3
BACK IN THE EARLY 1900S, THE SOCIAL CONVENTIONS FOR young ladies were quite restrictive, nothing like today’s rather liberated standards. “Spooning,” for example, which later became “necking,” “petting,” and even “foreplay” to some, was considered most improper and was frowned upon before couples became formally engaged. And sex itself—even the mere discussion of it, in many cases—was left for after the wedding vows and for the highly anticipated, often tense, climactic honeymoon night.
While young men knew how they were expected to comport themselves when wooing a young lady, testosterone was just as potent then as now. Many, therefore, challenged convention whenever the opportunity presented itself. That’s one reason why even in the best of families, daughters were chaperoned on dates and vigilantly watched when entertaining a young gentleman caller at home.
World War I and the free-wheeling Roaring Twenties that followed began to change things just a bit, but the “sexual revolution,” as we know it today, was nowhere in sight when Lois became a young lady.
Even so, by the time she was twenty-one, the charming and alluring Miss Burnham was having difficulty herself with some of these social conventions. She had graduated from Packer Collegiate Institute and was studying drawing and painting at the New York School of Fine and Applied Art—and working with live models. There were several young men in her life now to whom she felt physically attracted, and despite her strict moral upbringing, Lois’s interests were admittedly neither “platonic” nor “old-maidenish,” nor did she fit into any of those other similar categories. As she herself shared later in her memoirs, “Sometimes it was hard for me to keep to all those strict rules. I knew other girls who didn’t and in some cases saw how much trouble they brought upon themselves. I didn’t want that to happen to me. Still, when I sat with a young man all evening in our front parlor at Clinton Street, I was often tempted when he wanted to spoon. Both of us frequently found it difficult to create enough interesting conversation to distract us from what we may have had in mind. But I did my best to hold faithfully to our conventions. Fortunately, just when it would become the most difficult to do so, mother would call down from the top of the stairs that it was time for the young gentleman to go home.”1
There was one other thing that made Lois’s physical desires a little bit easier to contain. She hadn’t fallen in love yet.
It was around the middle of May 1914, early on a Saturday morning, Lois recalled, when she heard someone yanking incessantly on the bell chain outside the front door of the Burnham cottage on Emerald Lake. She was making a cup of tea for herself at the time. Annie the cook was busy feeding the younger children in the kitchen, her father was reading some papers in his study, and her mother was in her bedroom still recuperating from a virus she had picked up only a few days before the family left the city for Vermont.
There was a momentary pause, then the bells rang again . . . and again. By the time Lois reached the front door she was quite peeved. She glanced through the sunroom window to see a tall, lanky young man standing outside with a half dozen or so kerosene lamps tied to a pole that was slung across his broad shoulder. When Lois shoved open the outer door, she hit the young peddler on his leg, almost knocking him and his wares off the small front porch.
After regaining his balance and spotting the rather unfriendly look on Lois’s face, his own countenance turned beet red. He stared at the ground and uttered:
“Need any kerosene lamps, ma’am?”
Lois now recognized the young man as one of her brother Rogers’s summer friends, and she slowly pulled in her horns. While she had never actually met him before, she had seen him a number of times over the years and knew him as one of the “natives,” the term the elite summer crowd applied to the local folks of East Dorset and its environs, some of whom worked in the small shops and restaurants and handled all sorts of handyman chores for a fee.
With an apologetic tone in her voice, Lois replied: “I’m very sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you with the door like that.”
The young man forced a shy smile on his handsome face as he wiggled uncomfortably back and forth, making his kerosene lamps clang together.
“You’re Rogers’s friend. But I . . . I don’t recall your name.”
“It’s Bill, ma’am. Bill Wilson.”
“How much are the lamps?”
“Seventy-five cents.”
“Seventy-five cents? But they’re only fifty cents at the store.”
“Not with delivery, ma’am.”
“But . . . twenty-five cents more!”
Now the young man was getting peeved. Suddenly Dr. Burnham was at the door.
“We could use two of those. And if you could bring some extra kerosene by, I would appreciate it.”
Lois recalled feeling slightly embarrassed by her father’s quick dismissal of her attempt to negotiate a lower price.2 However, later he would tell her how he was impressed by young Wilson’s ambition and grit. Rogers said he was working two jobs plus peddling lamps on weekends to pay for his expenses at Norwich University, a military college in Northfield, Vermont, just outside Montpelier, the state capital. She could tell from her father’s expression that Bill reminded him of himself at that age.
Still, Lois wasn’t all that impressed. At least that’s what she told herself. This Bill Wilson fellow wasn’t even that good-looking in spite of those bright, expressive eyes and that thick sandy-colored hair. And he seemed clumsy and slow and not at all personable. But most of all, her father said Bill was almost nineteen. She was already twenty-two, and that made him much too young for her. What would people think?
Then why did his brief visit to her front door remain on her mind all that day, that night, and even the following few days?
Bill Wilson, on the other hand, was very impressed. First, he appreciated Dr. Burnham’s friendly, businesslike manner and his payment up front in cold hard cash. Second, Lois’s challenging, almost intimidating attitude impressed him to the point where he swore he’d get even before the summer was over. One thing he couldn’t stand was a patronizing attitude. He’d get even, all right, and the opportunity would present itself sooner than he anticipated.
Here was a determined, generally amiable, sometimes confused and distant young man whose roots ran deep into the Vermont soil. Bill Wilson came from a lineage of tall, raw-boned quarrymen who loved to spin great yarns in the local taverns while matching their peers drink for drink. And his father, Gilman Wilson—known as “Gilly” to his drinking buddies—was one of the best at both storytelling and drinking.
Gilly was born in the town of East Dorset in 1870, in the very same year and in the very same township as Emily Griffith, the first daughter of Gardener Fayette Griffith, a serious man who tilled the soil and loved it and his country deeply. His eldest daughter inherited his serious side: she grew into a tall, handsome woman with fixed notions that no one could alter no matter how hard or how long they tried. She was an avid reader, and when she discovered on a page an idea or provocative thought that she agreed with, it would become an unshakable part of her worldview. And she remained that way her entire life.3
Although Gilly was completely different—a man who could make up his mind one minute and change it the next—there was something about him that attracted Emily from the first day they met. Perhaps it was his ruggedly handsome looks, his thick, wavy hair, or the easy way he laughed. They both attended the same school, attended the same church, played in the same park, and went to the same parties. Before long they fell in love and were married. Many townsfolk whispered they were a completely unmatched pair, Emily a college graduate and Gilly a humble quarry worker. But Emily seemed happy at first, and Gilly—well, he always seemed happy.
Gilly’s father, William C. Wilson, a Civil War veteran, had worked in the quarries himself until he met and married Helen Barrows, who had inherited the largest house in East Dorset. It was a great rambling structure that for some years now had been a local inn called the Barrows House. Willie Wilson decided he’d enjoy running an inn more than running a quarry gang, so he renamed the place the Wilson House and settled down to wine and dine a constant stream of guests.
When his son decided to marry Emily Griffith, Willie not only threw a big wedding banquet but also set the young couple up in their first apartment—two rooms in the rear of the Wilson House. And it was there about a year later, almost as an omen of things to come, that their first child, William G. Wilson, was born on November 26, 1895—in one of those small rooms right behind the bar.
No one could conceive what great things William G. Wilson would accomplish, nor could anyone conceive the great difficulties, disappointments, and tragedies that would buffet him along the way. It was only when he shared all of this with Lois in his sober years that she would finally come to understand just how powerless she had been to help him all along. Yet she would have to endure all his pain and degradation with him before achieving such awareness.
Young Billy was only nine when the first tragedy struck. His father and mother separated and eventually divorced. The townsfolk weren’t surprised. Bill once shared with Lois that he should have seen it coming but closed his eyes and pretended when he opened them again things would be different. But they weren’t. The bickering, the quarreling, the outright screaming matches were still there and had been ever since his sister Dorothy was born. His mother kept saying she felt “stuck in a rut” and needed to find her way out.
Gilly was now managing a large granite quarry in the nearby Taconic Mountains and they had moved into a home of their own, a small but attractive green-shingled cottage a few blocks from the inn. But Emily wanted more and Gilly knew he couldn’t get it for her, not on a quarry manager’s paycheck. His drinking increased along with Emily’s aloofness. Billy loved his father, and the night he left was a night he never forgot. In a way, he blamed himself even though his father swore it had nothing to do with him. But Billy just couldn’t accept what his father said, especially when his insides kept telling him he had done something wrong—that his father no longer loved him.
Gilly headed for western Canada to manage another quarry. Emily sat down to plot her future. She was thirty-five now and had a son and a daughter to look after. She also had her own life to live, a life up until now of unfulfilled dreams. Conjuring up one particular dream, Emily soon developed another “fixed notion,” one that not even her kind and loving father could dissuade her from and one that led to Billy’s second deep disappointment and still deeper self-recrimination.
It was 1905. Emily would file for divorce, leave the children with her father and mother, head for Boston, enroll in medical school, and become an osteopath. The children would see her only occasionally for some years after that.
And so it happened. And while Billy loved his grandparents, he had great difficulty ignoring those confusing emotions deep inside that made him feel unlovable, that he must surely be to blame for his mother leaving. He never discussed any of this with his mother or anyone. He just kept it all inside.
Growing up in the rolling green pastures and rugged mountains of Vermont with a loving grandfather who shared his patriotism for America and taught him how to make and fly a boomerang, how to repair and play an old violin, how to fish, hunt, and read Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer took much of Billy’s pain and sadness away, but not all of it.
He and his sister Dorothy attended the two-room schoolhouse in East Dorset, and their teachers were both dedicated and strict. And their grandparents made sure every bit of their homework was done before bedtime. Outside of class, the young boy’s agility and strength made him an excellent athlete. He eagerly looked forward to entering the local high school and playing organized sports with his friends. But Emily had a different idea—another “fixed notion.” Although living and studying in Boston, she stayed in touch with her father and kept track of her children’s progress, especially their education. She was determined they would make something of themselves. She’d die before her son ever wound up in the quarries like her husband.
By the time Bill was ready for high school, Emily was now part of an osteopathic medical group in Boston and could afford to send him and his sister to a private school. Without consulting anyone, including her son, she had her father enroll him in Burr and Burton Academy, a well-respected coeducational boarding school in nearby Manchester, Vermont. The young man was devastated when he received the news. But there was nothing he could do about it, so again he just buried his feelings inside.
Late that summer, before he left for school, his longtime friend Mark Whalon, a man eight years Bill’s senior, whom he looked upon as a “kind and caring uncle,” decided to throw his young sidekick a going-away party.4 Mark was a rather heavy-drinking local handyman who loved to share his great dreams and aspirations with Bill who, in turn, often wondered why Mark wasn’t trying to achieve them. He gathered some of Bill’s companions together one evening on the shore of Emerald Lake—strangely enough, only a stone’s throw from the Burnham cottage—and pulled out a jug of home brew for everyone to have a swig from. When Bill’s turn came, he passed. Perhaps it was those memories of his father and how drinking affected him. While his friends laughed and ribbed him, Mark Whalon didn’t. He already knew how the damn stuff could grow on you and was happy about his young friend’s decision.
Those first few days and weeks at Burr and Burton were black and lonely. Competing in sports against local farm boys was one thing. Competing here against skilled young men from throughout the country was something else. At first Bill felt dumb and awkward. Some of the boys laughed at him at tryouts. Others called him “the Stilt” because of his leanness and lankiness. But the determination his grandfather had planted deep in his belly when trying to make and fly that boomerang was still there. So he didn’t give up.
Bill Wilson made the football team that first year but spent most of the time on the bench. By his sophomore year he was the starting fullback and recognized as the best punter on the team. He also pitched baseball, and by his junior year he was captain of the varsity baseball team. While he gained the respect and admiration of his classmates, that gap was still inside him, the feeling that he didn’t quite measure up. One day he would come to know why that feeling of low self-esteem was there and, as with most alcoholics, always would be.
Perhaps that’s why girls played little or no part in his life up until now. He still considered himself not very good-looking: his ears were too big; he was clumsy and much too skinny. At least that’s how he felt until the spring of his junior year—until that day when he was leaving the baseball field and accidentally stumbled into Bertha Banford, the prettiest, the brightest, and surely the most alluring girl in school. She had been in the stands watching the team practice. Unbeknownst to Bill, she had actually come to watch him. She had been doing so for the past few months, ever since this charming young lady, whose father was a minister in New York City, had developed a crush on the team captain.
But now as they both stood there on the path leading back to the gymnasium, Bill couldn’t believe that Bertha Banford, the girl every guy in school wanted to date, was actually smiling up at him with a loving look in those sensuous brown eyes. He fell in love instantly. He fell in love deeply. And when he learned that Bertha loved him too, he discovered something that turned his life completely around. He found that for a man like him, when someone else thinks you’re handsome, you’re handsome. When someone else thinks you’re bright and intelligent, you’re bright and intelligent. And when someone like Bertha Banford says she loves you, that makes you lovable once again.
He saw her in chapel every morning, glanced across his book at her in class as she did the same. They walked together around the campus almost every evening, watching the sun set and the moon rise. It was difficult to part that summer, but they knew they’d be together again in the fall.
Bill met Bertha’s parents that September, the start of his senior year. He was invited to spend the Thanksgiving holidays with them in the city. A few weeks before, Bertha told him she had to leave school for some medical tests. She didn’t appear concerned, so neither was he, although he knew she hadn’t been feeling well since returning to school. She promised to write and keep him informed. But no letters came. He phoned her once in the city, but there was no answer.
Bill Wilson was in chapel that chilly November morning four days before Thanksgiving. They had just finished singing a hymn when the headmaster entered, whispered something to the chaplain, and then moved slowly to the pulpit. Everyone could see he was quite nervous and upset. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a telegram. He began, “I received this telegram only an hour ago. It informs me that someone very near and dear to our hearts, Bertha Banford, died last night following surgery at the First Avenue Hospital in New York City.” Then he asked everyone to kneel and say a prayer for this special young lady.5
Bill remained standing while everyone else in the chapel fell to their knees, murmuring sadly to each other. His legs wouldn’t bend. His mind wouldn’t function. All he felt was his heart thumping madly in his chest as if trying to burst through his ribs and reach out to the girl he loved so dearly . . . the girl he knew he couldn’t live without. Tragedy had struck once again in the life of young Bill Wilson, only this time he had no idea how to face it, how to handle it, how to survive it even if he wanted to. The only thing he remembered thinking before he left chapel that morning was, “If there is a God, He can go to hell!”6
A week later there was a memorial service for Bertha in that same chapel at Burr and Burton Academy. It was packed with students and teachers and many of her friends and relatives. The Reverend and Mrs. Banford also attended. Bill’s classmates understood as they watched him weep in Mrs. Banford’s arms. Before Bertha’s mother left, she took Bill’s hand and pressed into it her favorite picture of her daughter. Perhaps she knew that this young man would need something more than just a memory to hang on to.
The rest of the school year was almost a total blackout. Bill remembered attending classes and spending most of the time staring out the window. He barely squeaked by. He tried to go on with his activities in the glee club and school orchestra, where he now played the violin. But he walked around in a fog, as he had once seen Mark Whalon stumble around town. But unlike Mark, Bill had nothing to support him, nothing inside to dull the pain. He fell into a depression. It would plague him on and off over the next several years. Even when he managed to pass the entrance exam for his first choice, Norwich University, which his grandfather battled with his mother so that he could attend, the painful memories were still there. And they would stay until that day two years hence when, in the middle of Emerald Lake, he tried to get even with Lois Burnham—and something magical happened instead.
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 roof 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.
He had been corresponding regularly, as she had suggested, even though her brief notes were far less frequent. But she knew from his letters what he still had in mind and prepared herself as best she could for that pivotal moment. This time, Clark and Matilda did most of the entertaining since, despite their frowns, Lois was not always “up to going out.” Norman sensed her interest in him was nowhere as deep as his interest in her, but he didn’t give up.
Lois offered Norman little chance to “speak his mind” during his stay. Then came the day he was leaving for Montreal. He asked her to walk with him to the train station. There was simply no way she could refuse. She chatted aimlessly about everything from her business venture to the weather until they finally reached the depot and watched the train pull in.
Lois didn’t know Bill was returning from Boston that very same day, so she didn’t notice him hop off the rear car and freeze at the sight of her and Norman standing close together. She didn’t see the expression on Bill’s face when Norman, determined to the last, kissed Lois on the cheek and asked her to marry him. While Bill never heard the words nor Lois’s reply, he could feel the anger and jealousy rising inside him even when Norman boarded the train and waved good-bye as it left the station.
It was only when Lois turned to leave that she saw Bill standing there staring at her, this time without that disarming grin. She was startled at first, but then smiled at him very warmly. She could tell by the deep frown on his forehead that something was wrong. Something was bothering him. He came close to her and stopped.
“You’ll miss him, won’t you?” he said quietly.
“Yes,” she replied. “He is a very nice person. But . . . I’m not in love with him.”
“You’re not?” Bill gulped.
“No. I’m in love with you.”
The glow she saw spread across Bill’s face at that very moment was something she would remember for years to come—something that would help carry her through some of those difficult times ahead. It was not only the glow, but the words that followed:
“I . . . I love you too, Lois. I . . . I have now for a long, long time.”
Only moments before, Bill Wilson was on the verge of feeling unlovable once again as he stood and watched his precious Lois being kissed by another man. What Bertha Banford had given him and was taken away by her death had been replaced by the warm smiles, the gentle touches, and the caring looks of Lois Burnham. She had made him feel whole again. And now her declaration of love healed every past wound and turned his fears and anxieties into indescribable joy.
He took Lois into his arms. He pulled her close to him. They kissed, warmly and gently. Then they smiled again at each other, clasped hands, and walked slowly from the train station, their eyes never leaving each other’s face.
They sat together on the dock outside the Burnham cottage that evening talking about the future, their hopes, their dreams. Lois squeezed Bill’s hand and told him what great things she saw ahead for him—that he could be anything he aspired to be—that he held as much promise inside him as this great country itself. Bill almost exploded with pride. He agreed with every word she said, only adding that he could not do it without her—that he needed her beside him every step of the way—that he was the sail but she was the rudder. They laughed and hugged and kissed, saying over and over how much they loved each other.12
Before the moon rose over Emerald Lake, they were betrothed.