I found this tiny 2x5, teal blue spiral notebook years ago, written in pencil during my grandfathers' travels. I was captivated by his storytelling and his descriptions of camp. It is the ONLY connection I have to him, I never met him. I do know my mother loved him deeply. I do not understand why he left his family of five during the depression to go 'explore'. For the most part, I have written this word for word as he put it on paper.
Journal of Leon Augustus Valentine Begins: October 1, 1930
I have just finished my breakfast of bacon and coffee, which I ate at the tourist camp here. There are camped here also some tourists, their families and are typical of the gypsie travelers of these times. While gathering some black walnuts that strew the ground here in the park I heard the wailing notes of Carry Me Back sung by the wife of one of the mechanics which is quite a contrast to the other mechanics wife who quarreled I am told, with her husband several days ago. Their style of quarreling must have assumed the proportions of a light heavy weight chamionship, no holds bared (sic) nor discriminations used on the selecting ammunition. The husband, true to activities of earlier pioneer days is a minute or less man, that, a minute after any comotion (sic) in the busy kitchen, he knows that target practice is in cherce (?) of preparation and experience has taught him to seek an obstructed view between him and his lifes sparing partner. After such a fusilade the doors are barricaded and screaming warnings are directed toward attack that have been started from ambuscade (?) etc.
It is ten a.m. and I must be on my way. I wonder who will have the distinction of picking me up first this morning. 2 p.m. and Nephi lays over the hill some 8 or 9 miles south. These towns are always just over the next hill. I wonder if any of the autoists who pass me up have ever ridden in my car? It is curious how many of the drivers see something on the opposite side of the road when they pass me. I suppose the consciences of the wretches prick them slightly, for even at their speed it is noticeable that they would try to think that they didn't see me. I wonder if I could check their speed if I rolled some big rocks on to the road. I must choose some means of letting them know how tired I am and at the same time assure them that I am not a road holdup. Hello brains? Ring courage for me, I need some help to be put aboard some of these passing autos, it is getting late, I am hungry and rain will fall any time now. When I get rich I am going to bequeath 1/2 my fortune to the purchase and upkeep of the biggest and most luxurious buses for the soul purpose of carrying hitchikers, I would equip them with mehaphones that the tramp passengur might hoot at the owners of the cheap caddilacs, buicks, et. And just let some cheap car owner try to bum a ride on one of them.
This little shed if it never serves any other purpose has saved Juab County the expense of housing me in the hospital, pneumonia, or at the very least gout would inevetibly result had not some one with fourthought erected this little castle.
Wed. Oct 1--11 a.m. I can still feel the straw trickling down my neck as it did last night at 10 p.m. when after an usuccessful day at riding, I waded thru mud and water to burrough into a straw stack that loomed like a castle in the moon light. Except for a touring and friendly pig my sleep was uninterrupted. I know now that pigs snore for didn't I quake thinking I could hear the echo of my own labored breathing. I gathered up my roll as quietly as tho I were stealing, but Mrs. Pig had her bugle trained on me in a move to friendly attitude and had she leaped upon me I shouldn't have been surprised. She emitted a grunt that was by no means a new sound to me (I've heard it in hotels) and heaving a disgruntled sigh of relief my last vision of her was seeing her settle down deeper into the straw pile. Getting to the highway I walked on briskly, the morning (6:30 a.m.) was cold and it looked as tho each minute might bring rain. About 10:00 a.m. I espied an apple orchard with a wind mill towering in its midst, toward it I hyed, found everything necessary to my needs excepting a can to heat water in. Meahnwhile, the rain came in torrants, everything was wet, but at last I succeeded in inducing some wet wood to burn and as a result I've bathed shaved and dined and am ready to meet the public on their own highway. I wonder how far I will have to walk?
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