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.