Jon Bouman to the Bouman Family
Title
Jon Bouman to the Bouman Family
Creator
Bouman, Jon Anthony, 1873-1958
Identifier
WWP23076
Date
1919 November 8
Description
Letter from Jon Bouman to his family.
Source
Gift of William C. and Evelina Suhler
Subject
Correspondence
Paris Peace Conference (1919-1920)
Contributor
Rachel Dark
Denise Montgomery
Language
English
Requires
PROOFREADING
Provenance
Evelina Suhler is the granddaughter of Jon Anthony Bouman and inherited the family collection of his letters from the years of World War I. She and her husband gave the letters to the Woodrow Wilson Presidential Library & Museum in 2013.
Text
Saturday morning
Nov. 8, 1919
My dear bairns,
Now that a heavy rain is beating against the windowpanes and a cold wind sweeping the deserted streets, I think this is the time to tell you of what happened to me one day when it was hot – baking hot! It also was a Friday and my day off, so that I decided on making a cross country excursion. Bill would have enjoyed those trips, when one never knew exactly where one was going to land. So I took a slow train which put me down at a little village called Louveciennes which is built on the slope of a hill, and the railway station is at the bottom of a valley. It was a grilling day: a beautiful blue sky and both sides of the valley seemed to tower up high into the sky, , covered with the greenest of green trees and vegetation. The spot was very beautiful, calm and quiet, only about three country people got out of the train with me, and I felt very pleased with myself and the world at large, except for the flies. I had used some hairwash that morning, made from orange blossoms and the beasts mistook me for an orange tree in bloom and buzzed around me most annoyingly. I ordered them away in three languages but yet they wouldn’t go; I didn’t use German in case someone might overhear me and think I was a spy! So I climbed slowly along a white road that zigzagged up towards the village, between white plastered walls. From time to time me came to an old iron gate through which me could have a peep of what looked like enchanted gardens, where it would always be afternoon and never a sound was heard except the sighing of the wind in the tree tops. So finally I arrived at the top where the church stands, hundreds of years old, and the village houses grouped around it. I always go into those village churches which are always open to visitors. There are generally some bits of stained glass, or old carved seats to see, Nowadays there is always a corner where bunches of faded flowers and palm branches are arranged in honour of the villagers who were killed in the war. There was a frame with mourning cards in it, with the names, and some photographs attached, and to this place come the mothers, sisters and fathers to pray and remember the boys who were killed or who disappeared and are probably dead. With the French flags and candles that decorate those corners they look like Christmas trees from a distance.
It was now lunch time and I left the church. There was not a soul about. The village looked deserted; all the houses were shuttered up because of the fierce heat. On the village green stood a billy goat tied to a post. The heat did not humble him, he had a light of battle in his green slitty eyes and he wanted to fight me. So I stood in front of him and sang to him:
I do not like this billy goat,
I wish that he were dead,
Because he kicks and kicks me,
He kicks me with his head,
And I ruffed his nose, at which he snorted furiously.
So I ambled along the Rue de l’ Eglise – what a difference with the Kerk street in The Hague! __ and came to a door on which was the magic word Restaurant. I opened it and found myself in a pitch dark corridor with a bright light shining in the distance and towards this I felt my way. A shop bell tinkled somewhere, and at last I came to the end. It led to a sort of farmhouse courtyard with a summer house overgrown with creeper, a dog kennel and some other out buildings. Then there arose before me the magic vision of the biggest and ugliest woman I have ever seen. She was huge, she squinted, had warts on her bulbous nose and hair on her chin, and a moustache. I was much impressed, and felt sure she was a witch.
I didn’t take off my hat as I had it already in my hand using it as a fan, and politely inquired if there was any luncheon to be had.
“Luncheon?? Ha, Luncheon!!” she bellowed in a voice of thunder. “Let me see. There is a steak, or a chop….”
I groaned. Was I in England? A steak or chop was exactly what I didn’t want. Now some cold fish salad perhaps. Had she that?
“No! Steak or chop!”
A little cold veal, perhaps?
“No!! steak or chop!!”
I felt I simply couldn’t eat a steak so there was nothing for it but the chop. I fell down on a chair, pulled up another to rest my left arm, a third to rest my right arm, a fourth to rest my left leg and a fifth to rest my right leg. Then looked for a chin rest but found none, so I let my head droop down on my chest while I watched the giantess throwing plates and dishes about in the kitchen which was all open to view.
In France, mutton chops are generally stringy, and I thought: well this is bad luck for the first time! Presently the ogress came back, perspiration running in rivulets between the warts on her nose, the huge hairy arms bare to her shoulders, and banged down the chop in front of me.
Aha, what was that? The most tender, juicy chop I have ever tasted, with a bit of parsley butter on the top – done to a turn, with a salad ready mixed, with chives, a crisp crust of bread and butter and a bottle of cool white wine? This was decidedly better than I thought!
The giantess watched me with her squinting eyes and her face crinkled with pleasure when I complimented her, like a Japanese mask. I finished the chop, and the dog got the bone. Followed some cheese, most excellent and ripe. Then the lady ogress suggested a peach.
“I thought peaches were off.” I said. “There aren’t any more in Paris.”
“We have some of our own,” she grinned. And presently she came back with a monster peach, bigger than two of my fists put together. And juicy! It fairly melted in your mouth. Then coffee, fresh and fragrant, and I felt so pleased with all the world that I could have hugged the witch, her mangy dog and the furious billy goat to my bosom.
I took a ceremonious farewell of the bearded Lady, and drifted into the neighboring park, which used to be the gardens of the castle of King Louis XIV and sat down on a ruined bit of wall, where lizards ran in and out. There I fell asleep under the giant chestnut trees, and when I awoke, it was tea time, but alas! No tea. One can’t have everything!
--The End--
Nov. 8, 1919
My dear bairns,
Now that a heavy rain is beating against the windowpanes and a cold wind sweeping the deserted streets, I think this is the time to tell you of what happened to me one day when it was hot – baking hot! It also was a Friday and my day off, so that I decided on making a cross country excursion. Bill would have enjoyed those trips, when one never knew exactly where one was going to land. So I took a slow train which put me down at a little village called Louveciennes which is built on the slope of a hill, and the railway station is at the bottom of a valley. It was a grilling day: a beautiful blue sky and both sides of the valley seemed to tower up high into the sky, , covered with the greenest of green trees and vegetation. The spot was very beautiful, calm and quiet, only about three country people got out of the train with me, and I felt very pleased with myself and the world at large, except for the flies. I had used some hairwash that morning, made from orange blossoms and the beasts mistook me for an orange tree in bloom and buzzed around me most annoyingly. I ordered them away in three languages but yet they wouldn’t go; I didn’t use German in case someone might overhear me and think I was a spy! So I climbed slowly along a white road that zigzagged up towards the village, between white plastered walls. From time to time me came to an old iron gate through which me could have a peep of what looked like enchanted gardens, where it would always be afternoon and never a sound was heard except the sighing of the wind in the tree tops. So finally I arrived at the top where the church stands, hundreds of years old, and the village houses grouped around it. I always go into those village churches which are always open to visitors. There are generally some bits of stained glass, or old carved seats to see, Nowadays there is always a corner where bunches of faded flowers and palm branches are arranged in honour of the villagers who were killed in the war. There was a frame with mourning cards in it, with the names, and some photographs attached, and to this place come the mothers, sisters and fathers to pray and remember the boys who were killed or who disappeared and are probably dead. With the French flags and candles that decorate those corners they look like Christmas trees from a distance.
It was now lunch time and I left the church. There was not a soul about. The village looked deserted; all the houses were shuttered up because of the fierce heat. On the village green stood a billy goat tied to a post. The heat did not humble him, he had a light of battle in his green slitty eyes and he wanted to fight me. So I stood in front of him and sang to him:
I do not like this billy goat,
I wish that he were dead,
Because he kicks and kicks me,
He kicks me with his head,
And I ruffed his nose, at which he snorted furiously.
So I ambled along the Rue de l’ Eglise – what a difference with the Kerk street in The Hague! __ and came to a door on which was the magic word Restaurant. I opened it and found myself in a pitch dark corridor with a bright light shining in the distance and towards this I felt my way. A shop bell tinkled somewhere, and at last I came to the end. It led to a sort of farmhouse courtyard with a summer house overgrown with creeper, a dog kennel and some other out buildings. Then there arose before me the magic vision of the biggest and ugliest woman I have ever seen. She was huge, she squinted, had warts on her bulbous nose and hair on her chin, and a moustache. I was much impressed, and felt sure she was a witch.
I didn’t take off my hat as I had it already in my hand using it as a fan, and politely inquired if there was any luncheon to be had.
“Luncheon?? Ha, Luncheon!!” she bellowed in a voice of thunder. “Let me see. There is a steak, or a chop….”
I groaned. Was I in England? A steak or chop was exactly what I didn’t want. Now some cold fish salad perhaps. Had she that?
“No! Steak or chop!”
A little cold veal, perhaps?
“No!! steak or chop!!”
I felt I simply couldn’t eat a steak so there was nothing for it but the chop. I fell down on a chair, pulled up another to rest my left arm, a third to rest my right arm, a fourth to rest my left leg and a fifth to rest my right leg. Then looked for a chin rest but found none, so I let my head droop down on my chest while I watched the giantess throwing plates and dishes about in the kitchen which was all open to view.
In France, mutton chops are generally stringy, and I thought: well this is bad luck for the first time! Presently the ogress came back, perspiration running in rivulets between the warts on her nose, the huge hairy arms bare to her shoulders, and banged down the chop in front of me.
Aha, what was that? The most tender, juicy chop I have ever tasted, with a bit of parsley butter on the top – done to a turn, with a salad ready mixed, with chives, a crisp crust of bread and butter and a bottle of cool white wine? This was decidedly better than I thought!
The giantess watched me with her squinting eyes and her face crinkled with pleasure when I complimented her, like a Japanese mask. I finished the chop, and the dog got the bone. Followed some cheese, most excellent and ripe. Then the lady ogress suggested a peach.
“I thought peaches were off.” I said. “There aren’t any more in Paris.”
“We have some of our own,” she grinned. And presently she came back with a monster peach, bigger than two of my fists put together. And juicy! It fairly melted in your mouth. Then coffee, fresh and fragrant, and I felt so pleased with all the world that I could have hugged the witch, her mangy dog and the furious billy goat to my bosom.
I took a ceremonious farewell of the bearded Lady, and drifted into the neighboring park, which used to be the gardens of the castle of King Louis XIV and sat down on a ruined bit of wall, where lizards ran in and out. There I fell asleep under the giant chestnut trees, and when I awoke, it was tea time, but alas! No tea. One can’t have everything!
--The End--
Original Format
Letter
To
Bouman Family
Files
Collection
Citation
Bouman, Jon Anthony, 1873-1958, “Jon Bouman to the Bouman Family,” 1919 November 8, WWP23076, Jon Anthony Bouman Collection, Woodrow Wilson Presidential Library & Museum, Staunton, Virginia.