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.
Cord tires are also worth your while; they not only wear much better,
and stand up under heat and sand, but you can safely carry a low
tire-pressure. Our car weighed close to five thousand pounds, but
we carried only fifty-five to sixty pounds pressure. This makes for
comfortable riding, reduces your chances of a broken spring, and eases
the pain when bucking the deadly chuck-holes that look so harmless but
feel much worse than you anticipate--yes, much worse!
We preferred the gas sold by the service stations of reliable oil
companies, and, in the main, found it much better and cheaper than the
average garage gas--and, between friends, more accurately measured.
The tire-service stations are provided with handy local maps, and
between them and the garages you can get the best information relative
to the roads in general, and particularly detours, the motorists’
bugbear. Road conditions often change entirely in a few days, and,
outside of guiding you along the main traveled routes, the Blue Book
ordinarily is not of much assistance. For setting-up exercises, every
morning I tested my tire-pressure, turned down all grease-cups, looked
over steering mechanism, rear axle, drive-shaft, brakes and spring
shackles, and, as a result, we came through with flying colors, without
the slightest accident, and our car runs better now than when we
started, 4154 miles away.
It may be of interest to speak further of the gas, for, as an item of
expense, and your greatest necessity, you _have_ to consider it. We
saw no Socony gas after leaving Chicago; the Red Crown gas had taken
its place. There were a dozen other makes--Union, Iroquois, Shell,
Associated, etc., ranging in price from twenty to forty cents a gallon.
Every town and many grocery-stores on the road could supply you. As our
tank held twenty-one gallons, not once did we have to carry extra gas.
The longest stretch was seventy miles without gas for sale. Of course,
you get less mileage in the high altitudes, and the radiator needs to
be filled several times a day.
We carried an extra can of water, with our drinking-bottles filled,
through the highest mountain country and in the desert; otherwise, the
town pump was easily found. We had four spare shoes, but used only
one. Two punctures from New York to California is a record to bring
joy to any motor heart. Twice we picked up nails, and once some joker
stuck a long pin into a tire. Dr. B., of Bronxville, New York, advised
us to have a Yale lock put on either side of the hood of the engine,
remarking, “Those rubes in country garages are mighty inquisitive, and
have no love for city cars. I have had my carburetor monkeyed with many
times.” We took his advice and saved ourselves a lot of trouble. In
the East we paid $1.50 for a night’s storage in a garage. Through the
West we have paid as low as fifty cents. Our total mileage, the amount
of gas and oil used, and the cost of each, with the garage expenses, I
will give later.
I must add that, except for cleaning the spark-plugs, we had no engine
trouble, and the car arrived in perfectly good shape in California.
VII
THE TWIN CITIES AND TEN THOUSAND LAKES
August 6th and 7th we spent in St. Paul, at the first-class St.
Paul Hotel--a perfect joy! Our stay here was filled with interest.
The capitol building is a noble pile. Summit Avenue boasts of many
beautiful homes, but the business life is fast overtaking it.
Minneapolis is such a close neighbor that we could not tell where
one city began and the other left off. Here cousins took us to the
Athletic Club for lunch, in as beautiful a café as we have seen. A
bounteous luncheon was served for sixty cents that we would have paid
at least two dollars for in New York. This was our last feast on
broiled whitefish. As we were all chatting over our trip, a crash as of
broken china brought us to a pause. “What in Heaven’s name is that?” we
exclaimed. “Oh, just the boys in the ‘training’ café, having a hurry-up
lunch,” laughed our host. On the many floors men were spending their
noon-hour exercising and keeping themselves fit.
We drove out to the famous summer resort, Lake Minnetonka, picturesque
and edged with lovely summer homes. Near by were the Minnehaha Falls,
known to all Longfellow lovers, and the Fort Snelling reservation,
where the sturdy pioneers defended their lives in the old round tower
and block-house. By far the most attractive spot we visited was
Christmas Lake, seventeen miles out of town, where the Radisson Inn
nestles in the woods, quite hidden from the highway. No private villa
could be more lovely. In the large dining-room, which was really a
sun-parlor, each table had its own color-scheme, with vines and wild
flowers. Plants, ferns, vines, and flowers growing everywhere in the
most original baskets and boxes made of twigs, bark, or moss. We all
stood exclaiming, like a lot of children, “Isn’t it adorable?”--“Oh, my
dear, _do_ look at this Indian rug!”--“Where did they get this willow
furniture?”--“Altman never had such exquisite cretonnes!”--“Let’s give
up the trip and stop here!”--and so on. We were told that the table was
in keeping with the house, and that the place was full all season. This
was another high spot on the trip.
Still another pleasure was in store for us--we were to play golf and
dine at the Town and City Club. The club is situated between the two
cities, near the banks of the Mississippi River. We drove past before
we realized that it was not a private estate. Stopping a young man,
we asked where the club was. “Got me stuck, Missis; never heard of
it.” A small boy of seven came up, and, with a withering glance which
took us all in, waved his arm, saying, “Right before your eyes!” We
drove through lovely grounds to the club-house. Such gorgeous old
trees!--hedges that made you think of Devonshire, lawns like velvet,
and a riot of color in the beds and borders--every flowering shrub
and plant you could dream of. Of course, the links were fine, and the
twilight lasted until nearly nine o’clock. We had ordered dinner in
advance; so by a quarter to nine we were seated at our table, with
faultless appointments, enjoying such a good dinner, and watching
the sky-line of Minneapolis, with its church spires and towering
buildings, fade in the afterglow of the sunset. Not one of us spoke as
the twilight deepened and the stars came out; we went out on the lawn
and saw the new harvest moon through the trees--a bit of Nature’s
fairyland, the memory of which will always stay with us.
Here we left the Yellowstone Trail and followed the National Parks
Highway north to Fargo, North Dakota, 265 miles; winding in and out
over good roads through a myriad of lakes--ten thousand, we were
told--in Minnesota. Every mile of the way, as far as the eye could see,
were acres of potatoes, corn, and wheat, fertile and green. If you
want to visualize Frank Norris’s books and understand how we can feed
starving Europe, motor through this state. It was harvest-time. Great
tractors were snorting like live creatures, hundreds of men on the big
ranches were “bringing in the sheaves,” the country was alive with
action, and the world was to reap the benefit of the toil and endless
energy of these sturdy men. You have never _seen_ our country until
you have traveled through this great grain-belt. Every small town had
two or three grain elevators. There were beautiful fields of alfalfa,
a mass of bloom with its bluish purple flower as sweet as honey. As we
came near these fields, the air was always cool. We couldn’t account
for it; but it is a strange fact that the air is considerably cooler
when you near an alfalfa field. Can you see the picture? Lakes on every
side, as blue as great sapphires, sparkling in the sun, the road lined
with the wild sunflowers, often forming a golden hedge on either side
for miles, the blue mass of color of the alfalfa fields, and above it
the green corn and golden wheat. The magpies were in flocks, and the
sea-gulls were skimming over the inland lakes, hundreds of miles from
any large body of water, and hundreds more of them were resting on the
shores. Strange, was it not? Through the West we have noted the absence
of many birds, especially in Montana, Idaho, Utah, and Nevada. But
here the crops were so abundant that the little songsters “had first
whack at the grain,” as my husband remarked. He was the bird-man of
the party, and when he was driving at a top-notch speed or turning a
hairpin curve he would calmly ask, “Did you girls see that blue heron?”
Alexandria, and the hotel of the same name, were comfortable beyond our
hopes. The next day we passed through Fergus Falls, where the cyclone
of June 22d had demolished the better part of the town. It had been a
thriving, attractive place in the heart of the grain-belt, with fine
buildings and pretty homes. Now, less than two months later, the wreck
and débris were appalling. The wind had wrought strange sights. We
saw a sewing-machine in the top of a neighbor’s tree, festooned with
bedding, petticoats, and a bird-cage. Houses were turned over as if
they had been toys; others were crushed to kindling. Here a small tree
or a chicken-coop would be intact, and a building five feet away would
be demolished. We stopped off for lunch in a small café in the part of
the town that had escaped the gale. The people were talking of nothing
else. The whole countryside had driven in to see it, to take the
sufferers home, or to render assistance. The waitress paid no attention
to our order--just talked. “Why, lady, it was the awfullest thing you
ever heard tell on! One moment we were all sitting at our work, and
then we heard a roar like a mad bull, or thunder, and the sky got so
black that you couldn’t see across that counter. Windows smashed in,
and this house shook like jelly. Folks were blown down that street like
old newspapers. Scared? My Gawd! we just crawled under the counter and
prayed! The door was blown in and the front window smashed. A little
kid was blown across that street and straight through that broken
glass. My maw’s house was shook to pieces. Maw was cookin’, and she and
the stove went off together. Paw was feedin’ the cattle; when we found
him he was lyin’ in the next lot with a cow a-lyin’ on top of him and
a milkpail a-coverin’ of his head. Most everyone got cut by the glass
or broke an arm or leg, tryin’ to hold on to somethin’. The piany in
the schoolhouse was took up and planted in a street two blocks away not
hurt a bit. It sounds just beautiful now. Some folks I know had their
two cats and three dogs killed, and the canary was a-singin’ like mad
when they found the house in the end of the garden. The wire fences
were the worst; they just wound themselves up like yarn.” Many others
told us similar weird tales. We left that town, already being rebuilt,
a sober party.
“I wonder what would happen to us if we should meet such a cyclone,”
said Toodles.
“I think we would ‘blow in’ to lunch with our friends in Boston,” mused
the bird-man.
He has given me this list of birds that we saw through the West:
Mudhens, bluebirds, bluejays, robins, ospreys, cranes, loons, terns,
the Canada goose, song-sparrows, meadowlarks, hawks, wild swans,
woodpeckers, orioles, wild doves, and others. Later we saw sagehens and
eagles.
VIII
MILLIONS OF GRASSHOPPERS
We had wired to our cousins, Mr. and Mrs. H., of Fargo, to make a
reservation for our party, which they did at the Gardner Hotel. We
found a big comfortable hotel, with large rooms, good table, and
excellent service. We enjoyed our “stop off” of two days here more than
in any other city on our trip. Fargo spells hospitality and “pep.” Our
greeting was, “What can we do for you?”
“Find the Packard service station, give us some home-cooking, and let
us play golf and tennis.”
“There are only two Packard cars in town, but the manager of the garage
owns one and can help you out.”
He did--kind, obliging person! Our second request was granted to the
full. Never did fried chicken and creamed potatoes covered with gravy
taste so good. We went back the next day and finished up the rest of
the chicken. After driving about this charming “up-to-tomorrow” Western
city, we went out to the Country Club and the links, and met many
truly delightful people.
Western people in the same walk of life as your friends at home are
traveled, cultured, broad-minded, most interesting people. I was
especially impressed by the women. They think for themselves on the
public questions of the hour, and voice their opinions in no uncertain
terms. As Philip Gibbs said in his article in _Harper’s_ (“Some People
I met in America”), “Desperately earnest about the problems of Peace,
intrigued to the point of passion about the policy of President Wilson,
divided hopelessly in ideals and convictions, so that husbands and
wives had to declare a No Man’s Land between their conflicting views.”
It is so in our family. My brother has expressed it aptly: “President
Wilson is a state of mind. You are all for him, or not at all.” But
Heaven help me to keep politics out of this peaceful narrative!
We found many golfers ahead of us. Mrs. W., the chairman of the house
committee, and especial hostess of the day, played with us. She played,
as all Western women enter into everything, with enthusiasm. The course
was flat, easy, and of nine holes.
But the grasshoppers! I had seen plenty of them on the trip while going
through the farming country. They would jump into the car, take a ride
on the hood or windshield, get on your veil or down your neck, or
collect in family parties on the luggage or in your lap; but that was
utter isolation compared to the crop on those links. The seventeen-year
locust had _nothing_ on these grasshoppers! On the fairway, when you
hit your ball, hundreds would fly up in a cloud and your ball was lost
to sight. You walked on a carpet of them. It reminded you of “the
slaughter of the innocents.” Your clothes were covered with them. When
I sat down at the third tee, I heard a crunching noise, unlike anything
I ever experienced. Mrs. W. called out--alas! too late--“Oh, you
mustn’t sit down until you shake the grasshoppers out of your skirts.
You will ruin your clothes.” That white satin skirt has been boiled,
parboiled, dry-cleaned, and hung in the sun, but the back looks bilious
and pea-green in spots! When I got back to the hotel, I found them
inside of my blouse and under-linen, and even in my hair and shoes. It
is fortunate that they did not bite, or someone else would be writing
this tale.
After real afternoon tea, with toast, hot biscuits, and sandwiches (not
our ice-cream cones), we drove back to the city and dined and talked
until the lights were put out in the hotel and the elevator man had
gone to sleep. We were told of the fine roads through North Dakota,
“but not in bad weather; then you will have to reckon with the gumbo.”
“Gumbo” is described by Webster as “soup, composed of okra, tomatoes,
etc.” But that learned gentleman never drove after a rainstorm in North
Dakota.
The next morning the sky looked threatening, but we started out for
Jamestown, one hundred miles away. All went well until noon, when a
gentle drizzle set in, and we put up the top, stopped under a big
tree, had our lunch, and waited until the supposed shower was over.
Farther west it had poured; we noticed that the cars coming in were
covered with mud, and concluded that they had come over country roads.
Surely not the National Parks Highway! So down went the top, and off we
started in a _wet_ atmosphere, but not really raining. The chains had
not been disturbed since they were comfortably stowed away on leaving
New York. One man advised us to put them on, but with a superior
don’t-believe-we-will-need-them air we left our tree shelter. He called
out after us, “Say, strangers, you don’t know what you all are getting
into.” We didn’t, but we jolly soon found out! In ten minutes we had
met gumbo, and were sliding, swirling, floundering about in a sea of
mud! I will try to describe it. A perfectly solid (apparently) clay
road can become as soft as melted butter in an hour. Try to picture a
narrow road, with deep ditches, and just one track of ruts, covered
with flypaper, vaseline, wet soap, molasses candy (hot and underdone),
mire, and any other soft, sticky, slippery, hellish mess that could be
mixed--and even that would not be gumbo!