Meanwhile, as 1914 rolled around, Lois was busy working with the Central Branch of the Young Women’s Christian Association in Brooklyn and helping Elise Valentine prepare for her marriage to Frank Shaw, an energetic and dapper Wall Street stockbroker. They had been courting for some time because Elise wanted to wait until Frank got “a little more settled.” Now he was and could afford to spring for a rather swank and showy wedding. Lois felt it was just what Elise needed at the time, given all the problems still going on at her home. Besides, Lois liked Frank and thought he was kind and generous. Little did she know the important role he would play in Bill Wilson’s life in the not-too-distant future.
While Elise and Frank were courting, Lois and one of her several beaux often double-dated. Or they arranged group outings, finding blind dates for other close friends such as Edith Roberts, who had been their class president at Packer Collegiate Institute, and Helen Cruden, a quiet, bashful young lady.
“We were just a bunch of social butterflies back then,” Lois recalled of those days.7 She loved music—everything from jazz to classical concerts, from vaudeville to the opera. She played the piano well and later accompanied Bill on his violin. Lois would glow when she’d talk about seeing the great Enrico Caruso perform in Aida and Samson and Delilah at the Metropolitan Opera House or Sarah Bernhardt, John Barrymore, and his sister, Ethel Barrymore, in plays on Broadway.
It was also around this time she met Norman Schneider, a pleasant, stocky young man about her own age who lived in Kitchener, Ontario. They were introduced by a mutual friend when he came to New York City for a Swedenborgian church convention. She knew right from the start that Norman was taken with her. She didn’t feel the same right off, but she enjoyed his company. Norman was nice looking, well mannered, well read, and easy to talk to. While he was more on the serious side, he did manage to laugh at her silly jokes, which revealed how much he cared about her.
Clark and Matilda also liked Norman. In fact, after a short time Lois sensed they were encouraging the relationship more than she wished. Clark in particular considered the young man a fine catch since his family owned a large meatpacking company in Canada. Then, before Lois could interject, the Burnhams invited Norman to spend a week with the family on Emerald Lake. He accepted before Lois could say a word. She had to spend one of her vacation weeks on the lake entertaining him.
Norman Schneider arrived at the Burnham cottage only a few weeks after Bill Wilson had shown up with his “expensive” kerosene lamps. The visit would at least afford Lois the opportunity to get him off her mind . . . for a while anyway.
She and the young Canadian toured the antique shops in Manchester, picnicked in the mountains, swam in the lake, and chatted late into the night about everything from religion to the growing problems in Europe that were beginning to threaten the world with war. She recalled that it was a pleasant enough time, but there was one thing Lois was forced to admit. Norman Schneider was no sailor. The day she took him out in the skiff he was a bit squeamish—and turned ashen, in fact, each time the sail filled and the craft ran swiftly with the wind, its railing dipping nearly flush with the foaming green waters. When Norman gripped the mast and closed his eyes, Lois thought it best to tack to port, bring the rudder around to slow the skiff, and gently maneuver back to the dock. When they got out of the boat, she could see the gratitude mixed with embarrassment on his face.
The day before Norman left Emerald Lake, he wanted to have “a serious talk.” Lois knew what was coming and decided simply to postpone the conversation for now. She said that since they had only known each other a short while, they should correspond and visit from time to time and see how things went. Then, perhaps by next summer, she might be in a position to hear what he had to say. Not only was Norman disappointed by her decision, so were Clark and Matilda. But something deep inside Lois told her she was doing the right thing. She needed time to think things through.
But Bill Wilson didn’t need any time to think things through. He knew exactly what his next move would be regarding this haughty Lois Burnham and her dainty little sailing skiff. Her attitude toward him and his kerosene lamps only weeks before was still fresh on his mind.
Having made a boomerang that flew, repaired a violin so that it played sweet music, and put together a crystal radio that picked up stations from as far away as Pittsburgh, what would it take to make a sailboat that could outrun some fancy store-bought skiff? he thought. So the determined young man, prodded by resentment and an “I’ll show you” attitude, went to work on his grandfather’s old rowboat. He painted her up, streamlined the bow, fastened a handmade rudder and tiller, and carefully drove a heavy pole through the center seat to use as a mast. He “borrowed” one of his grandparents’ old bedsheets for a sail and fastened it deftly and tightly to the mast. He even tied a red, white, and blue pennant to the top. He worked on the boat every hour he could spare between his jobs and selling those lamps. By the end of June he was ready. And it didn’t make any difference to him that he had never sailed before. He’d find a way to cut her off and give her the biggest dunking of her life.
Bill knew from his friend Rogers that his sister worked in the city but came up to the lake practically every weekend. She also had the whole month of August off for vacation. He knew from watching that she loved to sail her skiff almost every Saturday morning. Lois was certain it was the first Saturday of July when it all came to pass without the slightest warning.
The morning began clear and calm. Not a leaf on the trees was stirring. The lake was like glass. But by eleven the wind came up, soft and gentle at first, but you could tell the gusts would be getting stronger. Lois untied the skiff at the dock and set sail. Bill Wilson was waiting in a cove on the far shore.
It started off as a pretty fair race. Bill was handicapped only by his complete lack of sailing acumen, a leaky old boat that was meant to be rowed, and Lois’s superior skill, experience, and equipment. But he’d be damned if he didn’t give it one helluva try.
The wind caught the bedsheet as the rowboat came out of the cove, thrusting it ahead like a dog coughing out a chicken bone. Bill hung on for dear life. He aimed the tiller toward Lois’s skiff as best he could. Suddenly he realized he was closing in on her. His face became one huge, excited grin, and his long sandy hair blew wildly in the breeze.
Lois happened to glance back. Then she did a quick double take. She had never seen such a contraption on the lake before. Then a third look back—and she caught the grinning countenance of its skipper. She couldn’t believe it. After a moment of shock, she broke out into laughter. Almost simultaneously she had a warm, tingling feeling inside, a feeling new and strange to her and one she couldn’t explain.
But this was no time for self-diagnosis. This was a time for action. She let the sail out a bit. She felt the boat grab the wind and pull ahead. As she turned again, Bill spotted her and saluted as if to say: “I’ve got you exactly where I want you.” But those old Clark Burnham genes were rattling inside her, those genes that relished a challenge. They came out shouting: “Not today, my friend. Not today.”
Lois tacked to starboard, right into the path of Bill’s old rowboat. He was close behind her now and didn’t know which way to turn—or how. He swung the tiller to port. A heavy gust of wind hit the bedsheet like a sledgehammer. Lacking a deep keel, the rowboat came up, out, and then down into the water like a paper kite caught in a downdraft. Bill smashed into the homemade mast and was flung into the air. He hit the lake all tangled up in the bedsheet.
Lois saw it all. She was horrified and frightened at first. Her mouth was agape. She quickly came about and headed for Bill, who was still struggling to tear himself loose of the sail. Finally he was free. Once Lois saw he was all right, she began to chuckle. After all, it was a very funny sight. The chuckle turned into laughter. She was now alongside him—and still laughing.
She reached down and helped pull him into
her boat. He slumped dripping wet into the seat across from her, rubbing his head.
“Are you all right?” she asked, trying unsuccessfully to stop laughing. He still had that big, silly grin on his face. Lois recalled he said something like, “I would’ve had you if my head didn’t break the broomstick and my bedsheet didn’t wrap me up like some Egyptian mummy.”8
Then they both burst out again into raucous laughter for several more moments. Then it stopped. They could hear the water lapping against the bow. They looked at each other. That’s when it happened . . . that special something only people who fall in love can feel but can’t quite explain. They both knew it, but neither could nor would put it into words. Not just yet, anyway. That would take some time. But for Bill, those sad, painful memories of Bertha Banford would soon disappear. And Lois, although uncomfortable for a while about “what people might say,” would soon forget about the disparity in their ages. For what is three-and-a-half years when there’s a whole lifetime ahead?
When asked later on in life how she felt at the time, Lois replied with a twinkle in her eye: “Right from the beginning, there was that special something about Bill—something so refreshing, so impressive, so determined that I simply fell totally in love with him. Yes, for a short while I was nervous and unsure of myself, but I soon came to find Bill to be the most interesting, the most knowledgeable, the finest man I ever met. I saw things in him he didn’t see in himself. Was I ever disappointed later on? You bet. Did I ever have any regrets for marrying him? Never, never, never, never. I never ever dreamed about anyone but Bill Wilson.”9
Still, there was another omen of things to come on that beautiful and exciting morning on Emerald Lake. When Lois went to Bill’s rescue, little did she know how often she would be doing the same thing over and over again in the future.
It was several weeks before they saw each other again. One night Rogers and Barbara were meeting some friends at a dance in Manchester. They tried to coax Lois into joining them. Rogers was particularly insistent for some reason, but Lois recalled it was her mother who finally convinced her to stop moping and go out and have some fun. Actually, Matilda and Clark thought their daughter was missing Norman Schneider. Little did they know. So Lois drove those twenty miles to Manchester with her siblings, quiet and unsmiling most of the way. She had no idea what Rogers had been instigating.
The dance hall was jammed with summer visitors. Rogers pulled his reluctant older sister onto the dance floor, and while they were waltzing, Bill Wilson suddenly appeared in the large open doorway leading to a wide veranda, watching and grinning at her. Lois closed her eyes tight, hoping with all her heart he would walk over, cut in, and ask her to dance. But when she opened her eyes, Bill was still standing in the doorway, watching and grinning.
As soon as the music stopped, Rogers ran over, grabbed his friend by the arm, and half-dragged him to their table. Since everyone was already acquainted, no introductions were necessary. The music started again. Rogers grabbed a different partner and joined the others back out on the dance floor. Bill slid slowly into a chair across from Lois. After a moment, she later recalled, he said quietly with that silly disarming grin on his face, “I love to sail but I hate to dance. Everybody staring at my two wooden legs. But if I could . . . I would ask you.”
“Then, let’s go where no one is staring,” she said, smiling.10
They walked out onto the veranda and found a quiet spot away from the crowd. That’s where she taught Bill how to dance. Few words were spoken except for her necessary explanation of the dance steps. And when the music ended, they went back inside for a soda. They made small talk while watching their friends dance. Bill still wasn’t quite ready to test out his two wooden legs.
When it was time to leave, they shook hands, not knowing exactly when they’d see each other again but knowing for sure they would. Lois and the gang piled into Rogers’s car, and she continued to stare back until Bill was out of sight. When she turned back around, she noticed a small, knowing smile on her brother’s face and then a loving wink that said: “Don’t worry, sis. It’s just between us.”
And it was, for no one else really knew the rest of that summer of 1914 what was growing between Lois and Bill. Even her parents didn’t question why this young Bill Wilson fellow was visiting Rogers more frequently than usual. And besides, Dr. Burnham still liked and admired the lad.
Their relationship grew slowly and easily until Bill had to return to Norwich University that fall. But they were rarely alone, usually going picnicking, dancing, or on hayrides with “the gang”—Rogers and one of his two or three girlfriends, Barbara and her new beaux, or Ebby Thacher, Bill’s longtime pal whom he often tried to “fix up” with a date, usually one of the local girls. Sometimes he was successful, most times not. And when he was not, he often talked his sister Dorothy into joining them.
In her later years, Lois would sometimes reluctantly admit how she honestly felt about Ebby Thacher when she first met him.
“I always tried to be polite in the beginning,” she would say. “But at first all I saw was a rather homely young man who was always bragging about something, and as far as I could see, he had nothing to brag about. But he was Bill’s closest and dearest friend so I made him mine too. Later on he would play a crucial role in helping Bill find sobriety, so in the end, I came to truly love Ebby Thacher.”11
Edwin “Ebby” Thacher came from a wealthy Albany, New York, family that had made their money in manufacturing cast-iron stoves. They had been summering in Vermont for many years and had developed a reputation as part of the “heavy drinking crowd.” Bill first met Ebby through Mark Whalon, and they became fast friends when they both attended Burr and Burton Academy. During those terrible days following Bertha Banford’s death, Ebby didn’t want to leave Bill’s side. He was deeply concerned about the way his friend was acting. Even though Bill always found a way to go off and mourn by himself and think those crazy thoughts that frightened even himself sometimes, he was very grateful for Ebby’s concern and support. That made them practically blood brothers. And now Bill and Ebby were even closer since they were both attending Norwich University, wearing military uniforms on campus, and talking at home about how they would save the world should war ever come. At the time, Lois knew nothing about the depth of the relationship.
Lois and Bill’s parting in late August that year was quite abrupt. Lois couldn’t get away from her job the weekend Bill returned to school. Bill wanted to write but he was fearful of rejection, for by now he was aware of Norman Schneider and how Dr. Burnham and his wife were disposed to Lois marrying him. Lois, on the other hand, didn’t write because she didn’t want to put any stress on Bill. She knew he had some problems with school in the past—although she only learned about Bertha much later—and was concerned about distracting him.
So the fall and winter months dragged on interminably for both of them. Bill wanted to do well to earn Lois’s respect and to prepare for his future, so he did. Lois simply had to figure out her life at this juncture, facing pressure at her job, pressure from her parents to “make the right decisions,” and pressure from two relationships she had to sort out. The one thing Lois did decide that winter was to quit her job and try her hand at a small venture she had always wanted to pursue: a snack bar somewhere near their summer home in Vermont. Perhaps unconsciously—or consciously—the venture’s close proximity to East Dorset and Bill had something to do with her timing.
The days passed much faster as she made her plans, designing the structure, its decor, its colors, its menu. She was filled with both excitement and trepidation by the time she was ready to open for business in the middle of May 1915. Lois created a simple but lovely stopping-off place for hungry and thirsty travelers, appropriately named “Lois’s Tea Arbor.” Located at the north end of Emerald Lake, it was a charming, open-sided grotto offering tea, sandwiches, and cakes. It sat atop a green knoll, its roo
f supported by vine-covered birch poles. The rustic chairs and tables were handmade of maple, the floor was painted green, and pretty flowers and native plants hung in pots from the ceiling.
Less than ten miles from Manchester on a well-traveled thoroughfare, the tea arbor could be seen from the other side of the road. But Lois hadn’t realized how difficult it would be for cars and even carriages to cross the brook at the foot of the knoll. And she failed to put up any signs or advertise. She thought just the sight of the delightful grotto and word of mouth would do the trick. It didn’t.
Business started off very slowly and never picked up—except, that is, for one particular customer who stopped by practically every afternoon after peddling his kerosene lamps. Bill always insisted on paying cash for his tea and cakes even though he wasn’t selling many lamps. But then Lois wasn’t selling much tea, either. Still, they had wonderful visits together. Sometimes she simply left the grotto with her Prince Charming to pick wild strawberries or the delicious mushrooms that grew out of the hillside.
Bill tried to keep her spirits up as the business wound down, but he soon realized he was in love with a lady who hated to fail, a lady who had inherited her father’s determination to stay the course no matter what. Here again, Lois was certain her strong will would make things turn out all right—and, oh yes, that new sign Bill suggested, along with a small ad in the local paper, might also help. But they didn’t. She closed the tea arbor for good at summer’s end.
Then, much to Lois’s further dismay, Bill told her he had to visit his mother in Boston for several weeks in August. It just happened to be the same time Norman Schneider was due to spend a week with the Burnhams on Emerald Lake. Bill knew nothing about Norman’s visit. Lois felt her emotions being pulled in a number of different directions and, coupled with her business venture going downhill, she was in a real tizzy by the time the young Canadian arrived on her doorstep.
The Lois Wilson Story Page 6
