment of a house in what was an Italian neighborhood by day and Black ghetto at night. Here goes:

Twelve-hour drive, from Dayton, I guess, on Friday. [This was in the blue Buick Skylark I was purchasing from my father.]

Saturday, swimming in the campus pool at Harpur, and then a string quartet concert with Kara. Sunday at her parents’.

Next Friday (did I oversleep work? Got a call from Bob at 8, to my chagrin). This turned into the steak-in-the-rain event with Esperanza that ended at Howard Johnsons to eat and then back to her place, where D-Man was unexpectedly sitting in a chair. “They make fantastic dancers, and I slink into depression.”

And then, after a brace of empty pages, comes “Tromping Through the Wilderness with the Choir” as a long prose entry before my futile flight to Montana and Utah and back. Much muck here, as well as some sharp flashes that have been woven into my earliest “professional” poems. Much of the rest wallowed in self-confusion.

My house? [Susquehanna Street, presumably.] Nikki’s strand of bells above my bedroom door, her candles, my T-shirts and bellbottoms, her gift of Lili Kraus playing Mozart.

Includes mention of a letter, where I read “Nikki” but not the “good-bye” – when I read it aloud to D-Man and Al (ah, not going by his usual “Thor”), both responded, “That sounds bad.”

My own bit, to self: “Do I want you? I don’t know. I despise you, but I am you.”

Wound up taking the following week off, the futile Montana trip.

She asked why they wanted her back. They see her throwing her life away. As for me? I saw her running away from what she saw as an empty life. “I’m supposed to do in two or three days what I couldn’t in 1½ years? It’s impossible.”

She buys expensive dresses she’ll never wear.

Great Falls “looks like any Midwestern city, except that the lawns are better watered and the people are friendlier, probably because there aren’t as many of them.”

At breakfast, a conversation with a woman psychologist. I got around to mentioning Nikki.

“Is she spoiled? Does she pout (or get upset) when she doesn’t get what she wants? … She needs psychiatric help.” Unprompted.

She needs to do something on her own. We need to commend what she does right. In giving her attention for doing something bad, we may encourage her more whenever she seeks attention.

Lyric poems lack maturity, Yellen said. But these aren’t poems, I’ll confess, they’re teardrops.

My freedom’s shallow, unlike my sorrowful loneliness.

~*~

Three aged yellow teletype paper letters were also folded into the notebook, all lower-case, undated; one to Ostrom, written on a Sunday afternoon. Mentions swimming a quarter-mile three or four nights a week, playing violin, and getting ready to hear Ella Fitzgerald that night.

[Incinerated]

~*~

From Spiralbound Hippies, with commentary from now.

Edging into the ‘70s

The first five spiralbound volumes reflect much of my thinking and experience underpinning my novel Daffodil Uprising, yet lacks many of the human sides of the story.

As you’ve noticed, none of them stand as journals or even systematic reflections, although one notebook opens, “I resolved the conflict between egotistic drive for position, for empty status, and intellectual quest,” arising from my decision to step down as arts editor at the Indiana Daily Student early in my junior year. Packman was among the first I consulted in making the move.

That volume, with an IU cover, does have my Men’s Residence Center address sticker, indicating I took my film course the spring of my junior year, rather than in my senior year. The first half has detailed notes taken during films, and my relationship with Nikki was in full force, though my record is only – apparently – class notes or scribblings while viewing, starting with Renoir’s Grand Illusion.

~*~

I was still far from journaling,

That would switch with the sixth volume, a book that starts out in Bloomington in the fall of 1968 as college class notes, but ends (after a big gap) in my emerging turmoil in Binghamton. That is, June 1970, the beginning of what would be a fervent, transformative decade for me: Bloomington, Binghamton, ashram, Fostoria, first marriage, Bloomington again, and then Yakima.

Two of the previous notebooks originated in the winter and spring of 1970, the second-half of my senior year of college, but with this notebook I was finally out on my own, my first full-time job, paying rent, owning a car, in despair regarding my first lover.

Revisiting this, I expected that much had been closely gleaned for the novels and poems.

I was surprised by how much hadn’t.

~*~

What strikes me, looking back, is the neurotic frenzy of those years, even before adding in the evenings of concerts, operas, lectures, and so on. Just where was my sense of direction? Or was it more likely escape?