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.
Mama and I were very hungry and Gramp was always a good man with a plate of food. Dennis smiled at us.
“I'm sorry about the dogs, but we raise them, you know. The.Gaylord is a famous breed. Has been fer hundreds of years in this state.”
Gramp nodded. “The Ohio Gaylord, a fine hound, ” he said, kicking at a dog under his feet.
Dennis said. “Ohio? This is Kentucky, suh …” I noticed a slight Southern tone suddenly in his voice and I looked up at the dueling pistols nailed to the wall.
“Kentucky?” said Gramp. “Damn. I was drifting south more than I thought. Must get that steering wheel fixed.” Mama looked at Gramp as if she hadn't come with him and went on eating. When it came time to serve coffee, a tall, very pretty girl came in (with two dogs, naturally), and she was wearing jodhpurs, those imported Indian riding pants. It was the first time I had ever seen any, and I found them amazing. but in this case form-fitting.
“My sister Dora, ” said Dennis, making the introductions. “She's been at a dog show. How did we do?”
“Lost,” said Dora, throwing her dog whip into the corner. “They're importing their own judges, Dennis. We haven't a chance any more.”
Dennis nodded. “It's hard to find honest men among dogs.”
Gramp agreed, “Show me a man who loves a dog too much and I'll show you a person who lacks respect lor the human race. Present company, of course, left Out.”
“I'm hungry.” said Dora.
I don't remember much more that night. I slept in a big bed all alone, and I heard the dogs in the hall all night sporting a mouse hunt. In the morning we sent out for help to get Emma, our car, in order, but something had snapped someplace and it would be some days before the local wagon-smith could fix it. The Gaylords invited us to stay on and we did. They were fine people. Much too proud a sister and brother to marry with the decaying stock around them, they raised hounds, kept up the big white family house, and expected to be the last of their line. It was all rather run-down and a little foolish, but to a kid raised on mid-Victorian novels it seemed very romantic and exciting. today we would call the Gaylords snobs, Dennis a secret drinker, and Dora frigid. But this was before freud and Marx had flavored our lives too much, and we saw the Gaylords as wonderful people upholding the family motto. Disce pati, “Learn to Endure.”
I was in the garden the next day helping the colored man water the plants, and Gramp was smoking his morning cigar when Dennis came out and spoke to Gramp.
“You know the points of a good dog, don't you. Captain?”
Gramp, who had not been expected to he hailed by his military title (even if he had spoken of his war efforts at dinnet), nodded. “But certainly. They all have four legs, a tail more or less, and enough cars to hear with.”
Dennis said. “Frankly, we're short of judges. And I'm on the committee, and I haven't been able to find a really good judge. Would you. sir, like to judge in the hound class this afternoon at the Club?”
“You fatter me, ” said Gramp, looking at his cigar as if it were a prize dog. “I know a good dog but not a dog's good parts according to the texts.”
Dennis rubbed a hound's ears. “You yourself saw the points of these dogs. You remarked at breakfast that you'd never seen such hounds.”
Gramp had said “hounds of hell, ” but Dennis hadn't heard it all. Gramp was a sport. He threw up his hand and nodded. “I'll judge. You can say I will judge and judge …”
They shook hands and went inside to try some prime bourbon and branch water. By the time lunch came around they were fairly glowing, and Gramp was explaining the kind of dogs Caesar had in Gaul and the breeding of lap dogs in London according to the shape of their noses.
No matter how the Gaylord hounds did. the food never went to the dogs. Gramp's journal lists baked ham with sauce bigarade and chicken wings fricassée à l'ancienne.The apple pie was a delight and the men had more bourbon, but Mama and Dora had some Spritzer, which was a Rhine wine with seltzer.
Mama and Dora went upstairs after lunch to wave each other's hair, and Gramp and Dennis and I went to the front lawn to pick up the winning team of three hounds Dennis was entering in the show. Dudley. Montez, and Mac were their names, I remember, and they looked just like any other set of three hounds, But Gramp and Dennis were very pleased will) them. I think anything would have pleased them. The bourbon had mellowed them neatly. We put Dudley and Mac in the back of a blue Jordan roadster with me and Montez in the front between Gramp and Dennis, Mama and Dora would follow later in another car.
We drove off in a clash of gears, the blue Jordan being a very fine car. For the young folk I might explain the Jordan was a real fancy car of the period. litis one had a low slung blue body, red wire wheels, and on the hood Dennis had welded in silver a running hound with flapping cars. The horn had been tuned to sound like a braying dog in sight of prey, and the dusty roads saw us pass in gray clouds of glory. Montez. in the front seat sat on her round little bottom and howled politely, and Mac and Dudley in the back seat licked my face from rime to time and Hogged me with their tails.
It was a very nice trip, the car rolling along and the dogs yipping. The towns we passed got out of our way. and it was no time at all before we were at the Club.
It had once been a fox hunting club, but someone had quoted Oscar Wilde about fox hunting being “the unspeakable in full pursuit of the uneatable,” and anyway the few remaining foxes got too wise for the dogs. So, Dennis told us, it became a dog and horse club. All the members raised dogs or horses or knew people who did.
Gramp was taken over to a lot of fine gentlemen who shook his hand and pinned a blue ribbon on him almost as large as the ribbons they awarded the dogs. He wasn't a winner, however, I saw—just a “Judge,” as the ribbon read.
Gramp and Dennis left me in charge of the dogs, who got on my lap, and I sat holding the dogs while they went inside, They were big dogs, and I only had room for one at a time, so the cutest one won, and she kissed me on the nose, but I was too shy to kiss her back. I just wished I had her in the city and could walk her in the flower gardens. Mama and Dora got to the show at last and they took the hounds and entered them in their groups. At least Mama, who disliked all animal life except raccoon coats from Harvard, went along.
It was a gay time, and.they served a few things to charm all dog lovers. A big table had been set up on the front lawn of the club, and while it was just then against the law to drink certain forms of stuff men swallow, they did have a nice odor of bourbon and rye whiskey all over the place, and plats du jour of smoked ox tongue in almond and raisin sauce, mignonnettes of lamb with chicken livers, and what Mama called mollusqe bors-d'oeuvre. Also fried chicken and the expected ham.
Gramp and Dennis did their duty here, and then Gramp went off with some red-faced characters with notebooks to judge some dogs. All the dogs and all the people loved each other, and when they saw anyone they knew they either barked or said, “Hi, Roger.” “good doggie. Eddie, ” or “down, Mike.”
Gramp was in great form; at least he was doing a fine job of acting as if he knew dog life and its fine points. A large hound was standing in a dazed way in the sun. and Gramp went up to him and grabbed his tail and some skin under his neck and pulled; then he felt along the chest lines. Then he got down for an eye level view (the eye level of a worm ) and scouted the hound dog's angle shots. Then he rolled over almost like a garage mechanic rolling under an ailing car and studied the dog.
Every one seemed very impressed. “There never was any judging like this before!” The dog seemed bored, then he looked at Gramp as if he were wondering if Gramp were another dog. Gramp got that look and I think for a moment felt a little foolish because he got up, dusted his knees, and said, “This is a dog.”
People clapped their hands and some of the other judges came over and talked with Gramp and they agreed on some. thing—that it was a dog most likely. Mama and Dora lowered their eyes when two GaylOtd dogs got ribbons, but the Best of Show, and the Best in Class went t0 a big red dog with red eyes and a sensual leer.
On the way home Gramp said, “They outvoted me, Dennis. But your dogs should have won first. Frankly, the other judges were carpet baggets, not real judges of dog flesh.”
Dennis agreed but said a gentleman didn't care so much about winning; it was the breeding that mattered. Back at the house Dora said “like hell it was”— which wasn't how ladies talked at all, according to Mama—but even Mama said, “Damn it, you should have done better, Gramp.” Which shows how dog love creeps into people.
We left right alter dinner, of which I can't remember a thing any more. I guess the day had worn me down to a mental nub.
We promised to come back real soon. but of course we never did go back. That's the sad part about traveling; You make fast friends so quickly and then it's all over. Dora kissed Mania and kissed me. and Gramp handed out a cigar and shook hands with Dennis, who looked very handsome in white, his nose just a little red.
Emma, our car, was fixed and we piled in and drove off. Mama held a gift ham. the bottles of gilt bourbon were at her feet, and Dudley and Mac, the good hound dogs, sat in the road as we pulled away.
“Sorry I couldn't win first for them,” said Gramp.
“It was only dogs.” said Mama, reverting to type.
“The best dogs in Kentucky,” I said.
“Don't be too sure, Stevie,” said Mama. “It might be Ohio after all.”
Gramp scowled. “I suppose I'll never hear the end of how I mistook Kentucky for Ohio.”
“No,” said Mama cheerfully.
That night we had a dreadful meal in a crossroads hotel; the next day we skipped breakfast and lunch, trying to reach a place where the food was fit for human stomachs, But it was two weeks before we really found anything worth eating. Places like the Gaylords' were rare, even if Gramp did have a Dan't Boone skill in finding good living on the American highways. Food is still dreadful on our roadways, but in 1919 it was even worse. So you can understand why we remember with pleasure, and in great detail, when we had a fine meal.
Things got real bad in the food line, but I knew it was lowest at Cairo on the Ohio River, when we caught Mama taking a slug of Gaylord bourbon.
“I'm sorry,” said Mama, wiping her mouth with dainty care and corking the bottle. “I could cat Montez on toast, I'm so hungry.”