A trip of 50 miles was a major excursion, with all kinds of things happening along the way, not the least of which was the excitement of traveling over unfamiliar territory. Here is a story by Ross Bloomquist as published in the Independent April 30, 1975.
It Was a Long, Eventful Trip from Barlow to Farm Near Jamestown in a 1915 Model T
Late in June 1915, when I was seven and a half years old, the whole Bloomquist family made their first long distance trip by automobile. Their objective was to visit the old folks, Winberg, at their new place in the "Valley." Andrew and Hannah Winberg, both Swedes and intimate friends of my grandparents, Charles and Mary Bloomquist, had lived until recently on a farm in Wells County, four miles west of the Bloomquist place.
A year or two earlier the Winbergs had decided to leave their place and purchased land in the valley of the Pipestem Creek about 15 miles northwest of Jamestown and 50 miles from the Bloomquist farm near Barlow. Andrew Winberg was a carpenter as well as a farmer. He was building his dwelling, barns, etc. in the new location himself. I suppose it was somewhat curiosity that the Bloomquists decided to make the trip to see how they were getting along.
The Bloomquists were still horse and buggy people in those days so John Holth, who lived in Barlow, was engaged to chauffeur the family there and back in a single day. Holth was a carpenter by trade and handy with machines and mechanical devices. He had driven automobiles as long as I can remember and at this time had a nearly‑new Model T. Ford.
The expedition required careful planning and its success depended on the weather. The road, which paralleled the tracks of the Northern Pacific Railroad from Barlow to Buchanan, was for the most part unimproved and might be impassible in wet weather. Grandpa had some misgivings that the trip could be accomplished at all considering the unreliability of all non‑horse driven vehicles. The rest of us, however, were sure that the Model T could negotiate anything we might encounter even when carrying five adults and two children. John was scheduled to be at the farm no later than six o'clock Sunday morning; we were to be ready to leave immediately.
Sunday dawned bright and clear. Mother was clearing away the breakfast dishes when John drove in right on time. He was invited in for a cup of coffee while we made last‑minute preparations. Besides John there were six of us and a suitcase to be squeezed into the Model T. Mother, Grandpa and Grandma filled the back seat snuggly. Mother held two‑year‑old Doris on her lap. Dad sat beside John and I sat more or less on Dad's lap. The suitcase was wedged between the right front fender and the hood. Since it was going to be a clear but not hot day, John decided to leave the top down. The windshield was folded down in the middle. Very little wind resistance.
We all got into our places except John. He went to the front of the car and gave a crank and a quick twist. The Ford started with a roar and John quickly climbed in over the non‑existant door on the driver's side. The road, mainly ruts in the prairie, was deserted as we sped along; we may have been going as fast as 25 miles an hour. The wheat fields shone bright and green in the early morning sun. The Greitls were going out to milk as we drove by. We turned off the road into Barlow and stopped briefly at the Holth house to pick up another spare tire, which John thought might be needed.
We turned south on the road to Carrington which ran beside the west side of the railroad tracks. (As a road it was only slightly improved.) There had been a few half‑hearted attempts to grade the road in Birtsell Township and over the Big Slough by Major Hall's farm. From there on to the Soo Line tracks the road was only a series of parallel ruts meandering over the prairie along the Northern Pacific right of way. After crossing the Soo Line tracks near Carrington the road was graded with shallow ditches on both sides of the road. We turned eastward onto Carrington's Main Street a little before seven o'clock. We traversed the mile long Main Street without slowing down, and turned south again at the corner by the McCue house with its red tiled roof. Instead of following the railroad tracks to Melville in a generally southeast direction, the main traveled road angled along the section lines‑ a mile or two east, then two or three south and so on until the road merged with the Main and only street of Melville. As far as Melville, all was familiar to Dad and John.
Again the unimproved road followed along the railroad tracks. The Hawksnest appeared bluish but not hazy in the morning sun. It seemed to be rising higher almost peceptibly and the air was becoming, warmer as the elevators of Edmunds came into sight. Suddenly the road, which had been paralleling the tracks on the east turned sharply, crossed the tracks, and followed along on the west side. They, a few miles farther along the road, crossed the tracks again to the east side. A car or two met us on the road‑ both drivers slowed down and turned out carefully. Greetings were always exchanged between the drivers.
The road continuing along on the east of the tracks passed the village of Pingree which lies mainly on the west side of the tracks. Just south of the village the terrain becomes less level and just as we were nearing the base of a slight decline we heard a loud report. The car seemed to stop instantly and we came to rest listing slightly. The left front tire had blown out! Grandpa was aghast. The trip was ruined, we would have to turn around and go back home. John quickly reassured him that he would have the tire fixed in less than half an hour. Didn't he have three spares with him? First everybody had to get out so he could get the jack and tire tools which were under the cushion on the rear seat. We looked at the tire, there was no hole showing in the casing. Nevertheless, changing tires was no easy job since demountable rims were considered a luxury by Henry Forts. The wheel was jerked up and Dad and Johr vent to work with the tire irons to pry the tire off the rim. It came off easily since the tire was pretty well worn. The innertube was pulled out of the casing and John examined the tube carefully for holes. He found a tear about an inch long, the slightly jagged edges fit together exactly. "It's a pretty new tube, " John remarked. "I ought to get that hole fixed in about ten minutes. I guess the tube must have gotten pinched in the casing somehow."
He rummaged around in the tool box and brought forth a small cardboard tube. He unskrewed the cap and pulled out a couple of gadgets, a collapsible tube and some squares of rubber sheeting. John read the instructions and then proceeded to scratch the surface of the inner tube around the tear. Dad and I watched very closely, the others walked a few yards away down the road. John took the cap from the tube and squirted a generous amount of gooey cement on the abrased area and on a piece of the rubber sheeting which he had cut out a piece large enough to cover the tear and an inch around it. The smelly solvent evaporated while John stirred the cement to spread it evenly, using a short stick he had picked up beside the road. I asked why he didn't stick the patch on right away. He replied, "She won't stick good until she's almost dry‑ I think she'll do now." He carefully laid the patch down over the hole pressing it on tightly with his fingers. He waited a few minutes and then attached the air pump to the valve stem. Two or three strokes were all that were necessary to inflate the limp tube. The patch held.
The repaired innertube was slipped back into the casing, the liner replaced and the tedious job of getting the tire back on the rim began. It took a lot of careful prying but finally the tire slipped into place.
I thought we were ready to go, but no, the tire still had to be pumped up. This laborious task seemed interminable. The Model T tires required 60 pounds of pressure. John pumped awhile and then Dad spelled him. The jack was removed and John put his weight on the protruding hub cap and said. "That's enough, I guess. All right, we are on our way." We got in as before, John cranked up and we started south again.
We were up to speed and ascending the rise then there was another loud report, this time the rear wheel.
Again the car seemed to stop instantly. John got out and looked at the wheel. Dad and I were right behind. This time there was a real blowout! A hole two inches across gaped in the sidewall. Now we would have to put on one of the new tires. The slow process of removing the tire from the rim was repeated and the tire was unstrapped from the left side of the car. The tire was wrapped with three‑inch strip of paper which Dad tore off while John opened a box containing an innertube.
Getting the new tire in back on the rim was difficult since it was much less pliable than the old worn one. This time, however, the operation and pumping it up did not seem to take so long since I was now familiar with what had to be done. When we were ready to start again John looked at his watch, "It's ten minutes to eleven, how much farther do we have to go?" Dad replied that he thought it could not be more than twenty miles. John looked at his watch again, "If the tires hold out from now on we should be there by half past twelve."
The tires did hold up and soon we caught a glimpse of two elevators four or five miles ahead. When we reached them at Buchanan, we crossed the railroad tracks to get on the Main Street of the village where the stores and hotel were situated. We stopped at the hotel and found a man there who had a general idea of the way to go to reach the Winberg farm although he did not know them personally. "Just follow the street in front of here south‑ it's a good road and you will get to the Pipestem‑ about 12 miles, I guess, and you won't be too far off. Somebody on one of the farms near there will be able to tell you better. " We thanked him and started south.
For the first three or four miles the graded dirt road was lined with cottonwoods, behind them the fields stretched away as level as in Foster County. (There were large and prosperous appearing farms along either side of the road. The large barns showed that the farmers engaged in cattle raising as well as growing small grains, wheat, oats, and barley.)
When we were seven or eight miles beyond Buchanan the character of the landscape changed gradually , from wheat fields to large fenced pastures. The farm buildings were farther apart, the road was becoming less well traveled and began to rise preceptibly.
Finally we climbed a hill, it was flat for about fifty feet at the summit and then to our dismay the road appeared to descend precipitously. "We can't go down that hill, " exclaimed Grandpa, "The brakes won't hold!" John Holth stopped obligingly and we all looked around. Ahead and to the right the valley of the Pipestem Creek stretched away to the east and west under the cloudless sky. The green hills were criss‑crossed by an occasional fence; a few cattle were grazing here and there. We saw no buildings which could be identified with the Winberg farm. The creek itself was not visible because there were still low hills in the way which prevented us from looking directly into the floor of the valley.
"I'm going to get out and walk down, " announced Grandpa. So he, Grandma, Mother and I got out and walked down the road. John and Dad stayed in their seats as the little Ford negotiated the "steep" slope at about five miles an hour in low gear. Actually, it was not nearly as steep as it appeared from our seats in the car.
Back on level ground we all got back in and continued south on the road that now was only ruts in the prairie. Some shack‑like farm buildings appeared a short distance ahead. Dad suggested that it might be a good idea to ask directions there. As we stopped in front of the house a nondescript collie dog crawled out from the shade of a wagon and barked loudly but kept his distance. There was no sign of movement within‑ obviously there was no one at home. "We might as well go ahead some more until we get to the Pipestem, " said Dad. "We ain't lost yet."
The prairie ruts curved along the hills for about a mile more, then, as we rounded a hill the floor of the valley lay before us. Pointing to his right to a low barn and a small house on the far side of the creek, Dad said: "That's the Winberg place, all right, I can tell that A.P. built that house. I recognize the steep roof‑ he always builds them steeper than anyone else."
The road followed the gentle slope toward the creek when suddenly I saw the road end at the bank of the little stream. "I guess I can ford it, " John remarked without even slowing down. The car plunged into the water, it reached only halfway up to the hubcaps and in less time than it takes to tell it we were up on the other bank and into the dry prairie ruts again.
We were only a quarter of a mile away from the house, the ruts led directly toward it. We stopped in front of the house and John killed the engine. Almost immediately the door opened and a small mustached man in overalls stepped out. We yelled our greeting to him and he replied, "For golly sake if it ain't the whole Bloomquist family. Come on in." We piled out of the car and went into the house.
"We thought we would surprise you, " Dad said, "we didn't know if we could make it."
"I'm glad you came, but Hannah went to McClusky to stay with Bessie for a week." This disappointed all of us for , we had hoped to have some of Mrs. Winberg's excellent cooking.
"You know, I got up early this morning and worked on the granary for a while and I made myself some dinner a little while ago. I know you are hungry so I'll get some stuff out and you can help me get a lunch ready, Emma." The last was addressed to my mother. She found an apron and set to work.
The interior of the house was really only a single large room. There were two closets on the west wall blanking the stove, one was used as a pantry. The inside walls of the house were still unfinished, instead of plaster the studdings were covered with a light green wallboard. The bare nailheads were yet to be covered. A rectangular dining table stood near the center of the room. A double bed occupied one of the corners opposite the stove, in the other there was a pair of rocking chairs upholstered with fancy crochet work for antimacassars. The phonograph with the blue petunia horn was missing. In its place was a new Edison‑ cylindrical records of course, but the arms were concealed in the cabinet below the playing mechanism.
While Mother, assisted by Winberg, prepared the meal, Dad, Grandpa and I went out for a tour of the farm buildings.
Just out of curiosity we were going to look at the farm implements when we heard Winberg call, "Charlie, Perry, come we've got dinner ready. I do not remember anything about the meal. After the dishes were washed John Holth got out a blanket and pillow and napped in the shade on the north side of the house. Grandpa, Grandma and Winberg sat and talked on the east side of the house sitting on apple crates. At Winberg's suggestion Mother, Dad and I walked over the little hill to the creek at a point where there was another ford. The little stream no more than 8 or 10 feet wide, was shallow and the water ran swiftly over the gravelly course.. Along the banks there were a few scrubby willows which shaded portions of the stream somewhat. We took off our shoes and stockings and waded in the cool water.
I was entranced by this new world of water and did not want to leave when Dad said it was time to get back to the house.
"It's quarter to four, already, John will want to start back pretty soon." I decided then and there that I was going to come back and I hoped it would be soon.
John was just waking up from his nap when we got back from the creek. Grandpa, Grandma and Winberg were still sitting on the crates by the house. It
was not excessively warm and the low humidity made the outdoors just the place to be on a Sunday afternoon. Winberg insisted that we have a cup of coffee before we started home.
It must have been half past four before we were ready to leave. Winberg suggested an alternate route out of the Valley to Buchanan so the "steep" hill could be avoided.
We piled back into the Ford and started out. We all waved as the Model T snorted and jumped ahead. Winberg waved and shook hands with himself as we rounded the curbs to the ford. Crossing the little stream was not a great thrill the second time. We followed the road Winberg had suggested; it climbed a little and then paralleled the stream until we were directly opposite the farm buildings nestled close together. Then the road turned away and the place was hidden by the rolling hills. The ascent from the Valley was gradual and soon we were back on the flat Dakota prairie.
The trip the rest of the way home was relatively uneventful. We passed Buchanan and Pingree without slowing down. The discarded paper wrapping from the tire was just where we had left them except now they were covered with a film of dust. There were numerous cars on the road‑ Sunday driving was practiced then as now. Their wheels picked up clouds of dust in the still late afternoon air.
Edmunds and Melville were passed without mishap, but as we neared Carrington we had another flat. Several solicitous motorists stopped to offer help. I was disappointed when John waved them on because I was tired and anxious to get home.
Only one more memory remains; as the sun sank lower in the west the air became full of gnats. One of them landed in my eye. It burned and was very painful until Dad managed to wife it out with his handkerchief. Then he and John raised the upper half of the windshield and we were protected from flying insects.
I must have fallen asleep by the time we reached Carrington. Every detail of the last ten miles is gone from my memory.
These stories hit the Independent:
1934: "Rosehill Ford. Driver Runs Over. His Own Leg"
Earl Thornton met with an unusual accident one day last week when the car he was driving ran over his leg. He was speeding along in his Motel T bug when he struck some sand. There was no windshield and Earl found himself on the ground in front of the car, which passed over his legs, bruising them slightly.
1935: Moral: Look out whose car you take a kick at
A Wells County high school boy, who admitted himself that he had "kind of a high polish on" took a hard kick at the wrong car on Main Street in Carrington Monday night.
He left his heel print on the fender of a shiny gray DeSoto sedan as the driver pulled away from the curb. It so happened that the car belonged to States Attorney C. W. Burnham, and the states attorney was at the wheel.
In a matter of minutes the boy was locked in jail where he was given a few hours to sober up. His school friends offered to dig into their own pockets to pay the cost of taking the dent out of the fender but deep as they dug they could raise only 30 cents among them. The boy was released and the garage bill was turned over to the Fessenden sheriff for collection.
Source: A History of Foster County 1983 Page 451