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Authors: Doris L. Rich
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another letter to Royer she referred to an airplane motor she had left with Bert Kinner: “As long as I have that motor, I’ll have days when I just couldn’t sell it. Either I’ll have to let him [Kinner] sell it soon at any price or let you [Royer] take it and pull down the motor and fix it. Then we’ll think about building a plane for it.”
Before Amelia could think about another plane, Amy offered her the money for a second year at Columbia University and Amelia accepted, returning there in September of 1924. She renewed her friendship with Marian Stabler, who had become an insurance statistician after abandoning efforts to make a living as an artist. “This time she lived poorly,”Marian said, “and went without everything but essentials, in order to maintain the Kissel car, which she loved like a pet dog.”
Marian thought her old friend looked pale and tired. Her bobbed hair had darkened, its sheen dulled by illness and repeated use of a curling iron. Yet whenever she seemed near total exhaustion Amelia would take a twenty-minute nap and awaken completely rested. She was never too tired to discuss art, science, poetry, religion, or politics, but told Marian nothing of a personal nature. Not until years later, when she heard it from a Hollywood reporter, did Marian learn that Edwin Earhart was an alcoholic.
Marian’s parents had moved from their Manhattan apartment to a big house in Great Neck, Long Island, where their childrens’ friends came in droves from the city for dinner and dancing to records in the living room or a game of deck tennis on the porch. One of the regulars, Elise von R. Owen, a music student who was living “on a nickel a day” in the city, was fascinated by Amelia’s powers of concentration. After dinner she would withdraw from the crowd to a desk at the far end of the room where she studied, ignoring the noise of records and conversation. But she turned on the radio beside the desk to listen toclassical music, which she told Elise helped her to concentrate.
Elise was not the only one to be impressed by Marian’s tall, quiet friend. On a night when Amelia and Marian were at a party given by a woman artist, another guest, the art director of an advertising agency, kept watching Amelia, who was sitting on the floor by the fire. The next time he asked the hostess to do an illustration for the agency he said, “I want a figure that’s really lovely. Someone like that Amelia Earhart.”
Amelia’s second year at Columbia was her last. Amy could no longer afford the tuition. After the three-time college dropout returned to Boston, she wrote to Marian: “No, I did not get into MIT [Massachusetts Institute of Technology] as planned, owing to financial difficulties. No, I’m not coming back to New York, much, ah, much as I would like doing it. When I leave Boston, I think I’ll never go back.” In the fall of 1925 she found work of a sort, teaching English to foreign students for a University of Massachusetts extension program. Her wages for this part-time work were barely enough to pay for meals and gas for the Kissel.
Sam Chapman who had followed her back east and was working at the Boston Edison Company offered her an alternative to this hand-to-mouthexistence when he proposed again. Not long after he returned,Amelia met Marian in the Boston train station, where they sat at the lunch counter waiting for Marian’s connection. It was one of the few occasions on which Amelia confided in anyone about her emotional reactions. “I don’t want to marry him,” she said. “I don’t want to marry anyone.”
She looked away from Marian and sighed. “There’s something the matter with me, Marian. I went to a doctor and he’s giving me pills. He said he’s going to be able to make me fall in love. I can’t. I just don’t want to.” She slowly turned her head and looked into Marian’s eyes, a sly grin widening into a broad smile. “But I’m taking my pills!”
The pills
Before Amelia could think about another plane, Amy offered her the money for a second year at Columbia University and Amelia accepted, returning there in September of 1924. She renewed her friendship with Marian Stabler, who had become an insurance statistician after abandoning efforts to make a living as an artist. “This time she lived poorly,”Marian said, “and went without everything but essentials, in order to maintain the Kissel car, which she loved like a pet dog.”
Marian thought her old friend looked pale and tired. Her bobbed hair had darkened, its sheen dulled by illness and repeated use of a curling iron. Yet whenever she seemed near total exhaustion Amelia would take a twenty-minute nap and awaken completely rested. She was never too tired to discuss art, science, poetry, religion, or politics, but told Marian nothing of a personal nature. Not until years later, when she heard it from a Hollywood reporter, did Marian learn that Edwin Earhart was an alcoholic.
Marian’s parents had moved from their Manhattan apartment to a big house in Great Neck, Long Island, where their childrens’ friends came in droves from the city for dinner and dancing to records in the living room or a game of deck tennis on the porch. One of the regulars, Elise von R. Owen, a music student who was living “on a nickel a day” in the city, was fascinated by Amelia’s powers of concentration. After dinner she would withdraw from the crowd to a desk at the far end of the room where she studied, ignoring the noise of records and conversation. But she turned on the radio beside the desk to listen toclassical music, which she told Elise helped her to concentrate.
Elise was not the only one to be impressed by Marian’s tall, quiet friend. On a night when Amelia and Marian were at a party given by a woman artist, another guest, the art director of an advertising agency, kept watching Amelia, who was sitting on the floor by the fire. The next time he asked the hostess to do an illustration for the agency he said, “I want a figure that’s really lovely. Someone like that Amelia Earhart.”
Amelia’s second year at Columbia was her last. Amy could no longer afford the tuition. After the three-time college dropout returned to Boston, she wrote to Marian: “No, I did not get into MIT [Massachusetts Institute of Technology] as planned, owing to financial difficulties. No, I’m not coming back to New York, much, ah, much as I would like doing it. When I leave Boston, I think I’ll never go back.” In the fall of 1925 she found work of a sort, teaching English to foreign students for a University of Massachusetts extension program. Her wages for this part-time work were barely enough to pay for meals and gas for the Kissel.
Sam Chapman who had followed her back east and was working at the Boston Edison Company offered her an alternative to this hand-to-mouthexistence when he proposed again. Not long after he returned,Amelia met Marian in the Boston train station, where they sat at the lunch counter waiting for Marian’s connection. It was one of the few occasions on which Amelia confided in anyone about her emotional reactions. “I don’t want to marry him,” she said. “I don’t want to marry anyone.”
She looked away from Marian and sighed. “There’s something the matter with me, Marian. I went to a doctor and he’s giving me pills. He said he’s going to be able to make me fall in love. I can’t. I just don’t want to.” She slowly turned her head and looked into Marian’s eyes, a sly grin widening into a broad smile. “But I’m taking my pills!”
The pills
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