by Jeff Guinn
In April 1915, Ford granted an interview to the New York Times, telling the reporter, “Moneylenders and munitions makers cause wars. If Europe had spent money on peace machinery such as tractors instead of armaments, there would have been no war. The warmongers urging military preparedness in America are Wall Street bankers. I am opposed to war in every sense of the word.” Two months later, Ford appealed to Middle America to join him in opposition: “New York wants war, but the United States doesn’t. The peoples west of New York are too sensible for war.” This was strong language, but Ford correctly knew or at least intuited that the majority of Americans agreed with him, if not with his condemnation of Wall Street and New York, at least in his hope of the U.S. avoiding war. President Woodrow Wilson advocated neutrality, though Germany made it difficult. In May, when the Germans sank the Lusitania, a British cruise ship that had more than a hundred American passengers aboard, Wilson warned Germany against any similar acts. Americans became more receptive to preparedness, though not entry into the war itself. Henry Ford, citing ads purchased in New York newspapers earlier in the year by the German government warning that all British vessels were subject to attack, said the dead Americans were “fools to go on that boat.” In contrast, two weeks after the Lusitania sinking, Edison accepted a government request to chair a Navy “department of invention and development” comprised of the best civilian and military creative minds and tasked with creating new means of thwarting and, if necessary, fighting German aggression on the seas.
Couzens warned Ford about making controversial antiwar statements, which might offend potential customers and drive down sales. Ford paid no attention. In one interview he swore to devote his life and fortune “to prevent murderous, wasteful war in America and in the whole world.” In another, Ford declared that “to my mind, the word ‘murderer’ should be embroidered in red letters across the breast of every soldier.” Tension between Ford and Couzens grew, and in early October it boiled over. Couzens had always controlled the contents of the Ford Times, a company magazine distributed to employees and made available to the public at dealerships and through free subscriptions; at one point its circulation reached 600,000. Couzens was furious when a copy of the latest edition included two antiwar articles that he had ordered removed. Obviously, Ford had overruled him. Couzens confronted Ford, insisting that the owner’s personal politics had no place in an internal company publication. Ford disagreed—it was his company. Couzens quit the next day. He went on to a distinguished political career, first as mayor of Detroit and later as a U.S. senator representing Michigan. But with Couzens gone, so was the only check on Ford’s increasing proclivity to say exactly what he pleased, and damn the consequences.
Ford gloried in that freedom as he addressed the press during Wednesday’s cruise. He joked that, to him, the battleships resembled extinct dodo birds: “The only [dodos] now [are] to be stuffed and exhibited in museums. That is where all the warships should be.” He claimed he was ready to spend $1 million in antiwar efforts. Ford added that he had no hard feelings toward Admiral Fullam and the battleship commanders. His assembly line exhibit at the Exposition turned out a number of spanking new Model Ts every day. He invited the naval officers to come by the next day and see him there—each would receive a freshly minted car. All this was duly reported, but with coverage of Edison Day festivities following soon after, Ford suffered no immediate blowback. He may have assumed this was because everyone agreed with him.
* * *
Edison Day on Thursday was all that Exposition officials could have hoped. The honoree was driven to Festival Hall, which was surrounded by an estimated ten thousand admirers who’d been unable to get tickets to join him inside. They made up for it by cheering his arrival. According to the San Francisco Chronicle, “No hero fresh from a great war, a great statesman or any person ever elevated above his fellow-man ever before received such a sincere tribute. No celebrity thus far visiting the Exposition has been accorded such hearty homage.” Edison, the story noted, responded to the cacophony “with rather a sheepish yet kindly smile.” Once inside, Edison sat with Mina in the front row of a packed auditorium while fair officials took turns onstage paying him tribute. Reporters were conveniently allowed to sit directly behind the great man, so they were able to note that at one point the partially deaf Edison loudly whispered to his wife, “I’m glad I can’t hear. I’d feel so foolish.” Christine Miller, a soprano whose voice graced many recordings made at Edison’s New Jersey studio, performed several numbers, and finally the president of the Exposition presented Edison with a bronze medal. As usual, the inventor did not deliver a speech. Afterward, as soon as it was dark, “one ton of rockets” and an additional “half ton of explosives” were set off in Edison’s honor. The next day, it was announced that Edison Day attendance was the highest for the entire Exposition, topping tickets sold to see former presidents Theodore Roosevelt and William Howard Taft, “a demonstration that could not have failed to impress upon the inventor the place he holds in the hearts of his countrymen.”
A few of the stories noted that during the afternoon before the Edison Day program commenced, Henry Ford put on overalls and worked for several hours on the Ford Motor Company’s assembly line exhibit. At the end of his stint he gave newly assembled Model Ts to Rear Admiral Fullam and the captains of the Oregon, South Dakota, and Milwaukee. Ford prided himself on never breaking a promise.
With their commitment to the Panama-Pacific Exposition complete and a few days in hand before they were expected in San Diego, on Friday Edison, Ford, and Firestone took a late morning train for a short trip from San Francisco to Santa Rosa and Edison’s promised visit to Luther Burbank. Any hope they had of a quick, quiet meeting was disabused by a large crowd waiting for them at the depot about 1 p.m. They were escorted from there to Burbank’s sprawling gardens, where the geneticist formally greeted them along with 1,800 cheering, chanting children; local schools were apparently emptied. The youngsters serenaded the visitors with “I Love California,” and afterward Edison gamely posed for photos with them. Eventually the mob dispersed, and Burbank was finally able to show his guests around the grounds before ushering them into his combination workshop/laboratory. Edison was fascinated by everything and peppered Burbank with questions about fruits and plants. Ford was more specific. He wanted to know how peas could be genetically engineered to grow only to a certain size, making the canning process more efficient.
When Burbank and Edison fell into deep discussion about America’s dependence on foreign rubber, and what plants might best be grown in the U.S. to meet the nation’s growing demand, Ford excused himself and returned to the Santa Rosa depot, where he talked with railroad staff about their methods of scheduling arrivals and departures until Edison finally was ready to return to San Francisco on the 5:42 p.m. train. When asked how the visit had gone, Burbank said that Edison was “quick to catch [my] vision of what was being . . . attempted.” But Burbank offered his highest praise to Ford, who “saw a different angle. . . . He wanted to know what was being done to increase production and develop new possibilities in plants. He is keen as mustard and has the longest view into the future of any man I have encountered out of the business world.” Later, Ford sent Burbank a tractor in thanks for his hospitality, and also a telegram asking him to publicly back Woodrow Wilson for reelection in 1916. Ford was an avid Wilson supporter, so long as the president honored his campaign pledge to keep America out of war.
The weekend was supposedly reserved for rest. Ford used it to visit an old friend in Los Gatos, and afterward paid an informal visit to the Montezuma Ranch School for Boys. Edison wasn’t as lucky. Demands continued for him to participate in special programs, and one couldn’t be avoided. The president of Stanford University had once worked for Edison, and the inventor accepted a last-minute invitation from his former employee to make a Saturday morning appearance on campus. As usual, Edison avoided making a speech, but he still had to sit onstage for more than an hour while f
aculty members praised him to approximately 1,500 students, plus hundreds of additional people who’d learned Edison would be at the school and turned out to see him. That was supposed to be the extent of Edison’s visit, but as Stanford officials escorted him through the crowd to his waiting car, a small girl slipped forward and asked to shake the inventor’s hand. He naturally agreed. As the San Jose Mercury Herald reported, “That seemed to start the ball rolling.” Everyone wanted a handshake, and Edison was obliged to comply. That took more time, during which the sixty-eight-year-old was constantly on his feet. It was a weary Edison who finally escaped to his wife and friends back in San Francisco.
There still seemed to be some time for Edison to relax away from crowds. He and Ford were scheduled to appear at San Diego’s Panama-California Exposition on Friday, October 29. It was decided that their combined parties would first take the train to Los Angeles. Though there was some advance publicity—the Los Angeles Times noted Edison’s imminent arrival with a story headlined “Master Inventor Guest of Los Angeles: No One Has Brought World More Comfort”—everyone looked forward to visiting privately with friends and enjoying some peace before the final 120-mile rail trip to San Diego. And, at first, it happened almost exactly that way. At one point the Edisons were intercepted by a camera crew and reporters on their way to lunch with some longtime acquaintances, but the media was satisfied with Edison’s brief observation that “You surely have some lights in this city. It isn’t like New York, either, along one street.”
Eventually the group was tracked down by owners of a film studio, who offered an invitation to come along and watch work on a movie currently in production. This interested everyone, Edison in particular. Almost thirty years earlier, Edison’s seminal contribution to the motion picture industry was the filmstrip, a continuous flexible roll, and the kinetoscope, which projected moving images on tiny screens. It fell to other innovators to develop the projectors that allowed movies to be viewed on bigger screens by larger audiences, but Edison had provided a vital middle step and, so far as much of the public was concerned, he’d invented the movies. Beginning in 1903, Edison’s movie production company actually dominated filmmaking, producing popular titles like The Great Train Robbery; Camel Caravan; Pekin, China; and Uncle Tom’s Cabin. All were what was termed “two-reelers” with total running times of about twenty-five minutes. Competitors eventually countered with longer films, some lasting as long as three hours, but Edison, like Ford with the Model T, stubbornly stuck to the original product that was successful. Unlike Ford, his market share in the movie business soon declined. Here was a chance to see firsthand what another studio was up to, and, if nothing else, a pleasant way to spend an afternoon.
The invitation was a ploy. When the party arrived at the studio, instead of a working crew they found a pack of photographers (some sources suggest there was also a brass band) and a request for Edison to formally lay the cornerstone for a new studio building. Unwilling to seem a bad sport, Edison went along, smiling and posing. Afterward, he and his friends did get the promised tour of the studio. But their day was ruined, their spirits were down, and no one looked forward to more of the same in San Diego, where crowds would press them at the Exposition. Beyond that, their train departure and arrival times had proven to be widely known. More depot mob scenes loomed.
* * *
Harvey Firestone had a suggestion. They didn’t have to go to San Diego on the train. The road there from Los Angeles was relatively smooth. Why not put together a fleet of cars and drive instead? That would make the trip more like an outing. To an extent they’d have to be open about the change of plans—it wouldn’t do for Mr. Edison and Mr. Ford to appear to be shunning the public—but at least they’d be more in control of their own schedule. This idea had considerable appeal.
More Americans were making such trips by car. A jaunt of 120 miles in a single day was no longer daunting. Even fifteen years earlier, it would have been impossible, since there were very few cars (eight thousand as opposed to fourteen million horses) and fewer drivable roads. With the exception of train travel, the average American rarely ventured more than twelve miles from home, because that was the distance a horse and wagon could comfortably cover from there and back in a day. But as cars caught on, it became popular to spend a delightful day driving amazing distances to visit family or friends or some scenic spot, and still get back home in time for supper.
Certain parts of the country lent themselves to such recreation better than others. The Northeast had perhaps the best and most numerous roads, but Southern California wasn’t far behind. The American Automobile Association, recognizing that car travel was gaining traction throughout the country, organized in 1902, two years after the Automobile Club of Southern California. The state was among the first to require car owners to register their vehicles—this cost $1—and along with Connecticut, New York, and Massachusetts was among the first states to implement speed limits. Inconveniently for motorists, there was little uniform about these. States and cities picked and enforced various limits. In 1915, California’s general speed limits were 10 mph “in built-up territory,” 15 mph “in any city or town,” and 20 mph outside these two areas. But Los Angeles restricted drivers to 12 mph in its central district, and San Diego prohibited speeds above 12 mph anywhere in the city. Speed traps enforced the laws. Cops sheltered behind shrubbery or buildings and timed cars with stopwatches.
For those whose cars boasted speedometers, it was relatively easy to stay within the speed limits. But many manufacturers offered speedometers only as an accessory; Ford Motor Company charged about $7 for one. That meant many drivers found themselves in newfangled traffic court, paying fines of $5 or $10. Henry Ford was caught speeding while driving in Michigan, and denounced speeding laws entirely. He argued that it was impossible to drive and constantly observe and obey speed limits.
Drivers in California and everywhere else in the country faced additional aggravations. Signs indicating local speed limits were rarely posted along roads. Neither were mileages to towns and cities along the way, or even the number or name of the roads themselves. Sometimes printed road maps were available—the Automobile Club of Southern California was among the first to offer these—but they were limited in the streets and roads that were identified within major cities, and even less help indicating where connecting roads should be taken outside of towns. Motorists were instructed to turn left just past a large red barn adorned with a tobacco sign, or right beyond a grove of trees on a high hill. Often, roadside businesses and attractions paid to be chosen as important markers, along with a persuasive description of why travelers should stop there along the way. (“Cawson Ostrich Farm: Your visit to sunny California is incomplete without a glimpse of these giant birds and their bristling, porcupiney chicks”; “Bimini Baths, [where] the water . . . contains mineral elements that render it highly beneficial as well as delightfully soft for bathing.”)
Luckily for the Edison-Ford party, a recently improved California state highway ran between Los Angeles and San Diego. No poorly marked turns were required, and the ride would be a pleasure. Firestone arranged for cars to be provided. The Los Angeles media was informed about the switch from rail to road. The three obliged a Los Angeles Times photographer by posing in some of the vehicles. Sharp-eyed readers noticed that in one, Ford smiled behind the wheel of a hulking Kissel Kar, a powerful luxury vehicle manufactured by a competitor. The Oakland Tribune noted in a long article that Ford was enamored with the Kissel’s superior speed. His confidence in the overwhelming popularity of his smaller, pokier Model T was such that he felt no threat in publicizing the advantages of another company’s car. Ford probably chose the Kissel for the trip out of additional concern for the comfort of the ladies in the party. Had they been about to travel a typical rough American road, lighter Model Ts would have provided the best ride. But on the upgraded highway south to San Diego, the heavy, wide-based Kissel would provide a much smoother experience.
* * *<
br />
Sometime early in the morning of Friday, October 29, they set off in several cars—articles about the trip surprisingly don’t mention how many, but at least three or four. The weather was sunny, and while the highway mostly ran out of the sight of the Pacific, ocean breezes still found their way through hilly gaps to cool drivers and passengers. The only timetable involved was the necessity of Edison and Ford arriving at the Panama-California Exposition by midafternoon. Speeds of 30 or even 35 mph were possible during long, flat stretches. That was nearly double California’s noncity speed limit, but with considerable space between towns there was a corresponding scarcity of potential speed traps. Free of railroad timetables, with only 120 easy miles to drive, they could speed or lollygag at leisure. The trip was also thankfully free of additional publicity appearances. Only in Santa Ana were they forced to pause and greet the public. The town’s schoolchildren lined both sides of the highway for more than a mile. Edison and Ford smiled and waved. It was relatively low-key and not at all taxing for the aging inventor. Just outside the Exposition’s host city, they even managed a stop at Mission Basilica San Diego de Alcalá. Everyone found the architecture of the ancient church fascinating. For the better part of an exhilarating hour, they strolled the grounds like relatively anonymous tourists.
It was different when they arrived at their hotel. Exposition officials had kept careful track of Edison’s and Ford’s activities at the rival fair in San Francisco. The Panama-Pacific Exposition had the famous duo for several days—the Panama-California Exposition would host them only for an afternoon. It was necessary, then, to have a one-chance-only reception planned that would dwarf the cumulative events staged in San Francisco. In the minds of its organizers, the San Diego fair had far more potential significance than the one to the north. Both expositions celebrated the completion of the Panama Canal, but San Francisco’s also attempted to glorify the rebuilt city itself. San Diego wanted civic recognition, too, but presented its fair as a means of regional advertising for tourism dollars—there was more to California than San Francisco. As one Panama-California publication noted, “The effort has been made to show the Eastern tourist that the American West has such an infinite variety that two great expositions can be held at the same time without . . . duplication of each other’s efforts. The bigger, broader and better purpose is to assist materially in the development of the whole West—San Diego’s back country, if that expression may be used . . . devotion to a cause bigger than the cause of any previous world’s fair.”