“It is the opinion of this court that by disobeying its orders regarding proper attire, your conduct has been contemptuous, tending to bring the court into disrepute.” He continued, “Your conduct, in the face of two warnings, has been flagrantly and openly contemptuous. Therefore it is the duty of this court to impose the maximum sentence under the law, which is five days in jail.”
Hulick was then taken to the county jail, where she was booked, fingerprinted, and forced to change into a blue denim dress. One hour later, she was released on a writ of habeas corpus. She wasted no time in climbing out of that dress and back into her slacks.
Next stop: the appellate court.
Two days later, on November 17, 1938, two judges listened intently to both sides as they attempted to settle once and for all this argument over women wearing slacks in the courtroom.
Attorney Katz argued at length that Hulick was well within her rights to wear slacks in a courtroom. It was not for the courts to decide which fashions were acceptable, nor should someone be imprisoned simply because a judge does not approve of their style.
The opposition argued that this was not a debate over whether one could wear slacks or not. The real issue was Hulick’s attitude. She repeatedly defied the judge’s orders and had a “leering and contemptuous expression on her face.”
A decision was handed down the next day. The court wrote, “While the court record indicates by way of recital that petitioner in a court room during proceedings indulged in a type of exhibitionism which may have tended to impede orderly procedure, and which she might have been required to discontinue on pain of disciplinary action, the commitment appears to be based solely on petitioner’s failure to obey the judge’s order to change her attire, which attire, so far as the record before us discloses, did not of itself interfere with orderly court procedure, but involved merely a question of taste, a matter not within the court’s control.”
Helen Hulick had won. The court ordered that her five-day sentence be absolved and that she be set free.
In response, Judge Guerin seemed quite accepting of the decision. “In meeting the issue, I have considered my duty as a judge in deciding the matter that came before me.” He continued, “I accept the decision as final and will be guided by it in the future.”
An editorial in the November 21, 1938, publication of the Los Angeles Times disagreed. The author wrote, in part, that “the appellate division of the local Superior Court seems rather to have missed the point.” They continued, “It was not her attire but her repeated defiance of the court which constituted the contempt.”
“Probably most people will consider she had well earned the punishment. She is a schoolteacher and one of her functions is, or should be, to inculcate in her youthful charges a sense of discipline and respect for constituted authority, irrespective of whether or not their juvenile minds may always be in accord with rules so laid down. One wonders to what extent her own attitude and example contribute to her professional qualifications.”
On January 17, 1939, Hulick was back in court to testify at the trial of the two accused men. This time she arrived in what was described as “a close-fitting, rust silk dress, sheer hose, high-heeled shoes and a pert up tilting hat with flowing veil.”
“Maybe there’s something to this dressing-up business after all,” Helen told the members of the press. “Because I’ve been stepping out every night since I decided to dress like the rest of the girls.”
January 17, 1939, image of Helen Hulick wearing a dress to court.
1878
In the 1870s, newspapers were the blogs of the day. Almost daily, they reported on the Wheelbarrow Man as he made his way along his journey.
When the “Last Spike” of the First Transcontinental Railroad was driven into the ground at Promontory Point, Utah, on May 10, 1869, travel time across the United States was reduced from six months to just one week. Yet few could afford the fare—though a bench seat in third class could be obtained for as little as $65 ($1,240 today), it was still out of reach for many people. Travel by wagon was the best alternative, but travel was slow and road conditions were poor.
One man offered up a more unique way to cross the country. His name was R. Lyman Potter, and he proposed to do so by pushing a wheelbarrow from his home in Albany, New York, all the way to San Francisco, California. A widower and father to three children, Potter was considered to be a bit of an eccentric. For example, when Ulysses S. Grant was elected president of the United States, Potter declared that he would not shave his face or cut his hair until a Democrat was elected into office. In keeping his word, he allowed his dark brown hair to extend below his shoulders and his beard to grow nearly equal in length.
Potter described how the idea to push a wheelbarrow across the country came about: “Waal, it all came from too damn much talk. We wus talkin’ about work and earnin’ money, and hard times, etc., and I said I’d wheel a wheelbarrow to San Francisco for a dollar a day rather’n be without work. The Albany fellows took me up and made up $1,000 [$26,300 today], which is now on deposit in Albany. I had nothin’ to do and as I wouldn’t back down, I started out and here I am.”
The rules set down were straightforward: Potter was to trundle his wheelbarrow 4,085 miles (6,574 km) from Albany to San Francisco within 215 working days. They stipulated that he could not travel on Sundays, nor could he take advantage of any other form of transportation to help him along the way.
Potter’s wheelbarrow was constructed especially for the trip. It differed little from the typical wheelbarrow of the day—wooden wheel and all—except that his was lighter in design and carried a wooden box atop its frame.
At 3:00 p.m. on April 10, 1878, thirty-seven-year-old Potter began his long trek in the pouring rain. He had just $3.55 ($93.00 today) in his pocket. Potter carried minimal supplies with him: a rubber coat, a change of underwear, camping supplies, and some medications for his feet.
It’s about a fifteen-minute drive from my house to downtown Albany, so I went in search of his exact starting point, which at the time was widely reported to have been the corner of Warren and Swan Streets. This proved to be impossible, as those two streets have never intersected. What is also unclear is how he, an upholsterer, was financially able to leave his family behind for the many months that this walk was anticipated to take.
At the end of his first day, Potter had walked 16 miles (26 km) to Schenectady, New York. He was described as being “footsore, wet, and tired, and somewhat dispirited.” Yet, despite the rain, he continued on his way. On the morning of April 15, he entered Utica, New York, completing a total distance of 90 miles (145 km).
The press was starting to take notice of his endeavor, but not in a good way. At various times along his journey, newspapers referred to him as a tramp, an idiot, a brainless fool, and as the “wheelbarrow lunatic.” This ridicule infuriated Potter and made him even more determined to make it to his final destination.
Lettering on the sides of his wheelbarrow announced his intentions as he entered each town along the way. “From Albany to San Francisco in 250 days! Sundays out—Started April 10, 1878—Time by R. L. Potter, 215!”
By the time he reached Buffalo, New York, on April 26, he had become a bit of a minor celebrity. A small crowd followed him as he traveled through the city. The press reported on where he ate breakfast, and that he’d made a stop at the post office to see if any mail addressed to him had arrived.