It might have been worse

by Beatrice Larned Massey

IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN WORSE

IT
MIGHT HAVE BEEN
WORSE

I
THE START

After reading “By Motor to the Golden Gate,” by Emily Post, published in 1916, I was fired by a desire to make a similar tour. This desire grew into a firm determination the more I re-read her charming book. Then the United States went into the war, and self-respecting citizens were not spending months amusing themselves; so all thought of the trip was put aside until the spring of this year (1919). Then the “motor fever” came on again, and refused to yield to any sedatives of advice or obstacles. After talking and planning for three years, we actually decided to go in ten minutes—and in ten days we were off. All the necessary arrangements were quickly made; leasing our home, storing our household goods, closing up business matters, getting our equipment and having the car thoroughly looked over, and all the pleasant but unnecessary duties occupied the last few days. Why will people write so many letters and say so many good-bys, when a more or less efficient mail and telegraph service circles our continent? But it is the custom, and all your friends expect it—like sending Easter and Christmas cards by the hundreds. We are victims of a well-prescribed custom.

It is always of interest to me to know the make of car that a friend (or stranger) is driving; so let me say, without any desire to advertise the Packard, that we had a new twin-six touring car, of which I shall speak later on. I believe in giving just tribute to any car that will come out whole and in excellent condition, without any engine troubles or having to be repaired, after a trip of 4154 miles over plains and mountains, through ditches, ruts, sand, and mud, fording streams and two days of desert-going. And let me add that my husband and I drove every mile of the way. It is needless to say that the car was not overstrained or abused, and was given every care on the trip. In each large city the Packard service station greased and oiled the car, turned down the grease-cups, examined the brakes and steering-gear, and started us off in “apple-pie” order, with a feeling on our parts of security and satisfaction.

The subject of car equipment, tires, clothes, and luggage will take a chapter by itself. But let me say that we profited in all these regards by the experience and valuable suggestions of Mrs. Post in her book.

When we first spoke to our friends of making this trip, it created as little surprise or comment as if we had said, “We are going to tour the Berkshires.” The motor mind has so grown and changed in a few years. Nearly everyone had some valuable suggestion to make, but one only which we accepted and profited by. Every last friend and relative that we had offered to go in some capacity—private secretaries, chauffeurs, valets, maids, and traveling companions. But our conscience smote us when we looked at that tonneau, the size of a small boat, empty, save for our luggage, which, let me add with infinite pride and satisfaction, was not on the running-boards, nor strapped to the back. From the exterior appearance of the car we might have been shopping on Fifth Avenue.

We extended an invitation to two friends to accompany us, which was accepted by return mail, with the remark, “Go!—of course, we will go! Never give such an invitation to this family unless you are in earnest.” And so our genial friends joined us, and we picked them up at the Seymour Hotel in New York City, at three o’clock, Saturday, July 19th, and started for the Forty-second-Street ferry in a pouring rain, as jolly and happy a quartette as the weather would permit. Our guests were a retired physician, whom we shall speak of as the Doctor, and his charming, somewhat younger wife, who, although possessing the perfectly good name of Helen, was promptly dubbed “Toodles” for no reason in the world. These dear people were of the much-traveled type, who took everything in perfect good-nature and were never at all fussy nor disturbed by late hours, delays, bad weather, nor any of the usual fate of motorists, and they both added to the pleasure of the trip as far as they accompanied us.

It had rained steadily for three days before we started and it poured torrents for three days after; but that was to be expected, and the New Jersey and Pennsylvania roads were none the worse, and the freedom from dust was a boon. We chose for the slogan of our trip, “It might have been worse.” The Doctor had an endless fund of good stories, of two classes, “table and stable stories,” and I regret to say that this apt slogan was taken from one of his choicest stable stories, and quite unfit for publication. However, it did fit our party in its optimism and cheery atmosphere.

With a last look at the wonderful sky-line of the city, and the hum and whirl of the great throbbing metropolis, lessening in the swirl of the Hudson River, we really were started; with our faces turned to the setting sun, and the vast, wonderful West before us.

II
NEW YORK TO PITTSBURGH

One of the all-absorbing pleasures in contemplating a long trip is to map out your route. You hear how all your friends have gone, or their friends, then you load up with maps and folders, especially those published by all the auto firms and tire companies, you pore over the Blue Book of the current year, and generally end by going the way you want to go, through the cities where you have friends or special interests. This is exactly what we did. As the trip was to be taken in mid-summer, we concluded to take a northern route from Chicago, via Milwaukee, St. Paul, Fargo, Billings, Yellowstone Park, Salt Lake City, Ogden, Reno, Sacramento, to San Francisco (see map), and, strange to relate, we followed out the tour as we had planned it. With the exception of a few hot days in the larger cities and on the plains, and, of course, in the desert, we justified our decision.

As I have stated, we drove 4154 miles, through sixteen states and the Yellowstone Park, in thirty-three running days, and the trip took just seven weeks to the day, including seventeen days spent in various cities, where we rested and enjoyed the sights. As time was of no special object, and we were not attempting to break any records, we felt free to start and stop when we felt inclined to do so; on only two mornings did we start before nine-thirty, and seldom drove later than seven in the evening. In so doing, we made a pleasure of the trip and not a duty, and avoided any unusual fatigue.

The first evening we reached Easton, Pennsylvania. We were glad to get into the comfortable Huntington Hotel out of the wet, and enjoyed a good dinner and a night’s rest. We followed the Lincoln Highway to Pittsburgh, and have only praise to offer for the condition of the road and the beauty of the small towns through which we went. Of all the states that we crossed, Pennsylvania stands out par excellence in good roads, clean, attractive towns, beautiful farming country and fruit belts, and well-built, up-to-date farm buildings. In other states we found many such farms, but in Pennsylvania it was exceptional to find a poor, tumble-down farmhouse or barn. The whole state had an air of thrift and prosperity, and every little home was surrounded by fine trees, flowers, and a well-kept vegetable garden.

The worst bugbear of the motorist are the detours. Just why the road commissioners choose the height of the motoring season to tear up the main highways and work the roads has always been a mystery to me, and I have never heard any logical solution of it. We were often told that no work to speak of had been done on the state roads through the country during the war, and in many places the heavy army trucks had cut up the good roads until the ruts left turtle-backed ridges in the center, not at all pleasant to bob along on. But, in view of what we encountered later in our trip, I look back on the Pennsylvania roads as one of the high spots and pleasures, never to be undervalued.

From Easton we drove in the rain to Harrisburg. The scenery was beautiful. The Blue Ridge and the Alleghany Mountains loomed up in the haze like great cathedrals; but as long as the road was wide and comparatively smooth we enjoyed the ups and downs. Our engine told us that we were gradually ascending; the mist would be wafted off by a mountain breeze, and then a gorgeous panorama stretched before us as far as the eye could see.

We found Harrisburg a busy, thriving city, with well-paved streets, attractive homes, and many fine buildings. The leading hotel, the Penn Harris, was turning away guests; so we were made very comfortable at the Senate. Here the café was miserable, but we went to the restaurant of the Penn Harris and had an excellent dinner at moderate prices. We have found that at the largest, best hotels the food was better cooked and much cheaper than at the smaller ones. Usually we had excellent club breakfasts from forty cents up, and club lunches, with an ample selection of good things to eat, for fifty or sixty cents. You may pay more for your room and bath, but you get more for your money, with better service. We made it a rule to go to the newest, largest hotels, and indulge in every comfort that was afforded. Why? Not to be extravagant, nor to say that we had stopped at such or such hotels. After you have driven day after day, and come in stiff and tired, there is no bed too soft and no bathroom too luxurious to overrest your mind and body. Economize in other ways if you must, but not on good food and comfortable lodgings.

Our third day was still a drizzle; we would no sooner have the top down than we would have to put it up again, and often the side curtains as well. Our objective point was the charmingly quaint town of Bedford, and the Bedford Arms. This part of Pennsylvania was more beautiful than what we had been through, and every mile of the day’s run was a pleasure.

I have not spoken of our lunches, a most important item by one o’clock. We had brought a small English hamper, fitted with the usual porcelain dishes, cutlery, tin boxes, etc., for four people, and unless we were positive that a good place to eat was midway on the road, we prepared a lunch, or had the hotel put one up for us. This latter plan proved both expensive and unsatisfactory. Usually Toodles was sent foraging to the delicatessen shops for fresh rolls, cold meats and sandwiches, eggs, fruit, tomatoes, and bakery dainties, and the hotel filled our thermos-bottles with hot coffee. We carried salt and pepper, mustard, sweet and sour pickles, or a relish, orange marmalade, or a fruit jam, in the hamper, and beyond that we took no staple supplies on the whole trip. We met so many people who carried with them a whole grocery-store, even to sacks of flour, that you would imagine there was not a place to get food from the Atlantic to the Pacific. Often later on we would meet these same people and find that they had thrown or given away most of their larder. Of course, the camping parties, which are legion, are houses on wheels! Aside from the tents, poles, bedding, and cooking utensils, we have seen stoves, sewing-machines, crates of tinned foods, trunks full of every conceivable incumbrance they could buy, strapped to the back and sides and even on the top of the car, and usually the personal luggage jammed in between the mud-guards and hood of the engine. A traveling circus is an orderly, compact miniature in comparison. And the people!—sitting on top of a mountain of baggage, or under it, the picture of woe and discomfort. That may be fun, but I fear I have not developed a capacity for such pleasure. Have you ever seen a party of this description unpack and strike camp after a hot, broiling, dusty day of hard travel? You will do as we did—drive right ahead until you come to a clean hotel and a bath.

We have been told so often that one has to develop an “open-air” spirit to really enjoy a long motor trip! Quite true! I can’t imagine what the fun can be of touring in a closed limousine, and yet we have met that particularly exclusive party more than once. On the whole, an absence of flies, ants, mosquitoes, and sand and dust in one’s bed and food does not detract from the pleasure of the trip. It may be all right to endure such annoyances for a few days in the woods, to fish or hunt—but weeks and more weeks of it! We admit our “lack,” whatever it may be termed, and enjoy clean linen, hot tubs, and tables that have legs not belonging to ants and spiders.

In Wisconsin we met a most unique and charming couple, both past fifty, who had lived all over the world, even in South America, a Mr. X and wife, from Washington, D. C. They were going on the same route as we were, and back to Washington, via southern California, the Yosemite, New Mexico, New Orleans, and then north. So their trip would be twice as long as ours. They loved the open, with that two-ton-equipment enthusiasm excelling all others we had met. From an over-stocked medicine chest, so carefully stowed away that they bought what they wanted en route rather than unload everything to try to find it, to a complete wardrobe for every occasion, which was never unpacked, they had every conceivable utensil that a well-furnished apartment could boast of. They even bought a small puppy, as a protection at night when camping; the poor little beast caught cold and crawled under the pile and died. They solved the lunch problem in a unique way. If they passed a good corn-field, they “procured” a few ears and stopped at the next farmhouse and calmly asked the loan of the kitchen for a short time, and cooked their corn and bought bread and milk, etc. Mrs. X remarked: “It is all so simple! We have all these things in case we should need them, but they are so well packed in the car it is really too bad to disturb them; so I live in one gown, and we buy what we need, and it is most satisfactory.” Later we learned that they had camped out just three nights in several weeks.

But I have digressed, and left you at the Bedford Arms, one of the most artistic, attractive inns that we found. The little touches showed a woman’s hand. Flowers everywhere, dainty cretonnes, willow furniture, and pretty, fine china; in appearance, courtesy, and efficiency, the maids in the dining-room might have come from a private dwelling. Will someone tell me why there are not more such charming places to stop at on our much-traveled main highways. Why must hotel men buy all the heavy, hideous furniture, the everlasting red or green carpets and impossible wall-paper, to make night hideous for their guests—to say nothing of the pictures on their walls? It is a wonder one can sleep.

There is much of interest to see in Bedford—really old, artistic houses, not spoiled by modern gewgaws, set in lovely gardens of old-fashioned flowers, neatly trimmed hedges, and red brick walks. There were few early Victorian eyesores to mar the general beauty of the town. As we were walking down the main street about sunset, we heard a great chattering and chirping, as if a thousand birds were holding a jubilee. Looking up, we found, on a projecting balcony running along the front of all the buildings for two blocks, hundreds of martins discussing the League of Nations and Peace Treaty quite as vigorously as were their senatorial friends in Washington. They were fluttering about and making a very pretty picture. It sounded like the bird market in Paris on a Sunday morning, which, in passing, is an interesting sight that few tourists ever see.

It was with regret that we left the next morning for Pittsburgh. The day was clear and cool and the best part of the Lincoln Highway was before us; in fact, the first real thrill so far, and one of the high spots of the trip. This was a stretch of seven and a half miles of tarvia road on the top ridge of the Alleghany Mountains, as smooth as marble, as straight as the bee flies, looking like a strip of satin ribbon as far as the eye could see. On both sides were deep ravines, well wooded, and valleys green with abundant crops, and still higher mountains rising in a haze of blue and purple coloring, making a picture that would never be forgotten. The top was down and we stopped the car again and again, to drink it in, and, as one of us remarked, “We may see more grand and rugged scenery later on, but we shall not see anything more beautiful than this”—and it proved true.

We had come 442 miles, from New York to Pittsburgh, over fine roads and through beautiful country. Approaching Pittsburgh, we came in on a boulevard overlooking the river and “valley of smoke.” Great stacks were belching out soot and smoke, obliterating the city and even the sky and sun. They may have a smoke ordinance, but no one has ever heard of it. We arrived at the William Penn Hotel, in the heart of the business center of the city, a first-class, fine hotel in every regard. We found the prices reasonable for the excellent service afforded, which was equal to that of any New York hotel. The dining-room, on the top of the house, was filled with well-dressed people, and we were glad that we had unpacked our dinner clothes, and appeared less like the usual tourist, in suits and blouses. It was frightfully hot during our two days’ stay. You go out to drive feeling clean and immaculate, and come in with smuts and soot on your face and clothes, looking like a foundry hand. The office buildings are magnificent, and out a bit in the parks and boulevards the homes are attractive, and many are very handsome, especially in Sewickley. But aside from the dirty atmosphere one is impressed mostly by the evidences of the outlay of immense wealth. An enthusiastic brother living there took us through a number of the business blocks, and told us of the millions each cost and the almost unbelievable amount of business carried on. I can only describe Pittsburgh as the proudest city we visited. Not so much of the actual wealth represented, but of what the billions had accomplished in great industries. We went out in the evening and stood on one of the bridges to look over the river lined with monster furnaces. The air was filled with sparks, jets of flame bursting through the smoke. All you could think of was Dante’s Inferno visualized. And what of the men who spend their lives in that lurid atmosphere, never knowing if the sun shone, nor what clean, pure air was like in their working hours? I shall never look at a steel structure again without giving more credit to the men who spend their waking hours in those hells of heat and smoke than to the men whose millions have made it possible.

The second day, nothing daunted by the heat, we went out to the St. Clair Country Club for lunch and golf, about a twenty-mile run through the suburbs. This is a comparatively small and new club, but our host told us that they were soon to have a fine club-house and improve the links. The location is attractive, and the luncheon was delicious. We had brought our golf bags, tennis racquets, and bathing suits with us, much to the amusement of our friends. After sitting in the car day in and day out, I know of no better way to stretch your legs and arms and to exercise your stiff muscles than to put in a few hours at either game. My husband described this course thus: “You have to hold on to a tree with one hand and drive with the other, the bally course is so steep.” There are many more pretentious country clubs and golf links about Pittsburgh, but this small one had charm and a homelike atmosphere. Our last evening we were taken to the “New China,” the last word in Chinese restaurants—beautiful, clean, and artistic! You have your choice of American or Chinese dishes. As we were looking for sensations, we ordered some marvelous dishes with impossible names. One portion was sufficient for three hungry people. The other two portions were untouched. I do not know what we ate, but it was delicious. Truth compels me to state that we were all ill for three days, and decided to patronize home cooking in the future.

We did not get away until noon the next day, as our auto top had been torn in the garage, and the manager kept out of sight until noon, and then, after considerable pressure had been brought to bear, he made a cash settlement of fifteen dollars, wishing us all the bad luck his “Mutt and Jeff” mind could conjure.

III
OHIO AND DETOURS

We were assured that we should find good roads through Ohio to Cleveland, where we were to take the D. & C. steamer to Detroit. If we were to take this part of the trip again, we should certainly go to Chicago, via Toledo and South Bend, Indiana. As we had relatives in Detroit waiting in the heat to see us, and to depart for cooler climes, we took the most direct route through Youngstown, Ohio, to Cleveland. The roads were poor and the many detours were almost impassable—over high hills, on narrow sandy roads, winding like a letter S through the woods. One long stretch was so narrow that two cars could not pass; so they had two roads, one going each way. The Doctor remarked, “I wonder what would happen if a car broke down on this detour.” Prophetic soul! He no sooner had said it than we rounded a curve, and presto! there were six cars, puffing and snorting, lined up back of an Overland car, which was disabled and stuck fast in the sand. In half an hour there were ten cars back of ours—and the sun setting over the hills, and fifty miles to Youngstown! The owner of the car knew nothing of his engine. Heaven save us from such motorists! But Heaven did not save us, for we met dozens of men, headed for the wilds of somewhere, who were as blissfully ignorant of what made the wheels go round as their wives were.

It may have been a coincidence, but is nevertheless a fact, that nearly every car we saw disabled, ditched, stuck in the mud or sand, or being towed in, on the entire trip, was an Overland car. It really became a joke. When we saw a wreck ahead of us, some one exclaimed, “Dollars to doughnuts it is an Overland!”—and it generally was. It used to be a common expression, “If you wished to really know people, travel with them.” I would change it to “Motor, and grow wise.” There were as many varieties of dispositions in that belated crowd as there were people. Everyone got out of his car and went ahead to the wreck, offering advice, growling, complaining, and cursing Ohio detours. A few sat on the roadside and laughed, chatted, or read the papers. As it was hot and dusty, we looked like an emigrant train. My husband is an engineer with a knowledge of cars. He suggested some simple remedy which enabled the man to get his car to the next siding, and we all started with a whoop of joy on the wretched road, leaving the Overland owner to spend the night at a farmhouse near by.

Our troubles were not over. With a steep grade before us, I was driving, going up steadily on second speed, when a real wreck loomed up three-quarters of the way to the top of the hill. Two drunken niggers had upset a rickety old truck loaded with furniture in the center of the road, and their car had zigzagged across the road, narrowly escaping a plunge down the steep embankment. You could not pass on either side; so, with my heart in my mouth, I reversed, backing our car into the farther side of the road, with two wheels in a deep stony ditch, but safe from sliding down-hill on top of the cars coming up back of us. It looked as if we were to share the fate of our Overland friend and stay there indefinitely. We all jumped out and tried to clear the house and lot out of our way. Those miserable niggers just sat on top of the débris and refused to work. After tugging at spring beds and filthy bedding, we succeeded in getting it pushed to one side. I had had enough driving for one day, so gave the wheel to my husband, and he started the engine. We did not budge! The next half-hour was spent in filling up the ditch with stones and making a bridge by covering the stones with boards. Eventually the car started, pulling itself out of the slough of despair, and narrowly escaped turning turtle. The Doctor, Toodles, and I all called wildly, “Keep going! don’t stop!”—and on he climbed to the top, while we trudged up through the dust, a quarter of a mile. All that night I dreamt I was backing off the Alps into space.

Oh, what a tired, dirty party it was that drove up to the Ohio Hotel in Youngstown that night! Someone had told us that there was a good hotel in Youngstown, but we soon came to form our own conclusions about hotels. This was a delightful surprise. Not only good, but wonderful, for a city of the size of Youngstown. After we were scrubbed and sitting down to a delicious dinner in the big cool café, a broad smile spread over the table, and the Doctor suggested, “You know, it really might have been worse!”

The next day we had more detours; but, in the main, the state highways, when they could be traversed, were good. The rural scenery through Ohio was pleasing, but we had left the Lincoln Highway and the beautiful farms of Pennsylvania.

We reached Cleveland by four, driving directly to the D. & C. wharves. The “Eastern States” was being loaded, and the monster “City of Detroit III,” a floating palace, was starting out for Buffalo, I believe. Although the week-end travel is always heavy, and this was Friday, we were most fortunate in getting staterooms, with brass beds (not bunks), running water, and a bathroom. It may be of interest to state that the cost of shipping the car to Detroit, a night’s run, was only $14.50. As we did not sail until nine o’clock, and we could not go aboard nor leave the car, we drove out the Lake Shore drive overlooking Lake Erie, through beautiful suburbs, with attractive homes and gardens, and then something told us it must be time to investigate the hotels. As we had all sampled the excellent cooking at the Statler, we dined at the fine Cleveland Hotel—modern in all its appointments, in good taste, and unexcelled service. We remarked the appearance of the people. There was not a smartly gowned woman in the dining-room, and the waiters had a monopoly of the dress suits. Being hot, and in midsummer, and a more or less transient gathering, might have been the reason. In many large cities, in first-class hotels, we found the tired business men in business suits and the women in skirts and blouses. Never did anything taste more delicious than the broiled fresh whitefish, just out of the lake, green corn on the cob, melons, and peaches. As long as we remained in the Great Lakes region, we reveled in the whitefish, broiled, sauté, or baked. It is the king of fresh-water fish.

I am beginning to realize that I am exhausting my descriptive adjectives when it comes to hotels. Time was, not so very far distant, when a hotel like the Cleveland was not to be found, except in possibly half a dozen cities in this country. Now it is the rule. On all our long trip, with the exception of three nights, we had perfectly comfortable, clean double rooms, usually with twin beds, and private baths with modern sanitary plumbing and an abundance of hot, not tepid, water. We have been assured by the proprietors that the change has been wrought by motorists who demanded better lodgings. I think the farmer is the only member of society who still holds a grudge against us as a class; but when he is the proud possessor of a “Little Henry” he slides over to our side unconsciously. A book could be written on “Motoring as an art, a profession, a pastime, a luxury or a necessity, a money maker or a spender, a joy or a nuisance”—and then much more!

Before leaving Cleveland I must speak of its fine municipal buildings, its many industries, and its far-famed Euclid Avenue, once the finest of streets, lined on both sides with massive, splendid residences, many with grounds a block square; alas! long since turned into boarding-houses, clubs, and places of business—the inevitable transition from a small to a great city.

Our trip across Lake Erie was quiet and cooling. That is not always the case, even on such big steamers as the D. & C. line affords. I have seen that lake lashed into fury by waves that rocked the largest boat like a cockleshell. Breakfast on the steamer was all that could be desired. It was some time before we had the car on the dock, ready to start to our hotel in Detroit. The ride up the river had been interesting, past old Fort Wayne, the Great Lakes engineering plant and dry docks, and the grain elevators; even at that early hour (seven A. M.) the wharves were alive with the bustle of trade.

Here I pause. Detroit was my home city and that of my father and grandfather in territorial days. My earliest recollections of it were of broad streets, fine homes, and an atmosphere of dignified culture and home-loving people. But now! It has outgrown recognition. It has outgrown every semblance of its former charm. Like Cleveland, the old homes on the principal avenues are all given over to trade, and the streets down-town are overcrowded, noisy, and well-nigh impassable. The Statler is a new and fine hotel. We went to the Pontchartrain, formerly the old Russell House, which in its palmy days, in the Messrs. Chittenden régime, was the center of the social life of Detroit. It has passed through several hands, and is now doubtless torn down. We found it run down and undesirable in every way. Even then we felt more at home there and made the best of things. We spent two and a half days, as hot as I ever experienced. The nights were so hot that sleep was out of the question. A drive around the Island Park, Belle Isle, cooled us off a bit. Thousands were taking advantage of the municipal bathhouses or a swim in the river.

If the city has been spoiled down-town, it has been equally beautified in the outlying sections. The drive to Grosse Pointe along Lake St. Clair has ten miles of residences unsurpassed in America. The magnificent home of Senator Truman Newberry and dozens of others that could be mentioned, set in acres of highly cultivated grounds, commanding an unobstructed view of Lake St. Clair, are worthy of a special trip to Detroit to see.

We lunched at the Country Club, but weakened when it came to trying the celebrated golf links. It was too boiling hot! There were not more than a dozen people at the club. Usually the place was crowded. There are other fine clubs and links about Detroit, and the city seems to have gone golf mad—a very healthful form of insanity! The Detroit Athletic Club, in the business center, claims to be the finest private city club in America. If patronage is any indication of its excellence, this must be true. My brother, Mr. L., gave us a beautiful dinner there, and we certainly have not seen anything to surpass it. Our time was all too quickly spent, and the heat literally drove us out of town. Before leaving, we paid our respects to the mayor, Mr. C., an old-time friend. While we were pleasantly chatting with him and he was graciously offering us the keys of the city, my husband had a summons served on him and the car locked for leaving it more than an hour at the curb. He was taken to police headquarters and paid his fine and then returned for us. As we were praising the efficiency of the mayor, he gave us a knowing smile, and some days later showed us his summons!

IV
ON TO CHICAGO

I realize that I am giving a most unsatisfactory picture of the Eastern and Middle-West cities. Our time was limited, and space forbids my giving anything but a cursory glance, a snapshot view, of their size and beauty. And, then, most tourists visit these places and the reading public have an intimate knowledge of them.

We left Detroit, having been told at the Michigan Automobile Association that we should find excellent roads. As one prominent broker remarked, “You can drive the length of the state on macadamized roads.” Where were they? Surely not the way we went, the way described in the Blue Book. And let me state right here that we have never had much faith in that publication, and now what little we had is nihil! A few miles out of the city we struck a detour which lasted nearly to Ann Arbor. We had left at six o’clock, and when we reached the university city all places to dine were closed. We did not dine. We had pot-luck supper at a Greek restaurant, and started for Jackson to spend the night. Ann Arbor is a beautiful place, and the university buildings and fraternity houses are second to none of all we saw in other states. The road did not improve, and we arrived at Jackson very late and put up at the Otsego Hotel. It was crowded, and we were given the “sample rooms,” in which the traveling-men displayed their goods on long tables. We had comfortable beds and private baths, but you felt as if you were sleeping in a department store, with the counters covered with white cloths. Otherwise, the Otsego is a good hotel, and we were perfectly comfortable. By the time we were through breakfast, we asked to have a lunch put up, and were kindly but firmly told that it was nine-thirty, and the chef had gone home and locked up everything. We pleaded for some hot coffee and anything cooked that was left from breakfast. But no, not a sandwich nor a roll could we buy! We met this condition time after time. If we arrived at a hotel after eight o’clock in the evening, we were met with the same retort—“Chef gone and everything closed.” A dozen times and more we were obliged to go out and forage for supper—“due to the eight-hour law,” we were always told. As it was nearly ten o’clock, we trusted to luck to find a lunching-place en route. Fortune certainly favored us in the most unexpected way—not in our roads, which still were poor, but in the shape of two little girls on the wayside. As we were passing through a hamlet called Smithfield—before reaching Albion—we were attracted by two dainty girls with baskets of goodies waiting for us. Their names were Evelyn and Willetta Avery, and they proved to be fairy godmothers. Their mother owned the neighboring farm, and these children were spending their vacation in supplying lunches to passers-by. Everything was done up in fresh napkins and was real home cooking. This is what we bought from them: a quart of fresh blueberries (which Toodles, in her joy, promptly upset in the tonneau, and we walked on blueberries for days!), fresh cake, pie, honey, hard-boiled eggs, tongue sandwiches, hot bread and rolls, a pat of sweet butter, and oh! such home-made pickles, raspberry jam (a pint glass), and a bottle of ice-cold spring water, an abundance for four hungry grown-ups, and all for $2.10. We gave them both liberal tips and they smiled and waved us out of sight. That was a banner luncheon, and the best but one on the trip.

We stopped in the interesting city of Albion. The college was founded and endowed by General Fisk, of Civil War fame, whose only daughter, Mrs. P., is one of New York’s most beautiful and prominent women. That afternoon about four we came to Battle Creek, and as the Doctor’s eyes were troubling him, from the heat and dust, we drove to the sanatorium, where he could receive treatment. It is an immense place and beautifully kept up. We were sitting in the car outside, watching the crowds of patients with their friends, when a number of wagons, like popcorn wagons, came into view, pushed about by the white-robed attendants. The wagon itself and the four uprights were covered with white cloth and festooned with fresh vines and flowers. In the center, hidden from view, was an ice-cream freezer, and young girls in white, carrying flowers, were dispensing ice-cream cones at five cents each. It was as pretty a sight as I ever saw. The carts were wheeled through the grounds and everyone, sick or well, indulged. It was our first introduction to ice-cream cones, but we acquired the habit; and thereafter our afternoon tea consisted of ice cream, generally bought at a soda-water fountain in some small town along our road. It may be fattening, but it is nourishing and refreshing. Even in the tiny hamlets on the plains of Montana we found good, rich ice cream. It is certainly an American institution and a very palatable one.

We had come ninety miles over bad roads, and it was 160 miles to Chicago, so we decided to stop at Paw Paw for the night. We drove through the town and inquired which was the best hotel—our usual question—and were told that they had two, but the Dyckman House was first-class—a typical small country hotel, with little promise of comfort. We were shown into big, comfortable rooms with one private bath; but were told that “supper was over.” The manager was a typical small-town person of importance, but had a kindly eye, and looked amenable to persuasion. The others had given up hope; not so with me! Then and there I invented a “sob-story” that would have melted Plymouth Rock. It became our stock in trade, and many a supperless night we would have had without it. After praising up the town and his hotel, and saying that we had heard of its hospitality, and so forth; that we were strangers, and had come all the way from New York; that we were tired and hungry, and I really was not very well; and that the price was no consideration, etc., he walked out to the kitchen and caught the cook with her hat on ready to depart, gave his orders, and in twenty minutes we were doing full justice to a perfectly good supper. After we had finished, I went out into the summer kitchen and found a good-natured Irish woman, as round as she was pleasing, fanning herself. I gave her a dollar, thanked her for staying, and made a friend for life.

Even in Michigan our New York license attracted much attention. When we came out of a hotel or store, a crowd of people had invariably gathered about the car and were feeling the tires. The size seemed to astonish them. The fact that we had come from New York filled them with awe, and when, in fun, we said we were going to San Francisco, they were speechless! “Aw, gaw on!” or “By heck!” was all that they could exclaim.

Our last taste of Michigan roads was worse than the first. We went by the way of Benton Harbor, with sandy detours and uninteresting country, until we struck the strip of Indiana before coming into South Chicago. Our troubles were over for a long time. A breeze had come up from the lake, and we slept under blankets that night for the first time in two weeks. We were all familiar with Chicago, and we wished to stop out on the Lake Shore, if possible. We drove through the city, out on the North Shore Boulevard to the Edgewater Hotel, of which we had heard charming reports. A block below the hotel cars were parked by the dozens. It is built directly on the shore, with the most remarkable dining-room at the water’s edge, like the deck of an ocean liner, filled with palms, flowers, and smartly dressed people, many in evening clothes. The tables were all reserved, and so were the rooms, two weeks in advance—this was the pleasant news that awaited us! Could they take us in the next day? “No, possibly not for a week or more.” No “sob-story” to help us here! But the clerks were obliging and advised our going about ten miles farther out, to the North Shore Hotel in Evanston, which we found delightful in every way—very near the lake, quiet, furnished in exquisite taste, and good food at reasonable prices. But even here we found the eight-hour law in force; we could not get a bite after eight o’clock. We went to half a dozen restaurants—all closed! In desperation we went into what looked to be a candy store, and found they were closing up the café! They could serve nothing but ice cream and sodas. We asked to see the manager and told him our plight. He was an Eastern man, a long-lost brother. He said, “As you placed your order just before eight o’clock, of course we shall serve you.” It was quite nine by this time. He kept his face straight, and we tried to do the same. That dinner certainly did touch the spot! It was the “Martha Washington Café,” and certainly immortalized the gracious lady for all time for us. Later we went back to the Edgewater Hotel for our mail and to dine, and we were more charmed with it than before.

We had come 1028 miles from New York. Our car had to be thoroughly cleaned, oiled, and looked over; so we were without it for two days. The street-car strike was on in full force, not a surface car moving in the city. Consequently, we walked, rested, and saw but little of the city. It was quite ten years since any of us had been there; in that time Chicago had grown and been so improved that we hardly knew it. If Pittsburgh people are proud of their city, Chicagoans are the original “boosters.” Nature has done so much for its location. Its system of parks and boulevards is not equaled by any city. There is a natural, outspoken pride evinced by the people of the best class—not ashamed of a humble beginning, but glorying in the vast importance of the commercial and financial life. To quote from the folder of the Yellowstone Trail, which we picked up here and followed without any trouble to St. Paul, Minnesota, “Nothing need be said about Chicago. Chicago is the heart of America and speaks for herself.” Other cities may challenge this, but there is every evidence of its truth. In time, Chicago will give New York a good race; in fact, she is doing it now.

Our genial Doctor left us here, much to our regret. We went on, a select party of three.

V
THROUGH THE DAIRY COUNTRY

“A good road from Plymouth Rock to Puget Sound.” Thus reads the Yellowstone Trail folder. If you really believe a thing, you may be excused for stating it as a truth. The trusting soul who wrote that alluring statement has never been over the entire trail, or I am greatly mistaken. Credit must be given for the system of marking the trail. At every turn, right or left, the yellow disk is in plain sight.

On leaving Chicago, we went through Lincoln Park and up the Sheridan Road to Milwaukee. The road is a wonderful boulevard, with beautiful homes and estates and glimpses of Lake Michigan, past the Great Lakes Naval Training Station, now the largest in the United States. We had heard much of Zion City. Driving down its main street was like a funeral. The houses were closed, the buildings seemed deserted, and the only evidences of life were two men, a horse and wagon, and a stray dog! We found a good macadam road to Oshkosh from Milwaukee and many such stretches through Wisconsin. At times the road followed closely the shore of Lake Winnebago, and then would wind through fertile dairy country. Trainloads of butter and cheese are shipped from here each year, and high-bred dairy cattle are raised for the market. Was it not strange that we did not have Wisconsin cheese on the menu at any hotel in that state? Several times we asked for it, but no cheese was forthcoming.

The first night we put up at Fond du Lac, at Irvine Hotel. It was fairly good, but a palace compared with what we found the next night at Stevens Point—the Jacobs Hotel. This was our first uncomfortable experience—a third-rate house, with no private bath, hard beds in little tucked-up rooms, a bowl and pitcher with cold water and two small towels the size of napkins, and the most primitive table you could imagine. The weather had kept cool and clear, but the sandy roads with deep ruts were awful! As it had rained in the night, the clerk assured us next morning that four cars were stuck in the road west of the town, and we had better not start. We asked him if there was a good hotel at Marshfield. “Good hotel! Well, you folks just wait till you see it! They actually have Brussels carpet on the floor of the dining-room! Good hotel, eh? Nothin’ better this side of Chicago!” The cars were lined up in the street waiting to start. The clouds looked heavy and threatening, and not a ray of blue sky. Everyone was talking to someone. The formalities are discarded on such occasions. We fell into conversation with a charming man, Mr. H., from Fargo, North Dakota. Later we found that he was the ex-governor, and his name was sufficient to get anything you wanted in the Northwest. He and his family were touring to New York; so we exchanged maps and experiences, and he gave us a list of towns and hotels that proved invaluable, with the kindly remark, “If you will show the hotel clerks this list with my name, I am sure you will be well taken care of.” We certainly were—and more!—from there to Yellowstone Park.

We found the Blodgett Hotel at Marshfield—with a really, truly carpet in the dining-room—a good hotel, clean and comfortable. The next day we had two hundred miles to go to St. Paul, and were promised good roads. Colby, Eau Claire, and Chippewa Falls are all attractive towns. Wisconsin boasts of six thousand lakes. It certainly is a paradise for the huntsman and the angler—“The land with charm for every mile.” The method of numbering the state highways is the best we have found. You simply can’t lose your way. We, unfortunately, had several long detours and did not reach St. Paul until one A. M., a very sleepy trio, in a disreputable-looking car.

VI
CLOTHES, LUGGAGE, AND THE CAR

We decided to take as little luggage as possible. In the end, we found that we had more than ten people would need. Each of us had a large dress-suit case, a small handbag with toilet articles, an extra bag for soiled linen (which proved useful), two golf-bags, with umbrellas and rubbers (which were never used), a case of tennis-rackets and balls, a shawl-strap with a heavy rug, rain-coats and top-coats for cold weather, the lunch-hamper, and a silk bag for hats. The tonneau was comfortably filled, with still room for two, and even three, people. The thermos-bottles were stowed away in the side-pockets, easy of access. All the maps were in the right-hand front pocket by the person sitting with the driver. We had an old rug which was so disreputable that no one would steal it; we had been on the point of throwing it away a dozen times, but after it came from the cleaners we hadn’t the heart to leave it behind. That old relic proved to be the joy of the trip. We sat on it when lunching on the roadside, used it to protect the car from the bags and golf-clubs, and when we had a puncture down it went under the car to avoid collecting all the dust of the road on my husband’s clothes. We still have it, and consider the old veteran deserves a pension for life. My advice—take an old rug!

And our clothes: Of course, a silk or an alpaca dust-coat; linen soon shows soil and looks mussy. This applies to the ladies. I won’t attempt to advise men, for they will wear what best suits them. We wore one-piece gowns of serge, and, when it was hot, voile or even gingham. We each had a silk afternoon frock, which would shake out and look presentable for dinner, a black evening gown for dress-up occasions, a half-dozen crêpe de chine blouses, and a cloth suit. We could have done without the suits. They were used but once or twice. We all took heaps of under-linen, only to find that we could get one-day laundry service in any good hotel, and could buy almost anything in the cities, and even in the small towns. The color of our linen resembled coffee at times, but, aside from that unpleasant feature, we could keep clean and comfortable with no trouble. We each had a sport skirt, a sweater, shoes, a pair of evening pumps, a pair of heavy top-boots, and two pairs of Oxford ties, black and tan, with sensible heels. In driving, I soon found the long-vamp, pointed toe not only a nuisance, but dangerous, and used an old-fashioned, round-toed low shoe. Hats! There every woman is a law unto herself. We each had a good-looking hat in the hat-bag, which, after being tied to the rug-rail, sat on, smashed by the bags, and wet a few times, still kept our hats very presentable. Straw hats will break and be ruined. Those made of ribbon or black satin will withstand the weight of a ton of luggage and come out looking fairly decent. Wash gloves proved practical, also white Shetland veils. Toodles was swathed like an escaped harem beauty; but one good Shetland veil, well tied and pinned in, kept my sailor hat in place comfortably, even when the top was down and I was driving. The hat with a brim is a necessity when the sun shines for weeks at a time. I did not wear motor goggles, but the others did. Through all the Western states we found the female population in khaki breeches and puttees, khaki blouses, and hats like a sun-bonnet or a cowboy’s sombrero, and occasionally a coat to match, which was short and of a most unbecoming length. Often high tan boots were substituted for the puttees. It was a sensible costume, and well adapted to the country and life in the open that Western women lead. They all rode astride, wisely. Often we met parties of four in a Ford just hitting the high spots on the road.

The farther we went into the real West, the West of the movies and the early days pictured by Bret Harte, we realized what part these Western women had played, and were still playing, in their unselfish, brave, industrious, vital lives, in the opening and developing of that vast territory, and in making such a trip as ours comfortable, safe, and even possible. I think, if I ever take the trip again, I shall adopt khaki breeches, and send my petticoats by express to our destination. This reminds me that I have not spoken of our trunks. Nine out of ten people that we have met in San Francisco have asked, “What became of your trunks, or didn’t you have any?” Before leaving New York we sent, collect, by American Railway Express, a large wardrobe trunk, the usual steamer trunk, and a French hat-box to San Francisco, “Hold until claimed.” These were held for seven weeks, and the total expense, delivered to our hotel, was $45.50—not at all bad.

No matter of what material your clothes are made, a long motor trip ruins them. It is a large expense to get them pressed, and a small electric iron answers the purpose. It takes up but little space—every small hotel is equipped with electricity—and you appear sans creases and wrinkles. Don’t do as one friend did, who put it in her traveling case with her bottles. One good bump did the business, and when she took it out “the mess of tooth-powder, cold cream, sunburn lotion, and broken glass was enough to spoil my trip.” Her stock was soon replenished. In every small town across the continent, without one exception, we found the Rexall drugs and articles for sale; even when the town failed to boast of a ten-cent store, Dr. Rexall was on hand. It struck us as very remarkable, and was most convenient many times.

The one article that I regretted not bringing was a good camera. When all our friends said, “Of course, you will take a camera,” my husband replied, that he wouldn’t be bothered with one; “they are a perfect nuisance.” That may be true, and the camera did not go touring; but some incidents that occurred cannot be adequately pictured in words—one in particular, our encounter with bears! Of this I shall speak later.

And now, of the car! I wished my husband, who had all the care of the car, to write his chapter. “Every man knows what to take, and how to care for his car, and there is no use giving any advice.” Perhaps he will—he has!