by Jeff Guinn
Chapter Two
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1915
On October 15, twenty months after their bedraggled adventure in the Everglades, Thomas Edison set off by train to meet Henry Ford in San Francisco, where the inventor would be celebrated with a gala day in his honor at the Panama-Pacific Exposition. As befitting a man of his stature, Edison didn’t line up with other passengers to find an unoccupied seat on a passenger car. Instead, he and his wife and a few friends ascended from the platform into a luxurious private car outfitted by Ford especially for the trip. No detail was too small for Ford to fret over. The tobacco-hating carmaker went so far as to ask Edison’s staff for their boss’s favorite brand of cigars. The Edison party boarded the train near their home in West Orange, New Jersey, and the only complication Ford failed to anticipate was the presence of a pack of teenaged girls. For days in advance, newspapers had heralded the Edison-Ford trip; anything involving either of the men was considered important news, and the combination of the two merited special coverage. Edison’s time and place of departure were accordingly well-known, and a wire service report noted that as he made his way to the train, “young women gathered about and some insisted on kissing him goodbye.” Edison obliged—the story made no mention of Mina Edison’s reaction to such forward behavior—and then took a moment to address the reporters on the scene.
“I feel like a prince,” Edison told them, and, according to one story, “danced a few steps to prove it.” He gestured toward the private car and added, “I’m going to travel to San Francisco like a prima donna.” What Edison didn’t add was that it had been touch and go whether he’d take the trip at all. Just weeks earlier, after months of repeated invitations, he still wouldn’t confirm to Exposition organizers that he would come at all. The San Franciscans grew increasingly desperate. The purpose of the Exposition was twofold: to celebrate the completion of the Panama Canal, and to demonstrate that San Francisco had completely recovered from a 1906 earthquake that had devastated an estimated 70–80 percent of the city. Millions of dollars, including government grants and private contributions, were spent erecting a dazzling fairground of exhibitions and entertainments. Beginning with the opening days in February, celebrities of every stripe were featured as special guests, from former president Theodore Roosevelt to middle-American novelist Laura Ingalls Wilder. They did their part, drawing the national attention that the Exposition was intended to attract, but none had the same special appeal to American hearts as Thomas Edison.
Despite the war overseas, 1915 remained a time of wonder in America. Technology—invention—was the core of it. The earliest U.S. celebrities were military and political leaders. Now inventors held the ultimate spotlight. Rank-and-file citizens could at least grasp the basics of battlefield tactics and presidential campaigns, but it was delightfully beyond the imaginations of most how invisible forces like sound and electricity could be harnessed for the use of mankind. Edison wasn’t the only inventor to achieve celebrity status. When Alexander Graham Bell completed the first transcontinental telephone call between New York and San Francisco in January 1915, it made headlines in virtually all of the country’s 2,500 daily newspapers and 16,000 weeklies. But Bell’s fame paled beside Edison’s, who was widely credited with inventing electric light, movies, and phonographs and recordings. This was a misconception—while the phonograph was solely Edison’s brainchild, his landmark work with electricity and motion pictures advanced the earlier work of others. Besides his considerable achievements, Edison, with his rumpled clothes and good-natured grin, looked the part of a one-of-a-kind genius. He also had an innate sense of how to retain an air of mystery that reinforced public interest in and curiosity about him. When it suited him, Edison granted interviews, and even occasionally invited the public to the grounds of his laboratories, but he rarely made official appearances—usually citing work obligations—and adamantly refused to make speeches. That meant the public constantly read about Thomas Edison, often in stories speculating about what unimaginable wonder he might conjure next, but rarely saw him and virtually never heard him. That left them always wanting more and kept Edison at the very top of the celebrity ladder.
So the Exposition’s offer of “Edison Day,” including several appearances and culminating with a grand banquet during which the inventor would receive a special medal and make a speech in response, contradicted the way Edison preferred doing things. He didn’t directly turn down the offer—there was, after all, obvious publicity benefit to being presented as the star of stars in San Francisco—but Edison kept citing work pressures that might not allow him to attend, and as the months passed and the suggested date of October 21 drew closer, Exposition officials tried another tack. The Ford Motor Company had an exhibition in place, a facsimile of the company’s assembly line that actually turned out finished Model Ts before the stunned eyes of ticket-holders. Ford himself was scheduled to visit the Exposition sometime in October: a day in his honor was also planned. In mid-September, with Edison still dithering, they turned to Ford for help. Their telegram read:
The Exposition officials have set aside October twenty-first as Edison day we understand you contemplate trip to the coast to be here for day set aside in your honor October twenty second will you not use your good influence to induce mr Edison to accompany you so that he may be here in person on Edison day all coast states are anxious to have him with us at that time and we appeal to you as the one man whose influence with mr. edison is likely to have effect a committee to further Edison day plans consisting of representative of phonograph moving pictures storage battery incandescent light department working to make Edison day a success his presence very necessary toward that and Please wire collect.
A letter to Ford followed. In it, the officials promised that neither he nor Edison would be expected to make speeches or participate “in any programs which would be distasteful to you.” Ford declined an entire day being set aside in his own honor—he wanted Edison, who remained his idol as well as his friend, to be the main focus of attention. But he agreed to try to convince Edison to participate, and on September 16 Ford’s secretary wrote Edison’s secretary that “Mr. Ford will go if Mr. Edison intends to be there,” an indirect request that had a better chance of appealing to Edison than the direct suggestion he ought to go.
Edison replied via his secretary that “he cannot tell yet whether he will be able to go to San Francisco . . . if he can possibly get away he would be delighted to go with Mr. Ford, and he says that if Mrs. Ford goes, he supposes that he can also take Mrs. Edison.” Ford knew Edison well enough to realize this was tantamount to acceptance. Exposition officials were thrilled and planning for Edison Day proceeded.
Then came further complications. When it was formally announced that the Panama-Pacific Exposition had Thomas Edison, other entities wanted their piece of him, too. Some were easily dismissed: invitations from virtually every major West Coast city for the great inventor to stop and be feted in their towns were politely declined due to time constraints on Edison’s part. But a summons to Sacramento couldn’t be ignored. It was the state capital, legislators there wanted and expected Edison to stop and be recognized, and since Edison had many business interests in the state, it behooved him to stop there on his way to the Exposition.
Another California stop proved necessary, this one to come after San Francisco. The Panama-Pacific wasn’t the only exposition currently being held in the state. San Diego was hosting the Panama-California Exposition, and rivalry between the cities and their fairs was fierce. San Diego civic leaders were appalled to learn that San Francisco intended to hold a festival celebrating completion of the Panama Canal. As the first American port ships would reach passing west through the canal, San Diego assumed it had the exclusive right to stage such an event. San Francisco leaders disagreed—after all, compared to their city’s fame, tiny San Diego was a mere flyspeck on beach sand. The towns went to political war, vying for government funding and official blessing. They agreed t
o cooperate only when New Orleans, sensing opportunity, began exploring the possibility of staging a canal-related exposition of its own. Still, San Francisco got the federal money. San Diego relied mostly on private contributions, but these were sufficient to build exposition grounds so beautifully designed and landscaped that they fully matched those in the larger, more famous city. Most of the same prominent people who appeared in San Francisco made subsequent appearances in San Diego. The failure of Thomas Edison to do likewise would have been an unforgivable insult and, to a somewhat lesser extent, the same would be true for Henry Ford. They chose to extend their trip. After all, people in Southern California bought light bulbs, phonographs, and cars.
As an added incentive for Edison to make the Sacramento stop, he was greeted in California’s capital by Luther Burbank, the renowned plant geneticist from Santa Rosa. The two men had never met but were familiar with each other’s work. Newspapers in California, eager to promote their home state genius, proclaimed “Wizard of the West to Greet Wizard of the East.” They were obviously unfamiliar with Edison’s determination that no one should in any way equate his accomplishments with magic. He frequently stated that the basis for any worthwhile achievement was hard work. Burbank, under considerable pressure from Santa Rosa boosters to persuade Edison to visit their town as well, made the overture. Edison, unwilling to offend his new acquaintance, apparently agreed to see if things could be worked out. At least ceremonies in Sacramento proved mercifully brief. Edison was formally received by the legislators, and, though he did not offer a speech in response to their florid welcoming remarks, still pleased them with a warm smile and bow. With that obligation satisfied, the inventor and his party, which now included Burbank, proceeded by automobile to San Francisco, where Ford was waiting.
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As with the private railroad car, Ford took pains to make Edison’s visit to San Francisco as pleasant and uncomplicated as possible. A frenzied public greeting for the inventor couldn’t be avoided. A city newspaper noted that Edison arrived in town around 4 p.m. on October 18 and “as the inventor [appeared], flanked by Luther Burbank and Henry Ford, and with [San Francisco] Mayor Rolph leading the way . . . the cheers comingled in one great swelling chorus. It was a demonstration such as few arriving in San Francisco have been accorded.” That was the last non-Exposition visitors saw of Edison. Ford whisked him and the rest of his party to the fair, where they were ensconced at the Inside Inn, an exclusive hotel on the grounds. Ford’s family and guests were already there—besides Clara Ford, the group included Harvey Firestone, the automobile tire magnate from Akron, Ohio. Ford was always loyal to dependable suppliers, and Firestone was one of the very few who also became a personal friend. Besides providing tough, durable tires, Firestone made himself useful in other ways, cheerfully performing small, helpful tasks as needed. He and his wife were in San Francisco as guests of the Fords, but Firestone was also expected to remain ready to step in and handle whatever unexpected problems might present themselves.
On Tuesday, October 19, Edison and Ford toured the Exposition exhibits. Firestone was with them, but Burbank returned to Santa Rosa to prepare for an Edison-Ford visit there. Ford and Edison started early and walked the fairgrounds for nearly eight hours, taking in such sights as the first steam locomotive operated by the Southern Pacific Railroad. They were trailed all the while by reporters and photographers. The smallest details of their day made print, from what Edison ate for breakfast (“a wink at a teacup and a nibble of a rice wafer”) to Ford’s terse advice to a young man asking the key to success in life (“Work”). They clearly enjoyed the outing; every story concluded with the famous men being so enthralled with the Exposition’s delights that they forgot a lunch appointment with their wives.
That night, San Francisco’s telegraph operators hosted a dinner in Edison’s honor. As a young man, he’d first made his living as an itinerant telegrapher, moving from city to city as work options dictated. Many of Edison’s first inventions involved the telegraph—he revolutionized the industry by creating a handset enabling wires to carry as many as four separate messages at once. The dinner was a merry affair. An estimated four hundred city telegraphers attended. The menu was printed in Morse code, and all the speeches—none by the honoree himself—were tapped out on telegraphs. While everyone else dined elegantly, Edison asked to be served only a slice of hot apple pie and a glass of milk. It was explained to the hovering press that this was his favorite lunch “in the days when he pounded a brass key for a living.” Afterward, everyone went outside to observe the lights in every downtown building burning in Edison’s honor, while “electric flashes” from roofs spelled out another Morse code message welcoming Edison to the Exposition.
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On Wednesday, Edison and Ford left the grounds when they accepted an invitation from Rear Admiral William F. Fullam, commander of the U.S. Pacific Reserve Fleet, to visit some battleships docked nearby. The Oregon, South Dakota, and Milwaukee were in training for America’s possible entry into the war in Europe. With its illustrious guests on board, the Oregon set off on a short cruise around San Francisco Bay. Reporters noted that Edison smiled throughout the brief jaunt, and even made a point of walking over to one of the battleship’s big guns and patting it “affectionately” before informing the press that, in his opinion, “preparedness”—bringing the U.S. military up to war footing—was wise. It made for an entertaining paragraph in the wire reports that went out to newspapers across the nation, but the stories were dominated by Ford. While Edison toured the ship, the automaker stayed “in the sheltering lee of the warship’s funnel,” and ardently contradicted all that his friend had said, starting with a threat to dismantle the Navy by giving every man currently in it a good job at a Ford plant, thus eviscerating the service. Considering where Ford was when he said it, this was not only controversial but rude. He didn’t care.
Henry Ford was always a man of strong opinions, and one who absolutely trusted his own instincts. He especially disdained anyone identified as an expert: “If ever I wanted to kill opposition by unfair means, I would endow the opposition with experts. No one ever considers himself expert if he really knows his job.” When prominent, better-educated men and their hired-hand experts insisted that the future of the automobile market was limited to manufacturing expensive cars for the wealthy, Ford believed that the real potential lay in sales of a modest but dependable vehicle to the growing American middle class; there would be less profit in individual transactions, but the sheer number of sales would yield greater cumulative returns. With the Model T, Ford was proved right, and he reveled in it. He also took great pride in the product he provided. Let competitors bring out new models year after year, tempting foolish consumers with bright paint and unnecessarily refashioned chassis. Ford stuck with the utilitarian Model T, offering only minor modifications like optional odometers, not only giving his sensible customers an inexpensive car, but one that would last indefinitely. He knew it was the perfect car and had no intention of changing it.
The Model T made Ford well-known, but for a product rather than his own personality. That changed in 1914, when Ford Motor Company introduced the $5 workday. Virtually overnight, Ford became renowned as a champion of the working man, especially when it was learned he planned to offer profit sharing to his workers in addition to their staggering daily raise. Ford was quoted everywhere as modestly taking credit only for doing the right thing—reliable workers for successful companies deserved their share of the profits.
What wasn’t written about, or known beyond Ford Motor Company’s corporate walls, was that the $5 workday was the brainchild of general manager James Couzens, not Henry Ford. Turnover among Ford factory workers had become rampant, as much as 300 percent in a single year. With line workers constantly missing or still in training, even the vaunted Ford assembly line sputtered. Ford’s average daily wage of $2.34 was slightly above the national average of $2.09, but not enough to entice workers to stay. A salary that w
as more than double certainly would, but when Couzens broached the idea to his boss, Ford balked. He was willing to entertain a raise—perhaps $3 a day? Couzens insisted on $5. The additional cost in salaries would be more than offset by savings in training expenses and chronic absenteeism. A $5 day also guaranteed positive publicity. Every newspaper in the country would write about it, and it would appall Ford’s competitors.
Couzens had been with Ford since the inception of Ford Motor Company. The Model T was Ford’s vision, but he was not temperamentally suited to overseeing daily operations. Couzens ran Ford Motor Company with an iron hand, and he was the only employee allowed to disagree, even to argue, with Ford. Their relationship nearly approximated one of equals until the Model T established inarguable market dominance, and then Ford began gradually to resent Couzens as only a glorified bookkeeper. The feeling was mutual—Couzens believed that Ford became so convinced of his own brilliance that he forgot others also made critical contributions to his company’s success.
Matters came to a head in 1915. Ever since the rapturous public response to the announcement of the $5 workday, Ford felt encouraged to offer his opinion on all sorts of non-car-related subjects. He’d been right about the Model T, apparently determined in his own mind that the $5 day was really his idea, and had no doubt about his sagacity regarding everything else, the evils of war in particular. Ford had long believed that Wall Street bankers and investors were part of an evil cabal out to gain illicit financial control of America and the world. From there it was an easy step for him to decide that the conflict in Europe was part of this ongoing plot—munitions companies and their investors not only wanted but needed war, which created demand for their ghastly products. Too many gullible citizens were falling for Wall Street’s “preparedness” propaganda. Ford felt it was his duty to inform Americans of what he considered obvious.
