A Fresh Start

Is this is Tuesday, it must be 1860.

As I mentioned earlier, I was up before dawn but after my shower I wandered out front to ask Alberto the way to the city centre - the aim being to get an authentic American breakfast at authentic American prices.

“Do you want East Dearborn or West Dearborn?”

I’m standing outside a hotel with a non-local accent. How the heck should I know? Rather than say this, I explained my aim.

“You want West Dearborn then. Cut through those apartments over there and head west along Michigan Avenue. I thanked him and trudged off but can only assume he’d assumed I had transport.

Although I did find an historic plaque or two (the one you can’t read says it’s the gatepost from a certain Henry Ford’s home and one time or another - but then again, everything in Dearborn’s the Henry Ford this or the Henry Ford that - I did not manage to find the Henry Ford Way To Cross The Effing Road.

After wandering aimlessly for fifteen minutes I admitted defeat and returned to the hotel for a coffee and a croissant.

Sitting outside with my coffee (trying to acclimatise to the humidity) a bunch of obvious conventioneers approached. I got chatting with one of them (Rich). They too were planning to visit Greenfield Village today although they couldn’t offer me a lift there as their van only seats seven and there are eight of them.

Only seats seven?

I got Alberto to call me a cab¹ but as I waited another couple came out and asked him how to get to the Henry Ford Museum. Alberto glanced at me and I was happy to butt in and offer them the chance to come with me.

It was a ridiculously short trip - a 15 minute walk, I’d guess. Out of the parking lot, under Michigan Avenue and then first right - but there’s absolutely no way that it could be made on foot. That Henry Ford’s got a lot to answer for.

As we arrived a group of youngsters were playing American Football on the green outside the museum. I didn’t appreciate at the time that they were actually students there - for four years, 400 lucky, lucky children get to go to school at the Henry Ford Museum and Greenfield Village. How cool would that be?

Having bought a discounted admission ticket from the hotel reception (saving $7 on the normal $20 charge), I strolled in as the gates opened at 9:30. Woo! A GE diesel electric 50-tonner pulling the train!

As you can see from the second photo, the weather today wasn’t exactly conducive to good photography - too much sky in any shot and it turned the whole thing into a silhouette. All in all, I’m surprised I managed to get so many decent photos out of the day.

It was only $3 to ride the train (which circles the 70-acre grounds) as many times as I liked. Sounds good, but with hindsight I should have got for the $10 ticket which, I later realised, covered all the other rides too. It’s unfortunate that the other rides made this clearer than the railway did, considering that the railway’s the first ride that every visitor sees. Oh well. I even got a lovely stamp on my hand ‘to save me from showing the ticket each time’. If I’d know that I’d be sitting here nine hours later with the bloody stamp still visible I’d have declined a little more forcefully!

The third photo above was taken inside a certain gentleman’s house (I have to ration his name or I’ll be No.1 on Google for him!). Considering the poor light, I was surprised it came out so well. All the staff at the Village were enthusiastic and knowledgeable about their own parts of the park and spoke well to all the visitors. They were all intrigued by my lack of a Michigan accent too and this young lady was the first to claim Welsh ancestry in a vain attempt to woo me.

As well as those staff who are assigned to specific buildings, others wander around entertaining the visitors. I was amused by the varying degrees of interest being displayed by the barbershop quartet. I bumped into the gentleman on the left later in the day and was … no, I’m getting ahead of myself. I like the fact that the recovery vehicle for the ancient Fords that were everywhere was, of course, another ancient Ford.

I wandered on though the machine shop to the craft area. The glassblowing was fascinating while the concentration shown by the young lady decorating the pottery (below) made for an obvious photo-opportunity.

I moved on, though, to the roundhouse. I know, I know, it’s the location you’ve all been waiting for but disaster struck when I was halfway through - my camera batteries finally gave up the ghost. No matter - I’d checked before leaving the hotel and was carrying four more. Unfortunately, the four I was carrying were as full of vitality as the four I’d just removed! Idiot. There was no option but to switch to the backup Ixus until I could get more.

It may not look like it, but the building on the left is Ye Olde Village Shoppe - stocking, amongst other things - Ye Newe Batteryes. Excellent! Back to the loco shop, then, for a few more railway-related images.

I risked life and limb by photographing the orange loco while I was in the presence of the conventioneers I’d met earlier - their attention was very much restricted to the steam loco’s on display and I could feel them stare and I ignored these and snapped the gas Plymouth

As I left the railway section, I thought I recognised that building above the trees … yes, there’s no doubt about it - it’s the hotel! I told you it was close, didn’t I?

I alluded earlier to a later encounter with the barbershop quartet. As I was wandering along, minding my own business, I came across him just sitting on a bench.

“Are you done with the singing?“, I asked.

He explained they had one more show to do in about half an hour and started to quiz me on what I had and hadn’t seen.

“Have you seen the Wright brothers?”

My look must have been one of puzzlement.

“Well, not the real ones, of course. Come with me - they’re performing right now.”

He walked me a block away to the Wright Brothers’ House where two actors we reenacting the brothers’ return home from Kitty Hawk and their excitedly describing their flight trials to their sister. I’m glad my new friend pushed me this way as the performances were excellent. As he headed off to his singing appointment, he recommended I be at the plantation house for the 3:30 performance there. After he’d done so well with the Wright Brothers I’d have been a fool not to be, wouldn’t I?

There was time enough for another clamber around the rusting boilers outside the machine shop, but then I wandered slowly off towards the plantation house. I didn’t realise it at first, but I saw the stars of that particular show while I was en route.

While I was waiting for the show to start it occurred to me that I was walking around with both cameras and that I hadn’t shown you all just how pocket-sized the Ixus really is. Tiny, isn’t it?

I was the only one waiting patiently outside the house at 3:30 when the performers turned up but an audience was soon rustled up and saw an excellent show, giving examples of the stories and songs of slaves as passed down through the generations. Stacey, as well as being an excellent model, has a superb singing voice while her companion (who’s name, I’m ashamed, I’ve forgotten) tells a good tale.

The show over, Stacey came over to me, shook me enthusiastically by the hand and thanked me for bringing them luck - she seemed to think that by being there I’d somehow magicked up their audience. It was nice of her to say so, but all a touch bizarre, I must say.

It was four o’clock when they finished - my couple of hours in the Village had taken up six and a half and there was still more I’d not seen. As I wandered back towards the centre - pausing only to snap a mobile minstrel entertaining a young family - spots of rain started again, heavier than last time. As the forecast had promised the first of the rain to arrive around 4 o’clock I was suitably impressed and decided to call it a day.

In case you hadn’t realised, I would strongly recommend a visit to Greenfield Village. I was lucky that visitor numbers were very low today for some reason - no queues for anything, plenty of space to wander around and frame photos without too many interlopers in the viewfinder - but I’m sure it’d be a great day out even on its busiest days.

¹ He didn’t turn to me and say “You’re a cab.”, I’m afraid. I don’t know - you feed people the lines …
² Well, that’s what it felt like to me.