(Editor's Note: The author of this article was formerly a member of the U.P.S. in San Francisco. Two and a half years ago he left on a motor trip to New York “just to see the country.” He hit the East about the time of the Philadelphia Exposition, landed a job with a photographer, stayed there until the fun was over, went to New York and then across the Atlantic to England, Belgium, Switzerland and France. “I went broke in Europe,” said Sam, “and thought I’d better return to the U.S.” He did this by working his passage on a freighter, and, arriving back in New York, got another job as a photographer, and stayed at that until two weeks ago, when he became a “thumb” tourist and arrived back in Los Angeles after 13 days on the road. Asked to tell us some of his experiences, he agreed and has prepared an interesting article of which this is the first installment. This part of his story takes us back to his first impressions of the U.P.S.. The next installment will tell us more of his travels after leaving San Francisco in a second-hand car to “see the country.”)  

    My trail starts at the U.P.S. plant in San Francisco. I had made the connection there through a newspaper “want-ad” and found myself suddenly and completely involved in a lusty, young organization full of fine enthusiasms and grand ambitions. I never saw a group of men so entirely bend on whipping a new enterprise into a closely-knit, smooth- working organization. Only a clod could be immune from the contagion of the thing.

    There was Mr. Casey, quiet-mannered, soft-spoken, and breeding an air of grim determination that left its sharp impress on everyone he contacted. He carried his hands in his pockets, but his ready brain two in everything and operated everywhere. Then there was Jack Davidson. If you couldn’t see Jack, you would be sure to hear him. He doesn’t talk in whispers, and he means what he says. He was effective everywhere and was no small factor in making a reality of a dream. And one can’t forget Tom Barker. He must have had a folding bed tucked away in a desk drawer, for no matter how early one came or late he went, Tom was on the job, and working. He did his sleeping slyly, if at all. Nor was the genius of Mr. Havighorst to be lightly regarded. His handling of the engineering problem was nothing short of remarkable, and revealed the calibre of the man.

    Small wonder then, with these men on the job, that the mists of confusion quickly lifted and everyone had a job and knew how to do it. The machinery of organization was in efficient operation. It was from this atmosphere of accomplishment in which everyone partook, that I suddenly departed with mingled feelings of regret and new hopes.

    When Tom Barker saw the car that was to take us East, he grinned. And well he might, for it hardly seemed adequate to the job. But the courage of ignorance saw us off with the good will of more friends thatn we thought we had in San Francisco.

    It was early in the Spring and we took the southern route over the desert. Many warnings of long, arid stretches, unpopulated and unwatered, had made us regard the desert with some apprehension. Anticipating a dearth of water, we bought and filled two five gallon cans, stowed them on the running board, and sallied forth. We had hardly entered upon the desert when the radiator started falling apart. Water trickled from it in all directions. Furthermore, the five gallon cans had sprung a leak and were dry. Disaster loomed in the offing. We steamed along for a few miles until we came to a group of shacks squatting by the roadside. Urged by desperation, I approached a grizzled fellow sprawled on a bench and timidly asked if he could spare a bucke of water. He shifted a wad of tobacco from one jaw to another, spat, and roared, “Sure, you kin have enough to take a bath in.” So we found it all the way across the desert, service stations every few miles, plenty of water, and aside from the heat and a few blow-outs, no difficulties.

    Across southern Arizona and New Mexico, and a great deal of Texas, the same unending prospect of sand, sagebrush and cactus presented itself. Interesting at first, this soon became monotonous so that the table lands of Texas gladdened our eyes. Then there was rain and much thick, black mud, and mules to pull us out, until finally, rolling down the west bank of the Mississippi, we crossed the ferry into New Orleans. Here in this lovely city we rested, patched up our rapidly disintegrating car, and prepared for the final jaunt to New York.

    Then north through Louisiana swamp lands, past fields where happy Negroes sang at their work, saw the wretched dwellings wherein they somehow managed to exist, out across a drab section of Arkansas, and over the Mississippi again into Cairo, Illinois. From here on, the atmosphere of the West and South lingered only as a memory. Our Middle West is only an extension of the East and has little to distinguish is from its progenitor. We passed through heavy industrial sections, town after town that differed only in name, and endless good roads. In Ohio we encountered snow and at Wheeling, W. Va. When we were about to cross the Cumberland Mts., our car gave its final gasp. We traded it in on a Chevrolet, crossed the mountains safely, then over the exquisite panorama of rolling Maryland country into Washington, D.C. with its pile after pile of imposing buildings, and many tree-lined avenues (a rarity in the East). Funds were getting low and the need for a job urgent so we hurried on to Philadelphia where a World Exposition was in progress, and where I stayed until my departure for Europe, which will be discussed next week.  

(Editor’s Note: This is the third instalment of Sam Eskin’s article telling of his travels since leaving the San Francisco plan two and a half years ago.)

    The Atlantic ocean smiled upon us this trip. Nary a storm, not even a shower to mar the journey. Eight days of sunshine and smooth sailing over this sea replete with tales of undying courage and heroic achievements brought us to this harbor of Cherbourg, our fist glimpse dregs of of France. Hordes of porters besieged us, annexed our baggage, herded us from tender to pier, thence to the Paris train. They are a tough lot and capable of making unreasonable demands upon the unwary in the way of tips for their services. A “teep” is the one English word they all know and they use it freely and eloquently. In the two hours before train time, we wandered about Cherbourg, absorbing its color and flavor and delighting in the frowsy European aspect of the old town. At midnight the train pulled into the great barn-like station in Paris and we soon found ourselves on the sidewalk loaded down with baggage and at a loss what to do. Remembering the name of a hotel a friend in New York had given me, we piled into a taxi, awakened a sleeping night clerk and with some difficulty conveyed the idea that we wanted a room. Our knowledge of French was very scanty and invoked situations which, while vexing at the time, prove amusing in retrospect.

    Paris, the capital of the world. Here life spreads it panorama loosely, from the very sordid existence to the heights of elegance and luxury. Cafes are everywhere, lining the beautiful broad boulevards and narrow, crooked streets both of which are so characteristic of Paris. We wandered about the city for days, taking in its historic sights and priceless art relics. Its grand old churches, all in the Gothic style, are particularly impressive, while the old palaces that linger on as museums are a service of no little interest.

    It was winter and, while not freezingly cold, there was a damp, penetrating chill that made it decidedly uncomfortable. So we set out for Switzerland. In Geneva it was colder still, and while we were entranced with the loveliness of the city decided to go south to the blue Mediterranean, where we expected to find sunshine and warmth.

    It was evening when we arrived at Montpellier, in Southern France, and that night I climbed into the coldest bed I have ever known. After many wanderings I found myself in Belgium, a country of unexpected beauty and interest. I was broke and in search of a job on some ship bound for the States. In Antwerp, I landed a berth on the Tomalva, bound for New York, and after 18 storm-wracked days dropped anchor in the Hudson River, happy at the familiar site of the Palisades on one side, and the gigantic pile of New York architecture on the other.

    It wasn’t long before thoughts of California broke in upon my peace of mind and I was soon upon the highways hitch-hiking thither. Thirteen days of thumb-wagging I later landed in San Diego and about the first thing I saw was the U.P.S. sign on their new plant. I felt at home. On to Los Angeles and San Francisco where I visited my old comrades at the U.P.S. and found myself still remembered. It was great to walk into these plants and find everything handled with clockwork-precision, to see men who seemed to like their jobs, and to feel the throbbings of a spirit of progress that must ever range onward to greater and newer accomplishments.

During the year 1928, 1,642,000 packages were delivered by the Oakland Division. During the month of December alone, 282,000 packages were delivered.

    “Ain’t” is often heard in loose conversation, because it seems easy to use; but there is no such word in the dictionary and when it is used the person using it is careless of his speech. Regardless of whether or not one thinks so, that kind of carelessness is harmful when dealing with people who know that “ain’t” is an outlaw.
 
    It is incorrect to say, “The box could not be found any place.” Instead, we should say, “The box could not be found anywhere.”

    “Awful” is one of the most abused words in the English language. You hear people say, “We had an awfully good time.”   “It was awfully funny,” etc. The word actually means something frightfully appalling, or monstrous.