Part 2

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.