Events circa June 1922.
Written over the period 1985-1989.
It was June of 1922, near the end of my Junior year at Ohio Wesleyan University. I was waiting for the mail with bated breath along with the other girls in Monette Hall. I was madly in love, and I did so want a letter postmarked “New Haven, Conn.” It would be from my fiancé, Robert Dial, who was finishing his freshman year at Yale Medical School. Instead, I received one from his mother in Cleveland, inviting me to tour to New Haven with their family. They were going there in honor of Robert’s younger brother Ralph’s graduation from college.
Commencement at Yale! Thrills! Thrills! I couldn’t wait to tell my roommate and friends of my good fortune. They too, were excited, offering to lend me sweaters, blouses, or other clothing to take along so that they could boast they owned clothes that attended a Yale Commencement!
I sat down when sobriety returned and tried to compose a proper letter of acceptance to the lovely lady destined to become my mother-in-law. They wanted me to go with them as the fifth person in their five-passenger Model T touring car!
I thought about what warm-hearted, generous people the Dials were. I thought about how they had sacrificed to give each of their five children the best available college and medical education. They had even provided the same opportunities to two Jewish Russian refugee girls, Judith and Lucy Temkin, whom they had met in 1919 while returning from a European vacation. [Judith and Lucy’s parents had used all their resources to get their daughters out of Communist Russia and onto a boat headed for America. The girls were traveling without money, relatives, or friends in America and had no idea what would happen to them upon arrival in New York. ed.]
I became so awestruck that I couldn’t write. I tore up several attempts before I could compose one that would have to do. I did so want to make a good impression.
Getting ready to go posed some problems. We were allowed only one small suitcase to hold a prom dress, shoes, and several other costumes for various commencement activities. Three other cases had to go too.
Remember, there were no luggage compartments in those early cars. Dr. Dial took care of that deficiency by having a long black hamper built on the car’s right running board, blocking the doors on that side. We still had the two left doors to go in and out. This was a small inconvenience compared to the added carrying capacity the box afforded. It held the store boxes of prom dresses, new shoes, dress shirts, and tuxedo finery that would crush in a small suitcase.
I arrived on the day before departure with my neatly packed small case and was told the car had just received a complete mechanical overhaul. It also had a shiny new black paint job.
We proceeded to pack the car for the journey. The long black box was packed full, and four suitcases were tied on the running boards beside the engine — two on each side — never giving a thought to the extra weight or that the little engine might like to breathe unhampered by the freight strapped on its sides. Just in case we needed it, a new spare tire was bolted outside on the back. We thought we were ready to go.
There was one flaw in the plan. Dr. Dial was reluctant to leave his sick mother to go to New Haven, but in the nick of time, he obtained a trusted nurse to help care for her. However, he insisted on staying with her during the first day of our trip. He planned to go from Cleveland to Buffalo by boat the evening after we left, joining us at a downtown hotel the next morning at nine o’clock.
Elizabeth, Robert’s older sister and a medical school senior at [Western] Reserve [University], was at the wheel early in the morning with 14-year-old David sitting beside her as navigator. David was holding homemade maps concocted from his geography book. The route was planned to avoid larger cities, which meant using poorer roads and passing fewer repair facilities.
Mrs. Dial and I sat in the back, happy with our early start. The car cooperated by not starting. Elizabeth tried every trick she knew repeatedly, but the engine stubbornly resisted. Finally, she gave up and called the garage man. He soon came and muttered something under his breath as he unloaded the suitcases to get at the engine.
He tinkered and tinkered before it sputtered to life and then reluctantly loaded back the cases. Elizabeth backed out of the garage, and we were on our way at nine o’clock. We crossed the mighty Cuyahoga and were through Bratenahl when we had our first flat tire. Luckily, we were still in civilization, as Elizabeth referred to the city, so a gas station was quickly available to change and repair the tire. Within an hour, we were on our way again.
All went well until we came to the very hilly, unimproved roads of Western Pennsylvania. There, out in the country, catastrophe struck. A connecting rod in the substructure of the car broke. A local farmer diagnosed our trouble and said he would tow the car into the nearby village for repairs. They would have the connecting rod welded and ready to resume our journey early the next morning. It was already sundown, so we said: “What about us?”
He said he thought his wife could take us in for the night and give us breakfast so that we could get off to Buffalo in good time. Luckily, she was a gracious, hospitable lady that outdid her husband’s promises — even picking fresh strawberries from her garden for our breakfast.
In the early morning, we sped off to Buffalo at 35 miles per hour to meet Dr. Dial at the downtown hotel as promised. Unfortunately, the miles seemed longer and the time shorter, making us reach the appointed place two hours late. Elizabeth said, “I hope papa overslept on the boat and had a good rest.” She circled the block three times, looking for “papa.”
We began to think he hadn’t made it, but on the fourth time around, he suddenly appeared, irate and frustrated. We had already been lamenting the lost time our calamities caused when he almost shouted, “Why are you so late? I’ve been waiting all morning for you. We’ll never get to New Haven on time at this rate.”
When we told him our tale of woe, he calmed down and took command of our expedition. David turned over his maps and navigation duties to his father, who rode in the front with Elizabeth driving. David came back and rode with his mother and me. We had three days left to get to New Haven before commencement events began!
All went well until we came to the village of Camillus, New York, which had a city speed limit posted at fifteen miles per hour. The longest, steepest hill we had yet encountered led down to the center of town. It was too much for the flivver. Down it plummeted, going faster and faster.
Dr. Dial yelled at Elizabeth, “Put on your brakes; you are going too fast; put on your brakes!” Elizabeth tearfully replied, “I am, and it does no good.” Dr. Dial said, “Put it in reverse, put it in reverse!” “I can’t, said Elizabeth.” “Then turn into that garage on the right at the bottom of the hill.” “If I do we’ll upset at this speed.”
We were paying no heed to the city speed limit as we sped past the garage and went partway up the next hill before losing enough momentum to turn around and make it safely back to the garage at the bottom. That hill was too much for that flivver’s brake bands! It took several precious hours to repair them before we could go on, making us late getting settled for the night.
We were very fortunate in selecting the “tourist homes” we stayed in because they were clean and had warm and friendly hosts. They were the only alternative because there were no hotels or motels in the country in those days.
As we went on into the hill country of New York, I learned something else about the Ford mechanism, namely that carrying a heavy load up long hills made them as hot and thirsty as the worst alcoholic. In their simplicity, they needed only cold water to keep their radiators from boiling over.
This need asserted itself on top of the highest and longest hill we had encountered in New York. Dr. Dial decided the steam-sputtering engine needed a drink of cold water — so he set off to ask the people in the hilltop house to give him some water for his car.
“GIVE you water? I’m sick of so many such requests. I’ll sell you a gallon for fifteen cents,” the householder said. “Why that’s the price of a gallon of gas,” Dr. Dial retorted. Angered but desperate, doctor gave him the money and returned to us. Both the engine and doctor had cooled off enough by that time to complete the transaction successfully. We rolled on across New York at 35 miles per hour, believing at the time it was the longest state of the Union.
Another need soon manifested itself when the engine went putt, putt, sputtered, and died. We were out of gas! Luckily, there was a village with a gas pump a quarter of a mile down the road. Doctor and David walked to the gas station and bought enough gas to get us to the pump. We filled her up and were on our way again.
All went well until we began looking for a place to spend the night. We had just come to a cozy home with a “Tourists Wanted” sign on it when boom! We had another flat tire!
We went up to the house and were graciously accepted for the night. The men folks of the house helped our gentlemen change and fix the tire for the future eventualities that somehow always became stark realities.
Nothing more catastrophic happened until the third evening out, as we were nearing Utica, New York. It was dusk when we came to a newly tarred country road. The tarred gravel was hitting the “tin” fenders, making a terrible din. I thought to myself, “I hope those little stones don’t get into the engine.” Just then, it quit, and couldn’t be started again. Dr. Dial got out and unloaded the suitcases, setting them carefully out of the tar beside the road. He lifted the hood, peering in at the intricacies that he knew no more about than I did.
We didn’t have long to worry about spending the night in this river of tar before a farmer in a big truck pulled up behind us. Sensing our plight, he offered to tow us to the Ford Garage in Utica for a price. This was a relief to us all after picturing ourselves stranded in this lonely place.
The farmer got out a long tow rope and attached the car to the truck. Dr. Dial, always in command, said, “You ladies ride in the car. Elizabeth will steer. David and I will ride in the cab with the truck driver.”
We got underway with our car tied to the truck at the end of the tow rope. As soon as we started to move, we ladies remembered our precious bags left on the berm behind us. We were ladies no longer, screaming and honking the horn. We were in a state of desperation when they finally heard us and stopped. Doctor and David, chagrined, walked back and carried our cases the quarter of a mile to the car. It was the only thing to do because you can’t push a tow rope.
In Utica, the Ford garage man gave an ominous verdict. He would have to send to Detroit for the necessary part. It would have to come by rail, so he figured he could have the car in top condition in a week. A week! Our dream of getting to commencement faded. Resourceful Doctor Dial, undaunted, told the garage man to keep it and fix it right.
He decided right there that two of the boys at Yale, Elizabeth, and I would return to Cleveland in the car even though we couldn’t go on in it now. I wondered by that time if he wanted the car more than us. Wicked thought!
Meanwhile, important events in New Haven were about to happen without us.
We busied ourselves unloading the side carrier of its boxes and bags of shoes, distributing the burdens as equitably among us as we could. We must have looked like a pack of gypsies.
We had to get there! A train was our only hope. Doctor called the railroad station and found that only two berths were available on an 11:00 p.m. train to New York City’s Grand Central Station, which would arrive at 7:30 a.m. the next morning.
On the train, Doctor announced “Mama and David will sleep in the lower berth, Elizabeth and Mary in the upper. I’ll take my ticket and sleep in the day coach at the end of the train.” With that, he gave his hat and all his money to Mrs. Dial and departed, requesting that he be paged at seven in the morning.
We were all awake at the crack of dawn, and at seven she had him paged. He didn’t come, so we assumed he was sleeping. At 7:30, we were in New York City, ready to get off. We had him paged again. No response.
We gathered our possessions and got off, expecting to see him outside. No papa was in sight. We proceeded into the station, hoping he had preceded us. He wasn’t there. We had him paged again. Again, no response. After waiting a futile hour, we went to the Travelers’ Aid Booth with growing anxiety. They had him paged again, to no avail.
Travelers’ Aid suggested he might have become worried about his sick mother and returned to Cleveland, or taken a train directly to New Haven. Neither suggestion sounded reasonable, but in desperation, mama sent telegrams home and to New Haven saying “Have you seen papa?” There was no return address or further explanation.
It was now 10:30 a.m., and still no papa and no answers to the telegrams. Elizabeth looked at her papa’s hat and began to cry. Then her mother, clutching the hat more fondly, shed a few tears also. I felt so abysmally sorry for them that I cried a little too, although deep down I had a diabolic urge to laugh.
At about 11:00 a.m., across the station, in walked a beaming, hatless father Dial. We all asked at once, “What happened to you?” “My day coach was switched off the train, and I had a peaceful night’s sleep in the rail yards back in Utica. When I woke up I got on the next train to New York.”
Happily united again, our baggage-laden troop caught a train to New Haven, arriving there in early afternoon. Robert, Ralph, and Donald, the three boys, were there to meet us, greet us, and question us about the enigmatic telegram from mama. She replied that we were all too distraught over the vanished papa to behave rationally.
Ralph later admitted that he was ashamed of our appearance. His more affluent friend’s parents didn’t arrive looking like a pack of immigrants carrying things in bags and bundles. Quiet Donald kept his thoughts about us to himself, but Robert seemed glad to see us — me in particular. I was glad too, putting it mildly.
Mary W. Dial
Story rewritten August 1989 by MWD from 1984 notes. The draft story ends here, as of October 3, 1989. Minor grammar, spelling, and typo revisions by CED June 1992. ed. The 1957 audio recording:
The recording was made in the Lorain Avenue Clinic Building apartment where Emory and Clara Dial had lived in earlier years. The original analog recording was digitized (rather ineptly) 35 years after its original recording. ed.
Transcribed date unknown. 1999?
Posted Dec 14, 1985 at 15:41.
Revised Jan 23, 2023 at 20:04. EDT.
Retrieved Jun 1, 2026 at 22:18.
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