by Jeff Guinn
Edison was soon in possession of a clipping. Had he so chosen, every newspaper in the nation would have printed his outraged response to Ford’s criticism. Instead, he chose a lighter, private response. Edison sent the clipping to Ernest Liebold, Ford’s secretary, along with a note scribbled in the margin:
Liebold—glad to see Ford on that Tractor, that’s good commercial ammunition.
Ford’s domination of headlines wasn’t through. Nineteen sixteen was a presidential election year, and Democratic incumbent Woodrow Wilson was considered vulnerable. His first term had been possible in part because former president Theodore Roosevelt, running as a “Bull Moose” third-party candidate, challenged Republican president William Howard Taft, who at one time had been Republican Roosevelt’s chosen successor in the White House. That split the conservative vote, and Wilson won. Much of Wilson’s initial term had been occupied with keeping America neutral in the European war; that status remained shaky, and so did his presidency. Across America, Republicans believed Wilson was eminently beatable if only their party could rally around a consensus candidate. The prospective field included Supreme Court justice Charles Evans Hughes; Roosevelt, if he could be tempted back into the Republican fold; several senators and governors—and Henry Ford. Though he proclaimed himself uninterested and made no effort to campaign, he won the Republican presidential primary in Michigan and, as a write-in candidate, came close in other states. Ford credited this, accurately, to many voters sharing his antiwar views, and encouraged further Republican hope by saying that a president ought to be chosen by popular demand rather than active candidacy.
In June at its convention in Chicago, the Republicans took three ballots before choosing Hughes as their candidate for president. Delegates preferred an experienced campaigner over a self-described nonpolitician, though Ford received support on all three ballots. In the weeks following, Ford gradually found himself preferring Wilson over Hughes, especially when the president’s campaign slogan became “He Kept Us Out of War.”
That didn’t mean Ford immediately endorsed, or even publicly praised, Wilson. He was against any Americans taking up arms and potentially fighting foreign foes, and about the same time he lost the Republican nomination, Ford spoke out again. A lengthy revolution was ongoing in Mexico; there had been incidences of rebels crossing the border into the U.S. to attack military camps and towns. In June, President Wilson called out the National Guard to form a bristling buffer. Ford decried potential fighting with Mexico just as much as U.S. entry into the war in Europe and compared Wilson’s order to a summons for “organized murder.”
The great newspapers of the Midwest had consistently praised Ford editorially, none more than the mighty Chicago Tribune. It hailed the $5 workday as a personal triumph of “an exceptionally able and successful businessman”; in 1915, Ford was described on the Tribune editorial page as a “present day genius.” But the newspaper took a stern stance against Mexican border aggression, and instantly turned on Ford after his latest remarks.
First came a story whose “FLIVVER PATRIOTISM” headline echoed the insult to Ford by San Diego mayor Capps almost a year earlier at the Panama-California Exposition. It pointed out that although not required to by law, “most employers have guaranteed not only to give patriotic workmen their old places when they return from fighting their country’s battles, [they] have promised to pay their salaries while they are in service. Henry Ford’s workers will not have a job when they return, much less will they receive pay while fighting for their country. . . . No provision will be made by Ford for their wives and families.” The reporter didn’t base the story on comments from Ford, who was unavailable for an interview. Instead, one of Ford’s secretaries apparently talked to the journalist and described a draconian company policy, which the article presented to readers as fact. It wasn’t. A plan was in place not only to protect employee National Guardsmen’s jobs, but to assist their families during their absence. The next day’s Tribune took the issue further in an editorial. Its all-capitals headline read “HENRY FORD IS AN ANARCHIST,” and went on for nine paragraphs and 502 biting words. Ford was variously described as “deluded,” “an ignorant idealist,” and “an anarchistic enemy of the nation which protects him in his wealth.”
The validity of the first two descriptions could be legitimately argued, but “anarchist,” defined in the dictionary as “a person who rebels against any authority, established order or ruling power” and “especially one who uses violent means to overthrow the established order,” appeared to be a blatantly unfair exaggeration. Far from advocating violent resistance to the government, Ford was trying to prevent anyone from committing violent acts, specifically war. He could have ignored the Tribune’s printed slurs, but in August, Ford announced a $1 million libel suit against the Tribune. In legal question was the editorial, not the incorrect story that preceded it and on which the editorial was based. The carmaker was tired of being called names in print. Venue motions alone would delay a trial indefinitely, but Ford was willing to wait as long as necessary.
Even as Ford’s lawyers were preparing to file their first court documents, Harvey Firestone and Edison’s and Ford’s staffs laid groundwork for the Vagabonds’ late-summer trip. On July 15, one of Ford’s assistants wired Edison that “Mr. Ford can go any time after August Fifteenth will write you later regarding burroughs.” Firestone followed with another telegram to Edison, confirming Ford’s availability after August 15 and promising he would “make all arrangements will you invite Mr. Burroughs.” In a rare handwritten letter dated July 24—Edison almost always preferred dictating messages through secretaries—the inventor wrote Firestone that “It looks doubtful that Ford will go, I have written him urging it. I have all the Camping outfit we can go anyhow. Will try and get Burroughs.” Ford would never have gone without Edison, but Edison was quite willing to go without Ford. Edison selected a route that headed due north from his home in Orange, and up through eastern New York state and the Adirondacks, turning back just short of the Canadian border and heading down the western boundaries of Vermont and Massachusetts before cutting across the northwest corner of Connecticut and back through New York to Orange. Since Edison fully expected Ford to beg off, his plan was especially convenient for himself and Burroughs, who could join the caravan on the second day when it reached his home outside Roxbury, in New York’s Catskill Mountains.
It was a relatively unadventurous route, for the most part along reasonably passable roads. They could rough it without suffering too much discomfort. With two weeks allocated to drive about 1,100 miles, few if any days would require driving 100 miles, or about six hours given driving conditions. There were plenty of farms along the way where the travelers could camp and also purchase fresh milk, meat, vegetables, and fruit. Edison had tents and cots with mattresses. He cobbled together portable storage batteries so the tents could be lighted at night. Firestone would bring some staff, including a camp cook. Burroughs would just bring himself, but Edison felt that was more than enough—the creaky naturalist could identify and tell about all sorts of plants, flowers, and birds, which would make the jaunt educational as well as relaxing.
Edison had a little fun with Firestone. He gave the tire manufacturer only a general idea of the early route—the Adirondacks would be their initial destination. Beyond that, Firestone would just have to wait. Firestone was expected to put together a caravan of about four cars, plus a truck to haul the tents and other equipment. On Monday morning, August 28, Firestone would pick up Edison at the inventor’s home in New Jersey. They’d drive to just outside Roxbury and meet Burroughs at Woodchuck Lodge, the property he often wrote about in his books and magazine articles. From there, they’d be happy wheeled wanderers. If Ford did come as promised, there would be room for him and one or two of his staff in the cars.
* * *
The first stories about the trip made print on the weekend before, most of them produced by wire services for national distribution. Edison chatted
with a few journalists and articles in hundreds of papers resulted. Far more than Ford, who considered the press a necessary evil even when stories about him were glowing, Edison was sympathetic to reporters. Ford’s publicity gift was an instinctive knack for catchphrases, reflected best in his company’s marketing. Advertising copy for the early Model T submitted by the staff to Ford read, “Buy a Model T and save the difference,” making the point that the Ford was much cheaper than competitors’ cars. Ford insisted that the wording be changed to “Buy a Model T and spend the difference.” He realized that middle-class Americans liked to think of themselves as carefree consumers; for their self-esteem, the act of buying a car was every bit as important as the money they saved on the Model T.
But Edison understood the press from an insider’s perspective. At age twelve, his first job was as a railway newspaper boy, hawking wares to passengers on a Midwest rail line. But Edison soon realized he could make more money selling his own newspaper. The preteen began reporting and publishing the Grand Trunk Herald, a gossipy conglomeration of short articles about railroad employees, regular passengers, and bits of news about popular stops and amenities to be found there. In the process he learned that readers were especially entranced by small, colorful details that helped them identify with the people they were reading about.
Now, in his effort to publicize the Vagabonds’ first quasi-official car trip, Edison harked back to his railroad reporting days and, in the vernacular of 1916, he laid it on thick. A ubiquitous wire story found Edison emphasizing how he and his friends intended to abandon civilization entirely: “We’ll steer by sun and compass only, [and] not a razor in the party. . . . John Burroughs, the naturalist, is camp cook, but I can fry fish myself.” These fish, Edison stressed, would be caught with “a bent pin hook and a birch limb rod.” Firestone “will tell the stories,” presumably at night beside a crackling campfire, and Edison, conveniently forgetting the portable storage batteries, swore he was “going as far away from anything electrical as I can. [I’ll wear] an old suit and an old hat . . . and I’m going to chew tobacco.”
The resulting headlines were exactly what Edison wanted, from the Detroit Free Press’s “Edison Will Fish with Bent Pin Hook” to “Three Kids to Rough It in Two Weeks” in the Boston Post. The article emphasized that these rough-and-tumble pioneers would drive toward the Adirondacks and essentially live off the land, camping at farms and buying food along the way just like ordinary Americans out for a holiday on the road. The only deviation between the stories was that some added Ford’s name to the Vagabonds list, taking for granted that the auto manufacturer was also included.
Firestone still hoped that might happen. On Friday, August 25, he wired a last-minute appeal to Ford, pretending that Edison still thought Ford would come and playing off the carmaker’s devotion to the inventor:
Just leaving to join Mr. Edison understand he is looking forward with great interest to your joining party Hope you will not disappoint him if only for a day or two. Don’t know his plans or itinerary Will wire you later.
When there was no immediate response, Firestone went ahead, putting together his caravan of four cars (two Packards and two Model Ts) and an equipment truck and driving from his home in Akron, Ohio, to meet Edison in New Jersey. At 10 a.m. on August 28, they departed, with the New York Times reporting that “the vacationists will meet Henry Ford and John Burroughs on the way, and, under the guidance of Mr. Burroughs, the party will explore the woods and study nature. . . . The inventor said he expected to have ‘a rattling good time’ and had left orders . . . he was not to be disturbed unless some emergency arose.”
The drive up to Woodchuck Lodge was uneventful. The cars mostly followed a relatively smooth-surfaced turnpike. Burroughs’s home was too far to reach in a day, so after some eighty miles the travelers decided to camp for the night by a creek near the road a few miles from Ellenville. Firestone’s staff began setting up camp, and as they did so the farmer whose land they were on stormed up, called them “tramps and gypsies,” and ordered them off his property. All across the country, this was not an unusual occurrence. By 1916, it was common for auto vacationists to seek evening campsites on farmland, since many farms abutted roads and often had access to creeks, which the campers used for drinking water and bathing. Hotels would have been far more comfortable, but for many automobile travelers, hotels were also inconvenient. The whole idea of driving trips was grounded on the concept of going where you wanted for as far as you liked. Particularly in rural parts of America, towns were infrequent, and the hotels in them, if any, varied greatly in cost and quality. If you found yourself driving between towns and it grew dark, continuing on the road was dangerous. Car headlights were still primitive, and even the best roads were poorly marked. Wildlife and livestock frequently ambled across—at night, a deer or cow might be practically on your fender before you realized it. Even if you did reach town safely, its hotels might not have rooms available. If there were rooms, and if the hotel was a nice one with a restaurant, guests were frequently required to “dress for dinner,” coats and ties for gentlemen, nice dresses for ladies. Much of the appeal of car trips lay in wearing comfortable clothes. Then, too, many travelers were on tight budgets—auto travel meant buying gasoline at perhaps 25 cents a gallon, and paying for tire repair since blowouts were inevitable. If your car broke down, there was the expense of having it towed to a town offering a garage and mechanic, plus the cost of repairs themselves. For many, adding the cost of hotel rooms—at least another dollar a day—was profligate.
That left camping. Sleeping bags, or more likely blankets, could be rolled and stowed easily enough in cars. Tents, though desirable, took up much more space—often, they were strapped to the car’s sides or to the roof if it had one. In early twentieth-century America, there were few national or state parks, and none of the ubiquitous roadside rest areas that would proliferate a few decades later. The best open spaces near roads were usually farmland, and at first, when there were still very few auto travelers, most farmers didn’t mind autocampers. Farmers often made a dollar or two selling provisions to their overnight guests. But by about 1910, the number of car travelers—and also the number of overnight campers—began to multiply at a dizzying rate. In 1910, about 500,000 passenger cars were registered in America. A decade later, there were eight million, and most passenger car owners used their vehicles at least occasionally for travel.
Farmers whose acres included pleasant roadside areas found themselves hosting car campers on a regular basis, and many of these weren’t thoughtful guests. Their meals often relied on canned foods, and the emptied cans were just as frequently left on the ground. Fruit was picked from orchards without permission. Carelessly attended campfires became brushfires. Paper of all kinds was crumpled and tossed. Even farmers who rented camp space for the night (usually for about a dollar, the same price as an average hotel room) grew sick of cleaning up garbage and began posting signs warning campers to pick up after themselves or stay away. Some spent weekends, the most popular camping days, guarding their property with shotguns.
There were some, though, who acted initially inhospitable to raise the cost of camp space rental, and the Ellenville farmer insulting Edison and Firestone on their first night out was one of these. Firestone tried to interrupt the man’s ranting by pointing out that one of the campers was Thomas Edison. The farmer didn’t care. He was placated instead with $5.
The next day it rained, and for all of a damp morning and dreary afternoon the caravan kept heading north, to Roxbury and John Burroughs’s hilly Woodchuck Lodge property. Edison and Firestone looked forward to reconnecting with the old man, and also to the presence of reporters who would be there to record the happy reunion that evening and departure north the next day. They surely assumed that this time when they set up camp, their host Burroughs would be much more welcoming than the ranting Ellenville farmer.
If anything, he was even less pleased to see them.
* * *
Movies, Burroughs continued, would be the ruin of the American intellect: “The average person goes to the moving-picture theater and looks at senseless films for a couple of hours, and goes away without having really had to use his brain once. . . . In the old days, he might have been spending that time with a book before him, which would have given him more information and would have made him exercise his brain a little to get it.”
If movies increased in popularity, Burroughs prophesied, people might stop reading altogether. Left unspoken by the naturalist was that he made most of his income from writing books and Burroughs’s belief that infernal motion pictures, made possible in part by Thomas Edison, threatened to deprive him of his livelihood. He’d been anything but an overnight success; the son of a farmer who couldn’t afford to pay for his ambitious boy’s higher education, Burroughs worked his way through college and supported his fledgling writing career with jobs as a teacher, clerk, and eventually a federal bank examiner. A protégé of Walt Whitman, Burroughs emerged as an author of national note only in late middle age. He was naturally threatened by movies or any other modern entertainment innovation that might lure potential readers away from his books.