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!
BY T. G. M. (UNDER PROTEST)
The authoress demands that I, a mere hubby, include a few chirps of advice and what-nots to the intrepid masculine persuasion who drives his own car and contemplates the trip across. You will first undoubtedly think of wearing apparel, and pass those attractive window displays in your home city, with Claude in a lovely green plush hunting suit and Myrtle in a rakish hat, leather coat, and white shoes! Don’t succumb, but take your old “comfy” gray golf or outing suit, with extra trousers, two caps, a medium-weight overcoat, a stout pair of driving-gloves, a half-dozen golf shirts with short sleeves (these are a joy for hot-weather driving and working around the car), a long pongee dust-coat, and one extra suit for emergencies. Your “soup and fish” may better be left at home, unless you plan a stay in some city. One scarcely ever sees evening dress about the hotels in the West, especially among tourists, and never among their distant cousins, the “Fordists.”
For the car, I should carry a wire cable, a tow-line, a spool of annealed wire, six extra spark-plugs, two spare mounted shoes, an extra tube, a valve, and a valve-spring. Be provided with an engine-driven tire-pump, a roll of tape, a tube-repair kit (Lowe’s is a good one), and a twelve-inch Stillson pipe wrench, which you may find a life-saver in an hour of despair. Of course, you will have oil and grease-guns, a pound of grease, and plenty of soft old cloths (which are preferable to waste), and your regular equipment of tools.
Our first puncture was a nightmare. The car was heavily loaded with fourteen pieces of baggage, four spare tires, etc., and it taxed my vocabulary and my moral and physical strength to raise that right rear wheel. Next day I acquired a T. C. (or traveling companion) that never left me—a nice scraggly four-by-six wood block about thirty inches long, chamfered at one end. Of course, the next puncture was also a rear-wheel tire—this time the left one; but here was where T. C. came in. I wedged the chamfered end of T. C. under and ahead of said tire, started the engine, and advanced the car until it rode the block, then put the jack under the rear axle and took the car-weight off the block, pulled out the block, changed the tire, pushed the car off the jack—and presto! there it was, ready for the road, and not even a hair mussed. T. C. is my friend!
By all means acquire honestly (surreptitiously, if you must) a waterproof khaki tarpaulin about eight feet by five. You will find this invaluable to cover the spot where you must kneel or lie to fix things when Old Father Fate hands you a puncture or other kill-joy.