Apple trees were in full blossom, wild huckleberries would soon be in season, time for Hannah and Jane to make their summer trip into the city of Detroit. Leaving the baby in Rosie’s care, this year they took Michael with them, so he could have his first taste of a strawberry ice-cream soda which, of course, he adored—even though at first it tickled his nose.
Now, all of two and rock steady on his chubby legs, he joined the band of boys that trailed Mr. Kennec’s wagon, hoping for icy chips to fly their way. He would have followed even if there hadn’t been any coveted rewards, for old shaggy Molly was still his first love and the iceman his very special friend.
“Missus, I notice your little tyke has joined my bunch of scallywags. Okay by you? I’ll send him home if it ain’t.” Mr. Kennec pocketed his twenty-five cents.
“He never goes further than this street. He’s very obedient that way.”
“Well, if you say so, it’s okay then.” Pointing to the wash basket newly occupied. “See you got yourself a new one. Congratulations. Boy or girl?”
“Boy.”
“Nice looker.” He finished his lemonade. “Well, I’ll be on my way. Good mornin’ to you, Ma’am.”
“Mr. Kennec.” He turned. “Here, you forgot your carrot.” Molly’s treat had become an expected ritual.
“Much obliged as usual.” Tipping his cap, the iceman left the kitchen, calling, “Hey, Mike, want to feed Molly for me?” This too had become a summertime ritual that to the little boy seemed forever new.
In the early hours of Glory Day, after a difficult labor bordering on complications, Henrietta’s third little girl greeted the day. Thinking it a fitting name for a true American born on the Fourth of July, Johann named her Gloria. Again there were christenings to sew for and attend—and again Jane was relieved that John made no reference to wanting such for his sons. Hannah thought of saying something but then remembered what a sensitive subject religion as a whole was to Jane, so kept her mouth shut.
15
Rushing down the stairs, John called to Jane in the kitchen. “Can’t stop for breakfast, the president is coming!” Wiping her hands on the apron, Jane entered the hall.
“What? What president?”
“Woodrow Wilson, president of these United States, that’s all.”
“He’s coming here?!” Jane knew it was a stupid question but it just slipped out.
John, busy putting on his bicycle clips, didn’t look up.
“Yesterday they draped the whole Administration building in flags and bunting, put up a huge sign that says ‘Hats off to the president who has kept us out of war.’ Those are the Boss’s own words!” He reached for his derby. “When he arrives, there will be more than thirty thousand workers assembled to greet him. Our photographic and moving picture departments are going to record it. We have been getting organized for days! Got to go! I don’t know when I’ll be home. Ciao, Ninnie!” and he was off.
Returning to her kitchen, Jane wondered what it must feel like to actually see the president of a great country—have him come to pay his respects for what you have achieved. It was a great honor to be sure! Maybe she could walk over, the plant wasn’t that far away, just to catch a glimpse of him; but Michael wouldn’t be able to walk all that way and, with the baby in one arm and him in the other, she wouldn’t make it either. Oh, well, better put the water on to boil, start washing diapers and forget about grand excursions. Sometimes she felt as confined by motherhood as she had by the mountains of her youth.
At breakfast the next morning Jane couldn’t resist asking if John had actually seen the president and what did he look like.
Focused on carefully decapitating his three-minute egg, her husband replied that Woodrow Wilson was a true aristocrat and that in his silk top hat he looked as distinguished as one would expect him to be.
“And Ninnie, you will have to curb your spending, learn to be more frugal.”
“Excuse me?”
“Just what I said. I noticed you sent away for material again.”
“I thought you agreed we finally needed curtains for the bedroom. We can’t keep tacking up sheets, linen costs more to replace.”
“Well, when Mr. Ford ordered his gardeners to dig up the dandelions on the Fair Lane lawns, you know what his wife said?”
“How would I know that? Michael finish your milk.”
“Mrs. Ford said, ‘Thirty men at six dollars a day picking dandelions! We can’t spend that much money!’ If a millionaire’s wife can say that, surely you can do without bedroom curtains!”
“Eggs have gone up—used to be seventy-two cents for three dozen, now it’s that for two.”
“I wasn’t speaking of essentials.”
“I see. Michael don’t squirm, finish your oatmeal. Hannah and I were planning while they last to put up some spiced peaches, but if you think these are unessential …”
“Is she planning to make her special baked ham for Christmas this year?”
“I think so—”
“Well then, spiced peaches are essential. Better buy two bushels. See you tonight. Michael! You heard your mother—finish!” And John was off.
Young Mr. Edsel became officially engaged to the pretty young thing that had first caught his eye when, as a youngster, he attended Miss Ward Foster’s dancing classes to acquire social graces. Niece to J. L. Hudson, founder of the grandest department store of Detroit, the Ford wives fully approved of his choice, eagerly awaited any news concerning the preparations for the wedding announced for November; speculated on where the ceremony would take place, who would be invited, how many millionaires with bejeweled wives would attend, what color the so lucky Miss Clay would choose for her bridesmaids’ dresses, how many she would have. Highland Park buzzed with the excited anticipation as did the other immigrant communities within and about Detroit that housed the families of Ford workers.
Prototypes of Henry Ford’s pet project, his Fordson tractor, had been built, were being demonstrated at local and state fairs across the country, the Boss often appearing in person accompanied by his son, a camera operator to film the occasion for Ford’s animated weeklies, and to make absolutely certain that no one could miss knowing they were there, bringing along the Ford Company’s Hawaiian band strumming their ukuleles.
On the western front, the carnage accelerated. The battles of the Somme had begun and on the first day of the British offensive, forty thousand were wounded, another twenty thousand killed—Jimmy Weatherby among them. Shot through the heart, by the time a brave Lizzie found him, it was too late. His friends, not knowing Jimmy was already dead, waited for news of him.