thirty-two, their situation looked sufficiently promising to discuss an engagement announcement in the spring and marriage in the fall. Bess excitedly informed her closest friends of the good news. Louise Gates Wells, who was living in New York, replied with a spritely letter to “Dearest Bess(ie).” She was “delighted to hear that you were thinking of matrimony in a most serious fashion.” In her opinion, “Cousin Harry . . . is about the luckiest chap alive, not because of his investment prospects but the other prospects.” Another friend, Catherine Woodson, sent her congratulations and remarked that if she were a man, Harry would have had her as a rival. Mary Paxton was less ebullient but more intimate. “I was surprised,” she wrote. “I don’t believe your mother will ever be used to doing without you.”
Another comment in Mary’s letter makes it even clearer that Bess was planning to leave 219 North Delaware Street. “I know you will love living on the farm,” Mary wrote. “I expect to have a farm some day, but I don’t know whether I will buy one or marry one.” These words clarify a passing comment that Harry Truman made around this time. He said he yearned “to build me a bungalow.” He was obviously going to build a separate house on the Grandview farm and commute to Kansas City to help run the Morgan Oil Company. This made good sense. A man was needed on the farm to make sure the hired hands did their jobs.
But the drumbeat of history was booming louder in the lives of Harry Truman and Bess Wallace as these joyous hopes were rising. Although Woodrow Wilson had been reelected on the slogan, “He kept us out of war,” he took an increasingly confrontational position against the Central Powers, Austria and Germany. He began expanding the army and navy. Shortly before his second inauguration, he made it clear that if Germany resumed unrestricted submarine warfare and sank American merchant ships, the United States would declare war. Germany promptly announced it was going to do exactly that and gamble on bringing the Allies to their knees before America could organize an army large enough to make a difference.
Woodrow Wilson sent a declaration of war to Congress on April 2, 1917. One of Missouri’s senators and four of her congressmen voted against it, but that was irrelevant as far as Harry Truman and Bess Wallace were concerned. Almost instantly, the value of the stock in the Morgan Oil Company sank to zero. There was no manpower available to sink wells on the land they had leased, and the stream of money from investors dried up. Harry Truman was devastated.
I seem to have a grand and admirable ability for calling tails when heads come up. My luck should surely change. Sometime I should win. I have tried to stick. Worked, really did, like thunder for ten years to get that old farm in line for some big production. Have it in shape and have a crop failure every year. Thought I’d change my luck, got a mine, and see what I did get. Tried again in the other long chance, oil. Still have high hopes on that, but then I’m naturally a hopeful happy person, one of the “Books in brooks, Tongues in trees and Good in everything” sort of guy. . . . I was very impressionable when I was a kid and I believed all the Sunday school books and idealist dope we were taught and it’s taken me twenty odd years to find out that Mark [Twain] is right when he says that the boy who stole the jam and lied about it and killed the cat and sassed his ma, grew up and became a highly honored citizen. . . . The poor gink who stands around and waits for someone to find out his real worth just naturally continues to stand, but the gink who toots his horn and tells ‘em how good he is makes ‘em believe it when they know he’s a bluff and would steal from his grandma.
I don’t believe that. I’m just feeling that way now. If I can’t win straight, I’ll continue to lose. I’m the luckiest guy in the world to
Another comment in Mary’s letter makes it even clearer that Bess was planning to leave 219 North Delaware Street. “I know you will love living on the farm,” Mary wrote. “I expect to have a farm some day, but I don’t know whether I will buy one or marry one.” These words clarify a passing comment that Harry Truman made around this time. He said he yearned “to build me a bungalow.” He was obviously going to build a separate house on the Grandview farm and commute to Kansas City to help run the Morgan Oil Company. This made good sense. A man was needed on the farm to make sure the hired hands did their jobs.
But the drumbeat of history was booming louder in the lives of Harry Truman and Bess Wallace as these joyous hopes were rising. Although Woodrow Wilson had been reelected on the slogan, “He kept us out of war,” he took an increasingly confrontational position against the Central Powers, Austria and Germany. He began expanding the army and navy. Shortly before his second inauguration, he made it clear that if Germany resumed unrestricted submarine warfare and sank American merchant ships, the United States would declare war. Germany promptly announced it was going to do exactly that and gamble on bringing the Allies to their knees before America could organize an army large enough to make a difference.
Woodrow Wilson sent a declaration of war to Congress on April 2, 1917. One of Missouri’s senators and four of her congressmen voted against it, but that was irrelevant as far as Harry Truman and Bess Wallace were concerned. Almost instantly, the value of the stock in the Morgan Oil Company sank to zero. There was no manpower available to sink wells on the land they had leased, and the stream of money from investors dried up. Harry Truman was devastated.
I seem to have a grand and admirable ability for calling tails when heads come up. My luck should surely change. Sometime I should win. I have tried to stick. Worked, really did, like thunder for ten years to get that old farm in line for some big production. Have it in shape and have a crop failure every year. Thought I’d change my luck, got a mine, and see what I did get. Tried again in the other long chance, oil. Still have high hopes on that, but then I’m naturally a hopeful happy person, one of the “Books in brooks, Tongues in trees and Good in everything” sort of guy. . . . I was very impressionable when I was a kid and I believed all the Sunday school books and idealist dope we were taught and it’s taken me twenty odd years to find out that Mark [Twain] is right when he says that the boy who stole the jam and lied about it and killed the cat and sassed his ma, grew up and became a highly honored citizen. . . . The poor gink who stands around and waits for someone to find out his real worth just naturally continues to stand, but the gink who toots his horn and tells ‘em how good he is makes ‘em believe it when they know he’s a bluff and would steal from his grandma.
I don’t believe that. I’m just feeling that way now. If I can’t win straight, I’ll continue to lose. I’m the luckiest guy in the world to
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