by Jeff Guinn
The car shipments to dealers eased current corporate overstock, but Ford plants couldn’t remain open and turn out even more Model Ts. Ford kept production going longer than most competitors, who completely shut down operations by summer or early fall 1920, but in December car sales remained stagnant and Ford closed his plants through early February 1921. He also laid off about one-fourth of his employees, fifteen thousand in all. Since Ford, like Edison, insisted on nonunion shops, he risked no strike or other worker retaliation. When the economic crisis finally eased and the Ford plants reopened, the pared-down workforce operated at maximum efficiency, turning out Model Ts at a furious rate (about 900,000 in 1921, contrasted with 420,000 in 1920 before production shut down that December). Relieved dealers were happily hard-pressed to keep enough cars on hand to satisfy consumer demand. Once again, Henry Ford acted creatively. Once again, he won.
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All the economic news wasn’t bad. During the bleak summer of 1920 and immediately afterward, there was an unexpected but unmistakable indication that Americans hadn’t entirely given up on automobiles and leisure expenditures. Very few were buying cars, but many who already owned one still used it for travel—“autocamping” was the popular new term. A New York Times survey indicated that fully half the nation’s estimated ten million cars were being used at least partially for that purpose. Another study divided autocampers into four general categories—farmers on trips to buy supplies and sell crops, travelers crossing the country in search of new homes, migrant workers following anticipated harvests, and, largest of all, “middle-class tourists” out for sightseeing and adventure, half of them or more likely squeezed into Model Ts crammed with folded tents and camping gear. This continued even during hard economic times, proving that car travel could no longer be considered a fad. In less than two decades, it had become ingrained in American culture. In 1920, with communities across the land desperate to attract every available dollar, middle-class autocampers in particular offered a rare, thriving target market.
As the number of car trips increased, so did autocampers’ need of safe places to stop overnight. Hotels cost money, often $2–$3 or more per night (with more Americans on the road, hotels raised prices to meet increased demand), and many travelers were on limited budgets. Farmers were increasingly unwilling to allow campers on their land. Campers in turn grew less eager to risk random stops; it was hard to count on potable water, and there was always danger of attack by thugs seeking easy prey.
Across the country, town officials stepped into the breach, particularly in rural communities along roads and between larger cities. They established “autocamps,” often in parks right in the center of town, where travelers were welcome to stop for an hour or an afternoon or a night. They parked free of charge and were encouraged to set up tents and stay awhile. Their hosts calculated that the visitors would reciprocate by purchasing gas and getting repairs at local garages or buying supplies or meals from town merchants. It worked—by 1922, autocamps proliferated throughout the country; estimates range from three thousand to six thousand. Some were primitive, roughly marked lots with minimal shade and space for only a dozen cars. Most offered pleasant settings, room for fifty or more cars (Denver’s massive Overland Park accommodated two thousand) and enticing amenities: In Americans on the Road, Warren James Belasco writes that “the average 10–15-acre camp offered, as basic necessities, good water, maintained privies, electric lights, wood- or gas-burning stoves in a central kitchen building, a lounge area, cold showers, a caretaker, and a laundry room with tubs and washboards.”
Entrepreneurs sensed opportunity. Restaurants began springing up on long stretches of roads between towns, often advertising free water and gambling that enough travelers who stopped for a drink or to refill radiators would also decide to spring for a sandwich or a heartier meal. Often, these roadside eateries also had small campgrounds—early 1920s American travelers found themselves presented with any number of camping and dining options, most free (camping) or at least affordable (food) to even the most budget-minded. They responded—the New York Times estimated that now at least “10–15 percent” of the entire population in all corners of America took car trips at some point each year.
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Since 1914 in the Everglades, the Vagabonds were among them, excepting only 1917 when the public was informed that war-related responsibilities kept Edison, Ford, and Firestone off the road. In July of 1920, amid launching the antisemitic campaign of the Dearborn Independent and staving off corporate financial disaster, Henry Ford took the first steps to gather the gang and autocamp again. Firestone was still in England, but Ford assumed the tire maker would agree to any trip at any time. Burroughs’s summer in New York was being split between Roxbury and Riverby, where the naturalist had a second country place. Probably the old man would balk, but he’d always come before and Ford would insist he do so again. All that really had to be determined was if and when Edison could go. Ford had Liebold write and inquire of Meadowcroft whether the inventor, immersed in his own efforts to keep his company financially afloat, “will be in position to make the camping trip this year.” On Ford’s behalf, Liebold suggested northern Michigan as a likely destination: “Last year a number of us motored through the Upper Peninsula [inspecting Ford properties there] and it was equal to August weather. It is too bad of course to make [this year’s trip] as late as this, but as Mr. Firestone is not expected to return until September, Mr. Ford dislikes to abandon the trip on this account.” Even in 1920, when his own celebrity matched and sometimes eclipsed that of the inventor, Ford continued deferring to Edison: “It will depend on Mr. Edison’s reply whether the trip will be made.” Still, Ford clearly wanted to go—Liebold closed the letter by noting that “all the equipment is being put in shape so that if a trip is made there will be no other delay.”
Edison promptly sent word back via Meadowcroft: Mr. Edison “wants me to say he is so loaded up with work, and has promised Mrs. Edison to skip one year of camping in order to take her on an auto trip of ten days, that he will have to give up the idea of this year’s trip with Mr. Ford and his other friends.”
Liebold replied that they “regret very much that Mr. Edison is unable to join in the camping trip this year. It is quite likely therefore that Mr. Ford’s plans will be abandoned.” In 1916, Edison went when Ford would not, but four years later, the reverse wasn’t true.
That seemed to be the end of it for 1920. Firestone hurried home from Europe to save his company. Edison and Ford were equally occupied with theirs. But sometime in October, the possibility of a late-year Vagabonds trip resurfaced. The timing made sense. America remained in economic distress. There was widespread concern that the good times might be over forever. If the country’s most famous businessmen took their annual trip together—see, they must think everything will be all right!—it might provide a much needed boost to national morale. Not coincidentally, it would also result in valuable publicity for them and their struggling companies.
A second element was the other Vagabonds’ growing concern for John Burroughs, who increasingly showed signs of mental deterioration. Burroughs recognized this himself: “[My] memory [is] full of holes, like a net with many of the meshes broken.” He took fewer rambles around his beloved properties, and rarely ventured beyond their boundaries. Burroughs made an exception in April 1920, when he spent his birthday at Yama Farms, an exclusive resort in the Catskill Mountains a few hours’ drive from New York City. Though the surroundings were rustic, accommodations were luxurious. By day guests could romp in the woods. There was fishing, a well-stocked library for anyone who wanted to read, and screenings of the latest popular movies. At night, everyone gathered to hear lectures by visiting scholars and explorers.
Though the others tried to think of ways Burroughs could still participate in a typical Vagabonds camping trip—Edison proposed bringing along a full-sized bed and mattress for him—they finally accepted that the old man’s autocamping days were done.
Yet they didn’t want to go somewhere without him, not only because they were so personally fond of Burroughs, but because to the public the naturalist with the long white beard was such an established part of the Vagabonds’ image. By 1920, a joke about the group was in print or told on vaudeville stages throughout the country. There were variations, but the gist was generally the same:
A farmer is working in his field by a road when this car comes along and breaks down right across from him. There are four people in the car, and they get out and raise the hood to see what’s wrong. After they scratch their heads for a while, the farmer comes over and says, “I’m pretty good with machines. Let me take a look.” He does, and after a while he says, “Something’s wrong with the engine.” One of the four men standing there with him says, “I’m Henry Ford and I built this car. There’s nothing wrong with the engine.” The farmer says, “All right, then the problem is with the battery.” The second man says, “I’m Thomas Edison. My company made that battery and there’s nothing wrong with it, either.” The farmer says, “Then it has to be the tires. Something’s wrong with the tires.” The third man says, “I’m Harvey Firestone, those are my tires, and they’re just fine.” The farmer throws up his hands and says, “You say you’re Ford, Edison and Firestone! I suppose that this old guy with the white beard’s going to tell me that he’s Santa Claus!”
If Burroughs remained spry enough to travel, the other three were determined that he should come along. But that limited their choices of destination and route. It wouldn’t do for Burroughs to become ill on some lonely country road miles from doctors and a hospital.
Weather was a factor, too. Wherever they went, they couldn’t risk being stranded in a snowstorm or skidding for miles on iced-over roads—for good reason, autocamping was a seasonal endeavor. And there was another potential complication.
In July, Edison’s reason for begging off a summer Vagabonds trip was that he’d promised his wife, Mina, “an auto trip of ten days.” There is no record that he kept that promise, and, if so, Mina Edison was not a woman who forgot such things. Before her untimely death at age twenty-nine, Edison’s first wife, Mary, had been miserable because she felt—and was—excluded from almost all of her husband’s life. Mary came from a working-class family, and she was a low-level Edison Company employee before catching the boss’s eye. Mary didn’t understand the work her husband did in his laboratory and felt socially uncomfortable with the rich, often brilliant people who comprised Edison’s limited social circle. Mina, the daughter of a wealthy Ohio industrialist, approached marriage to Edison much differently. Though only nineteen when they married (Edison was thirty-eight), she made certain to stay abreast of her husband’s work, mingled perfectly with his distinguished friends, and made it her business to shield Edison from most of the demands of daily life. In return, she expected him to pay attention to her and their three children in those few hours each day when Edison tore himself away from his laboratory. Mina required, and got, Edison’s respect for her as a full partner in their marriage, not an occasional accoutrement. She could understand missing the promised summer 1920 car trip because her husband’s time had to be spent instead on saving his company, but not Edison’s running off just a few months later on a men-only Vagabonds jaunt, when he could have kept his earlier word to her.
The Vagabonds themselves were a touchy subject with Mina Edison because she disliked Ford. Edison might have accepted the Vagabonds headlines and stories gradually featuring Ford rather than himself. From Mina’s perspective, they proved something that she’d suspected all along—rather than provide her husband with much-needed chances to relax, these Vagabonds trips were mainly intended by Ford as platforms for his own shameless self-promotion. Despite her misgivings, Mina never forbade her husband to go. But she took advantage of opportunities to torment Ford. The best example was a car that Mina swore wouldn’t stop rattling. Ford not only frequently gave Edison cars, he sometimes sent one to Mina Edison, too, with every available add-on to ensure her riding comfort—as a lady of standing, she never drove herself, but sat in the back seat while a chauffeur took the wheel. One year, Mina notified Ford that she couldn’t abide the latest car. While on any road, even the smoothest, it rattled so loudly that it made her head hurt. Her chauffeur, who doubled as the Edison family mechanic, couldn’t fix the problem. Ford, who undoubtedly realized Mina disliked him, didn’t know why, and wanted badly to win her over, offered to replace the car. Mina said that wouldn’t do. She wanted Ford to fix the one she had. Ford dispatched his best mechanics from Dearborn to New Jersey. They tore the car apart, said that they couldn’t find anything wrong, and put it back together. Mina went on a drive and said the rattling remained. Ford had the car shipped to Dearborn and examined there. His engineers swore to him that every car rattled at least a little. It was impossible to drive in complete silence. Ford sent the car back to New Jersey with the promise that if Mrs. Edison really couldn’t stand the noise it made, he’d send another one, any car she wanted, whatever made her happy. Mina didn’t respond. She’d made Ford squirm, so it was mission accomplished. Another year, she used a different tack. As Mina requested, Ford made sure that year’s car for Mrs. Edison was painted blue. For months after receiving the car, Mina badgered Ford and his paint experts, who mixed and remixed trying to get the exact shade of blue that she insisted she wanted but couldn’t precisely describe.
It had been 1915 and the trip to California when wives were last invited along, but Edison wasn’t about to risk Mina’s wrath and exclude her from the November 1920 Vagabonds trip. If Mina went, Clara Ford would have to be invited, and Idabelle Firestone, too. Mina’s reservations about Henry Ford didn’t affect her friendship with Clara. The Edisons and Fords were winter next-door neighbors in Florida, and the women socialized there daily.
* * *
So it would be four Vagabonds and three wives, plus a small entourage. The remaining question was where they would gather. It was Edison who apparently came up with the perfect location—Yama Farms, where Burroughs had spent his eighty-third birthday in April. Burroughs clearly liked it there, the women would enjoy the fine accommodations, and potential cold or snowy weather wouldn’t be a factor. It would be a brief vacation, perfect for Ford, Edison, and Firestone since they’d need to get back to their businesses. Yama Farms’ proximity to New York meant that the reporters and photographers for the newspapers and wire services based there would have easy access—even if only a few days’ worth of stories resulted, national coverage should be assured. Ford had Liebold check dates with Firestone and Burroughs, then confirm through Meadowcroft that Edison was on board. On October 29, Meadowcroft wrote that “this is very agreeable to Mr. Edison,” and a few weeks later everyone met at Yama Farms.
* * *
Their challenge was to receive press coverage emphasizing the Vagabonds’ commonalities with normal Americans without drawing undue attention to the fact that they were vacationing at a luxury resort instead of autocamping like people of modest means. The trip announcement on November 13 in the New York Times wasn’t helpful. Though it didn’t describe the lavish comforts of Yama Farms, the article noted that the Vagabonds’ fellow guests there would include “Lady Eaton; Dr. Carl Ackeley, sculptor and naturalist . . . Dr. Carl Lumholtz, explorer; Miss Ethel Newcomb, pianist; Mr. and Mrs. Roy Andrews, heads of the coming expedition to Asia to investigate prehistoric man; Dr. F. B. Turck, biologist; and Jan Sickesz, Dutch pianist.” These were not the sort of people to be found in adjoining tents at an autocamp.
The Vagabonds party was to stay at Yama Farms for only two days, beginning on Monday, November 15. Part of that first day, after everyone arrived during the afternoon, was spent posing for group pictures. These showed all the men but Ford swaddled in heavy winter coats. The automaker defied the November chill in a business suit and vest. The ladies wore furs, and Mina Edison and Idabelle Firestone sported jaunty hats with feathers. Clara Ford, daughter of a farmer, wore her sensible warm hat pul
led so low that her eyes were barely visible. Edison draped his arm protectively around Burroughs’s shoulders. Then the ladies repaired inside, while photographers followed the men on a tramp about the grounds. Media photos were taken of Ford using his own camera to snap pictures of Edison and Burroughs. Later, the press was allowed to briefly witness and photograph some of the group reading in front of a massive fireplace. It was all very nice, but as the publicity-savvy Ford, Edison, and Firestone were aware, there wasn’t enough going on to give reporters material for the right kind of stories. They had an idea for the second day, though, a simple yet visual one that would surely please the journalists and entertain and impress the rest of America.
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On Tuesday, reporters and photographers received word that a Vagabonds event of considerable interest would soon take place in the woods just outside the Yama Farms hotel complex. They arrived to find a small crowd comprised of Clara Ford, Mina Edison, Idabelle Firestone, members of the Vagabonds’ retinue, and some other Yama guests gathered in a loose circle. At the circle’s center were Firestone, Edison, Ford, and Burroughs, the latter two holding long-handled axes. Edison brandished a stopwatch. Someone, probably Firestone, explained to the press that Mr. Ford had challenged Mr. Burroughs to a tree-chopping contest. Mr. Edison was to be timekeeper while Firestone served as referee. Whoever brought down his tree first would be declared champion.
It seemed likely to be an uneven match. Burroughs appeared hardly able to heft his axe at all. Ford, at fifty-seven more than a quarter-century Burroughs’s junior, remained lean and strong. But as Firestone explained to the press afterward, Mr. Burroughs had the advantage of knowing trees far better than did the automaker. The naturalist took his stance before a relatively slender birch, while Ford prepared to chop a thicker scrub oak. Edison clicked the stopwatch, Firestone shouted a command, and wood chips commenced flying. By most press accounts, it was four minutes later by Edison’s watch when Burroughs’s birch crashed to the ground while Ford’s oak remained standing. A few reporters described an extended contest, with at least four trees falling before Ford admitted defeat, but that was lily-gilding. Only two trees died in service of Vagabonds publicity.