It might have been worse

After reading “By Motor to the Golden Gate,” by Emily Post, published in 1916, I was fired by a desire to make a similar tour. This desire grew into a firm determination the more I re-read her charming book. Then the United States went into the war, and self-respecting citizens were not spending months amusing themselves; so all thought of the trip was put aside until the spring of this year (1919). Then the “motor fever” came on again, and refused to yield to any sedatives of advice or obstacles. After talking and planning for three years, we actually decided to go in ten minutes—and in ten days we were off. All the necessary arrangements were quickly made; leasing our home, storing our household goods, closing up business matters, getting our equipment and having the car thoroughly looked over, and all the pleasant but unnecessary duties occupied the last few days. Why will people write so many letters and say so many good-bys, when a more or less efficient mail and telegraph service circles our continent? But it is the custom, and all your friends expect it—like sending Easter and Christmas cards by the hundreds. We are victims of a well-prescribed custom.

It is always of interest to me to know the make of car that a friend (or stranger) is driving; so let me say, without any desire to advertise the Packard, that we had a new twin-six touring car, of which I shall speak later on. I believe in giving just tribute to any car that will come out whole and in excellent condition, without any engine troubles or having to be repaired, after a trip of 4154 miles over plains and mountains, through ditches, ruts, sand, and mud, fording streams and two days of desert-going. And let me add that my husband and I drove every mile of the way. It is needless to say that the car was not overstrained or abused, and was given every care on the trip. In each large city the Packard service station greased and oiled the car, turned down the grease-cups, examined the brakes and steering-gear, and started us off in “apple-pie” order, with a feeling on our parts of security and satisfaction.

The subject of car equipment, tires, clothes, and luggage will take a chapter by itself. But let me say that we profited in all these regards by the experience and valuable suggestions of Mrs. Post in her book.

When we first spoke to our friends of making this trip, it created as little surprise or comment as if we had said, “We are going to tour the Berkshires.” The motor mind has so grown and changed in a few years. Nearly everyone had some valuable suggestion to make, but one only which we accepted and profited by. Every last friend and relative that we had offered to go in some capacity—private secretaries, chauffeurs, valets, maids, and traveling companions. But our conscience smote us when we looked at that tonneau, the size of a small boat, empty, save for our luggage, which, let me add with infinite pride and satisfaction, was not on the running-boards, nor strapped to the back. From the exterior appearance of the car we might have been shopping on Fifth Avenue.

We extended an invitation to two friends to accompany us, which was accepted by return mail, with the remark, “Go!—of course, we will go! Never give such an invitation to this family unless you are in earnest.” And so our genial friends joined us, and we picked them up at the Seymour Hotel in New York City, at three o’clock, Saturday, July 19th, and started for the Forty-second-Street ferry in a pouring rain, as jolly and happy a quartette as the weather would permit. Our guests were a retired physician, whom we shall speak of as the Doctor, and his charming, somewhat younger wife, who, although possessing the perfectly good name of Helen, was promptly dubbed “Toodles” for no reason in the world. These dear people were of the much-traveled type, who took everything in perfect good-nature and were never at all fussy nor disturbed by late hours, delays, bad weather, nor any of the usual fate of motorists, and they both added to the pleasure of the trip as far as they accompanied us.

It had rained steadily for three days before we started and it poured torrents for three days after; but that was to be expected, and the New Jersey and Pennsylvania roads were none the worse, and the freedom from dust was a boon. We chose for the slogan of our trip, “It might have been worse.” The Doctor had an endless fund of good stories, of two classes, “table and stable stories,” and I regret to say that this apt slogan was taken from one of his choicest stable stories, and quite unfit for publication. However, it did fit our party in its optimism and cheery atmosphere.

With a last look at the wonderful sky-line of the city, and the hum and whirl of the great throbbing metropolis, lessening in the swirl of the Hudson River, we really were started; with our faces turned to the setting sun, and the vast, wonderful West before us.