THAT year 1919, when Gramp and Mania and myself were crossing America the hard way, via a Model T, was a year of sun and dust in the Middle West, Mania's spine was a little unstrung from riding in the back, and Gramp almost lost half of his mustache trying to crank life into Emma (as we called the car) on a back road when his mustache was caught in the crank. Gramp shot up a full series of purple curses, danced, and held his face. Mama stuffed her fingers in my ears. After that, we were all hungry, tired, and dusty.
Mama said, “We should stop for the night.”
“Not 'til we get to Ohio. No decent food 'til we hit the river.”
“My spine aches.”
“Only a few miles more.”
We got real lost just before dark, and Gramp got out under an apple tree and looked around him. “Well, you'd think the natives would put up signs for strangers.”
“Can't they read themselves!” I asked.
Gramp looked at me and motioned me into the car, and we went on and came to an old white bridge and crossed. It was warm and dusty in the hot night on the other side. But Gramp put his cap on and said. “It's certainly cooler in Ohio.”
Mama, who was getting that hard look around her little mouth, said. “It must be even cooler in hell.”
Gramp winked at me as if to say “women!” and drove on. The road got worse, and the moon failed us, and far off a dog howled at something until someone kicked him. We could hear the kick and then the talky dog stopped his monologue. It was pretty bad in those days—the bad roads, the bad maps, the worse food, the far places, and the closeness to death—but the worst was the nighttime far from a town. It's an America that is gone now and I don't have too much nostalgia for it; only people who grew up in big cities and never saw the rural old days collect wagon wheels and cobblers’ benches and say “those were the days.”
After a while, of course, Emma ran out of gas and water, and one tire ran out of air “They built great cars in those days,” I always hear. We stood on foot. Mama gathering her clothes around her, and Gramp, his last match gone. chewed into the neck of a cold cigar.
Far ahead a light gleamed and we started toward it over a field laid our in young peach trees. We came to a barbed wire fence and went through it; I lost the scat of my pants. Then we waded across a shallow creek, Gramp carrying Mama and I carrying Gramp's gold watch—for some reason I now forget.
We were on a wide, wild-grown lawn, and beyond was a huge white house, looking bone-white in the night. A pack of hound dogs ran towards us, scenting meat I suppose, and Gramp swung his cane, shouting at the top of his lungs.
“Get back, you hounds of hell, get back! Hello there … damn it … hello!”
Mama, who was very brave when her young were in danger, had placed me behind her and was whacking hound dogs over the head, with a small shoe she had removed, hopping gracefully on the other foot.
Some big doors were flung open in the white house and a voice said.
“What you doing out there?”
“Call off your dogs!” Gramp shouted, banging his cane down on a liver-colored hound's head.
“Git off, Nero, git off, Ruffas. git off. Nellie, Geo. Damn it, Pompey!” We saw a tall thin man with a gun under his arm drop-kick one of the dogs at least ten feet. The rest got back and sat down with their tongues out, waiting. Mama had fainted and the tall man picked her up, gun and all, and carried her towards the house.
“Really sorry,” the man said to Gramp, “but this isn't the kind of road many people use these days.”
“What road?” asked Gramp.
Inside the house the tall man set Mama down on a sofa and rubbed her hand. He was a handsome young man, and there were more dogs in the house, watching us with big dark eyes. Mama opened her eyes and saw the dogs and said, “Oh, I wasn't dreaming. Dogs!”
“Gaylord is the name,” said the young man. “This is Gaylord House.”
“I get the connection,” said Gramp, growling. “We're lost, and it's no way to treat strangers.”
“I agree,” said the young man. “Will you join me at dinner?”
“Yes, damn it, ” said Gramp. “We forgive you the dogs. How about you, Sari?”
Mama sat up and smiled. “I am hungry. Stevie. comb the hair out of your face.”
The dining room was huge, the service fine, and the food—after all these years. I still remember it. I can't it'll you who was President then or who won the World Scries or the name of the famous murderer of that year, but I remember that meal.
River oysters Rockefeller, made with minced bacon, spinach, parsley, green onion, lemon, cayenne, bread crumbs, and a little real absinthe. Gramp told me later they don't have absinthe any more, but the Gaylords did. Gramp's journal of our trip says the wine was Clos de Vougeot, 1919. The main course was tournedos of beef à la Gaylord, an old family way of cooking it, the young man told us. His tunic was Dennis. Small filets were cut from the heart of a good section of beef, sautéed in butter, placed on thin croutons of toast fried in a little garlic butter, and served with hearts of artichoke, stuffed mushrooms, and grilled tomatoes from which the skin had been peeled.
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