The Vagabonds

by Jeff Guinn

  If there was ever an opportunity for Henry Ford to declare for the presidency, this was it. Americans were uncertain about the new incumbent, and they already knew all about Henry Ford. He had an indelible reputation, and if it was negative among party leaders it also inspired bone-deep devotion among Ford’s many followers, who distrusted mainstream politicians as much as he did. Declaring his candidacy on the Vagabonds’ 1923 trip, posed against a background of towering timber or a rippling Great Lake, joined by his famous friends Edison and Firestone (no crooked cronies here!), would have immediately established Ford as a valid contender for the White House, perhaps even the front-runner. The reporters and photographers following the Vagabonds around Michigan’s Upper Peninsula were ready to relay the news throughout the land. Ford’s sense of timing was keen. He surely realized that, if he really wanted to become president, the moment to announce it had come.

  Yet Ford didn’t. Instead, he and his party left Iron Mountain and traveled a few dozen miles north, where they set up camp again near Lake Michigamme, overrun as usual by summer visitors eager to enjoy sunshine and swimming in one of Michigan’s most scenic settings. If the Vagabonds truly intended to stay as far from civilization as possible, stopping at the lake was an odd choice. Perhaps they needed some necessities available only there. A steady rain fell; once their staff had tents set up, the travelers took shelter under canvas, wives with husbands, private time for a while. When the rain let up, the entire party set off on a walk around town. Many other vacationers did the same, and there followed an incident brought about by the most unlikely of instigators.

  In August 1923, Henry and Clara Ford had been married for thirty-five years. When they met at a country dance in 1886, Ford was twenty-three and Clara twenty. He was farming and hated it; she was a farmer’s daughter and a dutiful child to her parents. The young couple fell almost immediately in love and were eager to marry, but when Clara’s parents insisted on a lengthy engagement she obeyed. After they were finally allowed to wed in 1888, Ford supported his bride by cutting timber and operating a sawmill. When all the trees on that property were cut, the Fords moved to Detroit. Clara kept a small house while her husband took an engineering job at Edison Illuminating Company. She never complained when Ford spent most of his off-the-job hours trying to build a combustion engine in their kitchen. Clara encouraged Ford to pursue his dream of creating “a car for the great multitudes,” remaining supportive when his first two companies failed, encouraging him during the difficult first years of Ford Motor Company, his third. As Ford became one of America’s richest, most famous men, Clara the farm girl evolved into a genteel lady of means, running their expansive household, participating in charitable work, never forgetting that her chief responsibility remained being her husband’s staunchest supporter. She forgave his obsession with work, accepted his constant certainty that whatever he thought had to be right, and even overlooked his extended affair with an employee that resulted in a child out of wedlock.

  Ford, in turn, adored Clara. His affairs—there was probably more than one—to Ford’s mind had nothing to do with his devotion to his wife. His nickname for Clara was “the Believer,” and it was justified. If Ford listened to anyone, it was Clara—he knew she had only his best interests at heart. Ford didn’t always agree with her—when Clara warned him not to sail with the Peace Ship, he did anyway. But she certainly expressed her opinion about Ford running for president, and may have raised the matter in their tent beside Lake Michigamme while they sheltered from the rain. When the storm abated and they emerged to walk toward town, Clara Ford committed perhaps the most uncharacteristic act of her entire life. In public, no matter what the circumstance, she always remained poised, soft-spoken, the epitome of a well-to-do lady. Now, perhaps upset by an intense discussion with Ford that may have escalated into a rare all-out argument, Clara briefly snapped.

  By unfortunate coincidence, the Fords’ stroll intersected a charging group of teen girls from Camp Cha-Ton-Ka, a popular Lake Michigamme summer retreat for young ladies. The teens were identically clad in somewhat abbreviated garb, shirts and cutoff overalls that ended slightly above the knee. As etiquette required, they also wore stockings, which, for comfort, the girls left rolled just below their overalls’ shortened hems. They instantly recognized the famous Fords, and gathered around the couple. Several of them rummaged in pockets for scraps of paper and pencils, which they proffered to the Fords with requests for autographs. Ford obliged, but Clara waved the girls away. That was bad enough, but then she said, “You ladies and girls are showing very poor taste and worse judgment coming into town garbed as you are, without skirts or dresses. I do not want to sign my name for you and prefer not to look at you. I resent your idea of dress.” One of the campers protested that Michigamme was a small town, they were on vacation there, and could wear what they liked. Clara flared at the impertinence: “Yes, Michigamme is small and that’s all the more reason why you should dress properly, and not set a bad example for the young people.”

  An Associated Press correspondent walking behind the Fords heard and jotted down every word. The next day, all the “Will Ford Run for President” headlines were replaced by “Mrs. Ford Rebukes Women in Overalls and Short Stockings at Michigan Resort.” Soon after that, there was a follow-up story. The New York Times sent a reporter to Michigamme, and was told by an unidentified Camp Cha-Ton-Ka director that “[our] girls’ costumes are chosen for comfort and not style. They are like the cars in the Ford-Edison-Firestone caravan. We do not wish to enter into any controversy with Mrs. Ford or anyone else. We have the confidence of the girls’ parents . . . and also their approval for [the girls] dress. It was an amusing incident.”

  * * *

  The less-than-amused Vagabonds moved on quickly from Lake Michigamme, driving a few dozen miles further north to Sidnaw, where Ford operated a series of lumber camps. One of the camps included guest cottages warmed by steam heat, which the travelers appreciated—the uncommonly cool August weather turned even colder as they reached one of the northernmost points in the U.S. Soon after she was comfortably ensconced in one of the cottages, Mina Edison composed another letter to her son Theodore. As usual, Mina was not enjoying herself, and wasn’t hesitant telling Theodore why:

  This being [the] Fords’ guests is all very nice but it is not our trip. All has been for Ford and his say from the time we reached Detroit until we get back again. Just looking over his possessions. [Mina underlined “his.”] I hate to be owned by anyone and that is the feeling one has with Mr. and Mrs. Ford. Everything comfortable and luxurious but you have no say as to what you can do. . . . The Firestones are with us & I guess they feel the same way but have said nothing to me about it.

  Mina even found fault with the Lincoln that Ford gave to the Edisons for the trip:

  I guess [he] is going to give us a Lincoln limousine as well. I am rather hoping so if it will be one like Mrs. Ford’s. I don’t care for those [like the first one they received] that have no window between ourself and the driver.

  Toward the end of the three-page letter, Mina mentioned the tension that might have led to Clara’s uncharacteristic outburst in Michigamme—she was strongly encouraging her husband not to run for president, and Mina guessed that it was working:

  [Ford] will never run for president as Mrs. Ford is bitterly opposed to it. I think he would have done it. She recognizes his limitations better than he does.

  Clara Ford wasn’t the only one among the traveling party who was against her husband running for president. Edison was strongly opposed, though he never directly told the carmaker so. Instead, he signaled his misgivings through the press. When reporters interviewed Edison in Akron, just prior to Harding’s funeral, they led their stories with the inventor’s comments about the late president. But a few also included Edison’s brief observations regarding his best friend’s interest in the White House. Edison told the correspondent for the United Press wire service that “I doubt if Henry Ford will run for presi
dent because he does not think that the people want him now.” Asked by a reporter for the Akron Beacon Journal if “Mr. Ford will run for president,” Edison replied that “I do not believe he will.” Asked to elaborate, the inventor said, “I believe that Mr. Ford is merely glad to find out how he stands with the country.” If Ford noticed these secondhand hints, he gave no sign. But his wife’s privately expressed comments had the desired effect.

  Two months after the August 1923 trip, when the inventor still considered Ford’s candidacy to be a possibility, Edison made additional comments to a reporter from the New York Times. These were far more personal, though still not directly addressed to the carmaker: “I would hate to see Ford president because you would spoil a good man. He’s more valuable where he is,” expanding his business empire and creating jobs.

  * * *

  The Vagabonds spent two days at Sidnaw and then another at Ford’s lumber operation in L’Anse, which was a few miles even further north. If the increasingly familiar sights bored Mina—how many times could anyone act, let alone really feel, interested in toppled trees and sawmills?—the press was even more frustrated. Their readers assuredly didn’t know one lumber camp from another, or much care how many logs littered Ford’s properties in Sidnaw or L’Anse. Ford said nothing about the presidency and, as colorful as the story of Mrs. Ford chastising inappropriately dressed girls might have been, that subject was exhausted. The reporters needed something new, something of significant interest, to write about, and Thomas Edison’s sneezes served wonderfully.

  The first stories ran on Wednesday, August 22, the same day the Vagabonds fetched up at the guest cabins in Sidnaw. Readers were informed that Edison “was not feeling well.” The inventor stayed behind in his cabin while the rest of his party toured the Sidnaw facilities. At one point he “personally received” a United Press wire correspondent and assured him that he was fine. Still, his friends “expressed concern for him, if the weather continues damp and cold.” The headlines expressed more urgency than the stories themselves: “Edison Taken Sick on Camping Trip in North,” and “Edison Denies Rumor of Serious Illness.”

  On Thursday, the New York Times assured readers that although “rumors concerning the health of Thomas Edison caused considerable commotion,” he was “a little indisposed but not ill,” even though, in addition to his cold, the elderly inventor had also somehow “suffered a slight injury to one finger.” Other publications were less optimistic. The Ironwood, Michigan, Daily Globe reported that “Ford, Firestone and Edison Cancel Trip” because Edison “was not feeling well.” Readers in Phoenix were informed by the Arizona Republic that “Thomas Edison Is Critically Ill on Michigan Vacation,” and the Fort Wayne Journal-Gazette carried the story to an alarming extreme with an all-capital-letters headline, “EDISON HURTS FINGER, IS REPORTED DEAD.” Edward Kingsford gathered reporters to assure them that Edison “simply did not feel well,” and requested they “quiet the rumors” by informing their readers. But the rumors continued until Friday, when Edison finally emerged from the cabin and signed autographs before he and the rest of the Vagabonds drove from Sidnaw to L’Anse.

  * * *

  On Friday, August 24, the party toured Ford’s lumber mill in L’Anse, and the next day indulged in an actual tourist experience by visiting a Chippewa reservation. Harvey Firestone hosted a luncheon in a nearby town, and then the Vagabonds returned to the Sialia, which cruised through the Sault Ste. Marie, Canada, locks separating Lake Superior and Lake Huron and down to Detroit, where the trip would end on August 27. At the Sault Ste. Marie locks, Ford obliged reporters hoping for a final story by remaining on the dock shaking hands with bystanders while the Sialia began pulling away. Just in time, the spry sixty-year-old automaker offered one last handclasp, turned, sprinted down the dock, and leaped aboard the yacht “like a boy,” according to the Mattoon, Illinois, Journal-Gazette. A wrap-up story by the Associated Press assured readers that “Mr. Edison’s cold, from which he suffered some on the trip, has disappeared and the inventor today was said to be in his usual health.”

  * * *

  The remaining months of 1923 were momentous for Edison and Ford, not because of anything they did, but what they chose not to do.

  On December 17, Firestone sent a chatty letter to Edison, who had taken an increasing interest in Firestone’s business, offering advice on products and marketing. Firestone began his letter by thanking the inventor for “the note you wrote me several weeks ago urging me to get busy [on making and marketing] balloon tires. We have been busy and I am glad to say are selling all we can manufacture. I feel sure it is the coming tire.”

  Firestone assured Edison that his company was finally regaining the full financial footing it had lost during the economic crash of 1920: “We just closed our fiscal year and I am proud to enclose a copy of our Annual Statement. You will note that we still have some bank indebtedness but that we have made some material reductions in the past three years and if we have as good a year next year we will be entirely out of debt. Then you and Mr. Ford will have to find something to replace your joshing about my obligations to the bankers.”

  But the real purpose of Firestone’s letter was to gently urge his friend to enter a new branch of business.

  I was down on the [family] farm for a few days a short time ago and one of the boys brought down a radio. . . . Much to my surprise we heard distinctly addresses and music from all over the country. At dinner in the evening we usually tuned in to the William Pitt Hotel in Pittsburgh for their dinner music. The thought occurred to me, why should not the Edison Phonograph Company go into the manufacture of these radios. Every home, especially in the country, should have and will have a radio and with your knowledge and experience I would like to see you go into the manufacture and sale of them. I would also like to see Mr. Ford interested with you, to give it his magic touch, not only for the money that you would make out of it but for the pleasure you would both get in doing one more great thing for the people.

  Radio would have been a logical new field for Edison. He had brought electricity and light into American homes. His phonograph provided the first home electronic entertainment. His kinetoscope and flexible film were critical steps in creating the film industry that swept the country and entertained millions more. By December 1923, it seemed obvious that radio would be the next great entertainment innovation embraced by the public. It happened quickly. KDKA in Pittsburgh became the nation’s first commercial radio station in 1920. Two years later, there were 30; a year after that, the same year Firestone urged Edison to get into radio, there were 556. One hundred thousand primitive radios were manufactured in 1922. A half-million were built in 1923.

  Edison would not have been the inventor of the first radio, as he had been in 1877 with the phonograph. But he hadn’t been the first to create electric light or movies, either—his inventive contribution had been to advance these technologies, making them more efficient and widely available. In December 1923, radios were still primitive—had Edison turned his genius to that field and product, all sorts of innovation might have been possible, and the inventor could have enjoyed a new, lucrative era late in his life and career.

  But in his way, Edison was as stubborn as Ford, and as temperamentally bound to the supposed timelessness of his most famous products. Phonographs, which allowed people to choose the music and other audio entertainment that they wanted to hear at any particular moment, rather than relying on the whims of radio station programmers, in the inventor’s opinion seemed certain to outlast ephemeral radio. In his return letter, he told Firestone so: “I shall not go into radio. When I have got my own factories & selling forces in a high state of efficiency my policy is to keep out of new things.” Instead, Edison continued focusing on rubber-related research.

  Radio flourished at such a rapid rate that less than a decade later, President Franklin D. Roosevelt chose radio broadcasts—his famous “Fireside Chats”—over formal press conferences to quell public panic during the
darkest days of the Great Depression. FDR explained to aides that, in his opinion, over half of all Americans, especially in rural areas, relied on radios rather than newspapers for crucial information: “It seems to me that radio is . . . bringing to the ears of our people matters of interest concerning their country which they refused to consider in the daily press with their eyes.”

  * * *

  It had seemed only months earlier that, besides radio, America’s immediate future might also include President Henry Ford. But on December 19, just two days after Firestone sent his letter to Edison, Henry Ford issued a brief, formal announcement: He would not seek the presidency in 1924 because the United States was “safe with Coolidge.” In Henry Ford and the Jews, historian Neil Baldwin describes a quid pro quo agreement between the men: “Ford . . . would support Coolidge if he promised to enforce Prohibition. As a show of solidarity, Coolidge said he would not oppose Ford’s bid to take over . . . Muscle Shoals.” There were probably two more critical factors—Clara Ford’s adamant opposition to her husband’s candidacy, and Ford realizing that, if elected, his Muscle Shoals bid would become a blatant conflict of interest. Simply put, Ford decided that he wanted Clara’s approval and the opportunity to own and harness vast hydroelectrical power more than he wanted to be president. That Coolidge’s political sense was vastly superior to Ford’s is indicated by the president’s agreement not to oppose Ford’s Muscle Shoals purchase. Coolidge never promised to endorse it. As later events would prove, the president got what he wanted, and Ford got nothing.