From Ann Arbor To Normandy: 2nd Lieutenant Jack Weese

Year
2024


World War II. D-Day, June 6, 1944. The Canadians of the North Shore (New Brunswick) Regiment went ashore to storm and liberate the French seaside village of Saint Aubin-sur-Mer (code-named Nan Red sector, at the eastern end of Juno Beach) from the Germans. They were followed by the United Kingdom's 48th Royal Marine Commando. Days later, on June 10, 1944, an American fighter plane crashed into the sea near the same beach. The aircraft was pulled to shore at low tide by personnel from the United Kingdom's No. 2 Royal Air Force Beach Squadron. The iconic photo below captured the Saint Aubin-sur-Mer, Calvados, Normandy beach, scarred by the battle and the plane's wreckage. What many people don't know about this grim image of war is that the pilot of the plane was from Michigan. This is the story of Second Lieutenant John Alfred Weese, an Ann Arbor soldier who died in France.

"Wreckage Of A Republic P-47, Which Crashed During The D-Day Invasion, Lies On The Battle-Scarred Beach Of Normandy, France." 22 June 1944. NARA Reference Number 342-FH-3A17188-72625AC. National Archives and Records Administration.

Siblings: Virginia, Mary, & Jack Weese, Courtesy of Sally Connors.
Ann Arbor, Before World War II

John Alfred Weese was born January 26, 1920, in Ann Arbor to Douglas and Lorena Staebler Weese. John Staebler was his maternal grandfather. Alfred Weese was his paternal grandfather. Known as Jack to his family, he had an older sister, Virginia, and two younger sisters, Mary & Nancy. He lived here as a child and later resided with his family in several Michigan cities as his father's employment moved them around. He was a 1938 graduate of Durand High School (Shiawassee County) where his father worked for the Railway Express Agency. The Weese family returned to live in Ann Arbor after his graduation. Jack worked a variety of jobs, and attended Lawrence Institute of Technology in Detroit for one semester. He eventually found work as a lathe operator and machinist at the American Broach & Machine Company in downtown Ann Arbor, which is where he was employed when he enlisted.

 

Fighter Pilot

On August 5, 1942 Jack enlisted in the United States Army Air Corps. He worked at a Detroit recruiting center, and briefly spent time at Fort Custer. In early 1943 he reported at the Army Air Force classification center in Nashville, Tennessee and then was sent to pre-flight school at Maxwell Field, Alabama. By May 1943 he had been transferred to Souther Field, Georgia, for primary flight instruction. He stood third in his class at Souther Field. From there he moved to basic training at Cochran Field, Georgia. In November 1943 Jack was commissioned a second lieutenant and awarded the silver wings of a fighter pilot at a Craig Field graduation ceremony in Selma, Alabama. Attending the ceremony were his parents, two of his sisters, Mary & Nancy, and Irma Barnard, his girlfriend. Days later, when he was home in Ann Arbor on leave, the engagement of Jack and Irma was officially announced in the Ann Arbor News. Following his leave, Jack spent time at Mitchell Field, New York, and Bluethenthal Field in Wilmington, North Carolina, where he received his final combat training.

"Ready to take his place as a fighter pilot against the Axis is John Alfred Weese...", Ann Arbor News, November 8, 1943

Irma Barnard, Ann Arbor News, November 11, 1943
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In 2020, Kris Koebler, daughter of Jack's sister Virginia, shared some early childhood memories of her uncle. "Jack was (I would put it) devastatingly handsome, smart, and brave.  I remember the portrait of him that hung in my grandparents’ home until they passed. He was engaged to a lovely girl named Irma Barnard.  They were to be married after the war."

"I have memories of riding around Ann Arbor, standing next to him in the front seat of his shiny red convertible.  (No seat belts in those days!!)  We would be singing “The Army Air Corps” anthem at the tops of our lungs. I was the only one of his nieces and nephews that he ever knew. One of my brothers was born when Jack was overseas, and both my sister and younger brother were born after his death, as were Mary’s and Nancy’s children. I truly wish I could have known him longer and that he could have known his extended family. "

Hell Hawks

In January 1944 Jack travelled to England as part of the United States’ 9th Air Force. In April 1944, Jack joined the 365th fighter group, 386th fighter squadron, piloting a Thunderbolt P-47. They were known as Hell Hawks, one of 18 fighter groups that were part of the 9th Air Force. When Jack arrived they were based in Beaulieu, Hampshire, England.

"So who were the Hell Hawks? Even the lowliest lieutenant of the lot had accomplished something at which tens of thousands had failed: he had completed flight training, had silver wings pinned on his chest, and was now officially qualified to pilot an aircraft. He had successfully made the transition to the mighty P-47 Thunderbolt, the "Jug," and survived to reach the combat theater...They were perfect physical specimens, these young men who strapped into an eighteen-thousand pound Thunderbolt, fired up a roaring, two-thousand-horsepower engine, and flew into battle lugging a veritable arsenal of bombs and ammunition. They had superb bodies and minds and the youthful confidence to believe they were unbeatable." - Hell Hawks! The Untold Story of the American Fliers Who Savaged Hitler's Wehrmacht by Robert F. Dorr & Thomas Jones

Jack Weese, Courtesy of Sally Connors
Jack's letters to his fiancée Irma shared his experiences as a Hell Hawk. He mentioned bombing bridges and installations in Nazi-held Europe, and taking part in strafing missions (attacking ground targets with bombs or machine-gun fire). From Beaulieu Jack flew two Normandy missions on D-Day, June 6th. He flew two more on June 7th, and one on June 8th. Bad weather with low visibility kept his group grounded on June 9th. On June 10, 1944 he flew his final mission when he was reported ”Missing In Action”. Just a few weeks before his final flight he was awarded an Air Medal with two oak leaf clusters.

365th Fighter Group - Hell Hawks Leather Squadron Patch
Saint Aubin-sur-Mer, Calvados, Normandy, France

On June 10, 1944, U.S. Aircraft DH-5 No.276297 crashed into the sea off Saint Aubin-sur-Mer. The body of John A. Weese, United States Army Air Force, was recovered and buried in Grave No 8 of Bernières-sur-Mer White Beach Cemetery. The officiating Chaplain was the Rev. William E. Harrison, H/Capt., Canadian Army. The aircraft was recovered from the sea at low tide the next day and Royal Air Force No. 83 Group were informed so that salvage action could be taken.

The P47 aircraft of 2nd Lt J A Weese that crashed into the sea off St Aubin-sur-Mer on 10th June 1944. This photograph was taken 3 weeks after it was recovered from the sea and left at the top of the beach.

Jack's burial was likely similar to this one. "Two French women placing flowers on the grave of a Canadian soldier, Bernières-sur-Mer, France, 18 June 1944." Photographer Frank L. Dubervill, Library and Archives Canada. Image 1073.
Ann Arbor, During World War II

In 2020, Sally Connors, Jack's younger cousin, shared her memory of 1944. “I was 10 when cousin Jack went missing in action. I had two brothers in the service and this news worried me; would my brothers also go missing? I remember the sadness in my Uncle Doug’s family."

News of Jack's death didn't reach the Weese family until June 28, 1944. The Ann Arbor News ran the story on their front page the following day. In July 1944 the Weese family received the news that Jack had received the posthumous award of the Purple Heart.

Ann Arbor News, June 29, 1944, Front Page
By June 1945, a year after Jack's death, the Weese family still had few details about what had happened in France. Lorena Weese, his mother, wrote a letter to the headquarters of the U.S. Army Air Forces asking for a letter from Jack's commanding officer. Below is a copy of the response she received. The details in this correspondence were pulled directly from the original Missing Air Crew Report (MACR).

Letter from Major James G. Wells, Jr., Air Corps, to Lorena Weese, July 20, 1945, National Archives and Records Administration.
"...On 10th June 1944 John went out on what we call a Fighter Sweep in the Cherbourg assault area. His flight became separated in the clouds at about six thousand feet. This happened around 1245 hours and at 1310 hours he called in on the radio saying his plane had been hit.The propellor was out and oil pressure was gone. John said he was at seven thousand feet and could see the Beachhead. He thought he could "belly-land" the ship. By that we mean he was going to slide in without using the wheels. At this time he was very cool and acted as if he hadn't been injured. This was all we knew until confirmation of his death was received. For some reason John was not able to "belly-land" the ship and his plane crashed into the English Channel. He was buried in grave eight at Bernières-Sur-Mer Cemetery near St. Aubin-Sur-Mer, Normandy, France.

Please accept our sympathies. I am sorry this letter is so late in reaching you. The memory of John has been an inspiration to his fellow pilots and he has left his mark with us all. He was an excellent flyer who really enjoyed flying..."

Repatriation

The U.S. War Department made it clear that men and women who died overseas would remain there until the end of the conflict. The government had committed resources to fighting the war, not managing the storage and transportation of the fallen. The Weese family now faced a new kind of waiting to bring Jack back to Ann Arbor. The first war dead did not reach American shores until October 1947.

At the end of January 1948 the Weese family received the news that Jack was finally coming home. U.S. Army Transport Corporal Eric G. Gibson was loaded with 1,753 caskets in Europe, each shrouded in an American flag. 61 of these caskets belonged to Michigan servicemen, one of them being John Alfred Weese. Most of the dead on this funeral ship had died on the beaches at Normandy. A photographer captured an image of the ship that would dock in a snowstorm at Brooklyn Army base, New York, and it was published in countless newspapers across the country.

On February 7, 1948, Jack's body arrived by train at the Michigan Central station in Ann Arbor. A military escort traveled with him to the Muehlig Funeral home, and then to Bethlehem Cemetery for a private burial with full military honors. His parents were buried in the same cemetery, many years later.

Jack Weese & fellow deceased servicemen on their journey home from Europe. The Billings Gazette (Billings, Montana), January 27, 1948
Afterword/Author's Note

In 2014 aviation artist Ken Stanton contacted the Ann Arbor District Library from England. He had been shown a photo of a war plane crashed on a French beach and was tasked with finding out the story behind it. He had found record of John Weese's name as the pilot, and that John was from Ann Arbor. With our resources in the AADL Archives, I was able to piece together the story of John 'Jack' Weese. Through Ancestry.com, Ken made contact with some of Jack's surviving family members (Cousin Sally, Nieces Kris & Marti), and we all pooled our knowledge and findings. In the end, Ken created a painting of Jack's P-47, Jack's family members learned more about his history, and I dove deep into the research and grew quite fond of Jack in the process.

2nd Lt John A Weese, Republic P-47, Painted by Ken Stanton
In 2020, Fanny Hubart-Salmon, contacted the Ann Arbor District Library from Saint Aubin-sur-Mer, Calvados, Normandy. "I grew up in the French town of Saint Aubin sur Mer, France. We are actively researching photos, stories and relatives of soldiers who died on our beach in June 1944 as we keep honoring them. It came to our attention that Alfred John "Jack" Weese, from Ann Arbor, had crashed on the beach 4 days after June 6th." I immediately reached out to Ken Stanton, who reached out to Jack's family members again, and we all provided Fanny with the information we had surfaced in 2014. The end result was a memorial plaque honoring Jack. It was installed above the beach where he, and so many others, made history. Below is a photo of the memorial, which you can visit yourself in Normandy.

2Lt John A. Weese Memorial, Saint-Aubin-sur-Mer. On the top of the low walls of the esplanade, in front of the Tourist Information center.
A brief video of the 2020 D-Day ceremony honoring Jack Weese in Saint Aubin-sur-Mer is available on YouTube.

Special thanks to Ken Stanton, who first brought Jack to my attention. Special thanks to Jack's surviving family members who helped fill in the pieces, especially Sally Connors, Dr. Kristeen Koebler, & Marti Watson. Special thanks to Fanny Hubart-Salmon who brought everything full circle and worked to permanently honor Jack on the beach in Normandy. In memory of John Alfred Weese, 1920 - 1944.

The Rise and Fall of the Mozart Watch Company

Year
2024


For a few, brief years in the 1870s the Mozart Watch Factory of Ann Arbor was on the rise to rival the best watchmakers in America. Don Joaquin Mozart was one of Michigan’s “most promising inventors.” Called a “genius” in the New York Times, he patented 11 inventions related to clockwork. Yet his business skills never quite lived up to his innovations and he died in the county poorhouse. 

Patent for an "automatic fan" by Don J. Mozart, 1856

A Family Missing & A Family Made

The details of Mozart’s early life are uncertain. He was born in Italy sometime between 1820 and 1826 and moved to America with his family near the age of three. His father’s occupation varies by the source: he was a watchmaker and his son took after him, or a street musician distantly related to the more famous Mozart, or a man of wealth who fled Italy for political reasons and was assassinated in America. None of these are particularly likely, but what can be said with more confidence is that he died when Don was young. 

The remaining Mozart family ended up in the Boston area. It was near the harbor there, when Don was around the age of 9, that he was lured onto a ship “by the promise of curious shells” and taken out to sea. It wasn’t uncommon for ships to capture young men or boys as crew members when they couldn’t find volunteers for arduous journeys, and they often preyed upon poor immigrants. Young Don Mozart sailed for seven years. He searched for his family when he returned, but his efforts failed and he never saw his mother or siblings again.

Fending for himself, Don found work as a tradesman where his skill at mechanics became clear. By age 30 or so he was the established owner of a jewelry store in Xenia, Ohio and filed his first patent for an “automatic fan” propelled by clockwork. The patent advertised a quieter machine that would be particularly useful for fanning the sick or sleeping, and keeping bugs away. With his profession secured, he married Anna Maria Huntington on September 4, 1854.

Don and Anna started their family in Ohio, welcoming their first daughter, Donna Zeralla, on February 28, 1857 and then their second, Estella Gertrude, on November 28, 1858. Don continued to invent, patenting an improved clock escapement (the mechanism that moves the timepiece’s hands at precise intervals) in 1859 wherein he listed himself as a resident of Yellow Springs, Ohio. By 1862 the family had relocated to New York City and welcomed one more daughter, Anna Violet. 

Mozart & Co. jewelry store advertisement, Michigan Argus, January 18, 1867

Career Clockmaker

As a resident of New York Don patented another improved clock and watch escapement in 1863 with Levi Beach and Laporte Hubbell credited alongside him. The three men followed this in January 1864 with a simplified and more compact calendar clock that claimed to register leap years and run for a year with one winding.

Don’s talents gained him enough recognition that a company was created to produce his patents. The Mozart Watch Company was established in the spring of 1864 in Providence, Rhode Island and the family relocated there. Capital of $100,000 was secured along with a factory and machinery. Then, before any product seems to have been produced, the stockholders pulled out in the spring of 1866. No distinct reason could be found to explain their change of heart, other than a new belief that they wouldn’t earn a return on their investment. Don was replaced as superintendent, the company was renamed the New York Watch Company and, in contrast to the name, moved to Springfield, Massachusetts. 

Less than a year later, in January of 1867, Don Mozart began anew in Ann Arbor. Advertisements for “Mozart & Co,” a dealer in clocks, watches, jewelry, and silver-plated ware, ran in the Michigan Argus. The shop was located in the Gregory Block on the corner of Huron and Main. Still tinkering with timepieces, his first patent in this new era was filed in July of 1867 wherein he listed himself as living in New York despite his new store in Michigan. Regardless of the residency, the patent was granted on December 24, 1867 and became the basis of his even greater business venture in Ann Arbor. 

Michigan’s Mozart Watch Company

An Illustration of the "Three-Wheeled" watch, based on the December 24, 1867 patent

By the summer of 1868 the second Mozart Watch Company was progressing in Ann Arbor. According to a July 24, 1868 article in the Michigan Argus, “the capital for testing the invention has been furnished, a building secured in which to commence operations, an engine put up, the best of machinery purchased, and a force of experienced mechanics set to work, not exactly making Watches, but making tools with which to stock the factory.” The goal was to produce watches based on the recently issued patent that contained no dead-center or setting-point and required only a small number of parts, allowing for cheaper production.

The company’s growth continued, occupying three stories of Dr. Chase's building according to the February 19, 1869 issue of the Michigan Argus. The article concluded, “We shall expect to see the company soon turning out A. No. 1 watches.” On New Years Eve 1869 a gold watch was presented to Reverend Charles H. Brigham of the First Unitarian Church, confirming that the Mozart Watch Company had managed to start production.

Just six months later the Michigan Argus was pleading with citizens to prevent the company from leaving the city. It had “turned out a number of beautiful watches,” but “the few men who took hold of the enterprise find themselves without means to prosecute the work on the large scale which is necessary to make it a success, and that they have not met the encouragement and support which they had a right to expect from the community at large.” 

Advisors to businessmen from Milwaukee and New York had visited the factory to assess the machinery and patent’s chances of success. “The agent of the Milwaukee parties – a practical man – pronounces the watch, and clock soon to come out, a perfect success…If Milwaukee men stand ready to invest $300,000 in it, cannot our capitalists be induced to invest one third of that sum to retain it here?”

The appeals went unanswered and a group from Rock Island, Illinois bought out the Mozart Watch Company, renaming it the Rock Island Watch Company. Then, like in Providence, the company failed to produce anything before the stockholders withdrew their support. A lawsuit commenced in the fall of 1871, alleging fraud in the sale. The battle concluded in the fall 1873 when it was dissolved after an appeal.

Panic & Final Patents

Just as the court case was wrapping up a greater worry replaced it. The financial panic of 1873 swept the nation and the local banking house of Miller & Webster closed its doors for good in September of that year. The Michigan Argus reported that “a large share of the losses will fall upon parties illy able to bear them,” and this seems to have included Don Mozart. 

Advertisement from the Michigan Argus, November 21, 1873

Don had always been reliant upon his strengths in innovation. He is recounted as saying, “that he never knew the time when, if he was short of money, he could not hide himself in a hole for a month, and work out an idea that would bring him $1,000.” The article concludes that “money has come to him so easily he has valued it little, has spent it with a prodigal generosity, not to say reckless, and having, most of his life, no special occasion for what is called business shrewdness has in later years been victimized by speculators in his genius.” As he had all his life, he persisted, and that same fall the Michigan Argus included an advertisement for watch repairs by Don Mozart.  

Before the loss of his savings, Don had filed a series of three patents that were approved in July of 1873: another improved escapement, an upgrade to calendar clocks, and a self winding watch. This trio held the potential to earn his savings back. They were designed to be used together in one watch that would include dials showing the month, day of the month, day of the week, AM or PM, quarter seconds, seconds, minutes and hour. It would be wound by the user opening and shutting the watch case five or six times a day and no damage would be sustained by heavier use. He is said to have gone to New York to find funding, but the wealthy residents who would be able to offer the capital were away at their summer homes and he was told to return later.

Always seeking improvement, he took a portion of the watch apart during the interim and lost a piece of it in the process. He was never able to figure out how to put it together again. Before he could return to New York, he lost control of his mind. On December 2, 1874, Don Mozart was taken to what was then known as the “Michigan Asylum for the Insane” in Kalamazoo. Reports claimed that his “fits of temporary insanity” had been going on “for some time” and that up until his removal to Kalamazoo “he was talking extravagantly but coherently enough, of his brilliant prospects and the wealth and success that awaited him, and detailed to friends minutely the terms of an agreement that he claimed to have just made with persons in New York, though he had never gone to that City after his visit in the early Summer.”

The papers attributed his loss of reality to “the strain upon his mind made by his newly invented watch” and the failure of Miller & Webster. In 1875 he was moved to the Washtenaw County Poor House, and died there on March 15, 1877 at the reported age of 58. He was buried at Forest Hill Cemetery and obituaries were carried in papers across the country. 

Collectible Chronometers

It is difficult to determine exactly how many Mozart watches were finished. Estimates vary from 13, to 30, to only a few. The examples that were reported on or have since been located often contain personalized engravings indicating that they were made for investors and friends. They remain as exemplary samples of American watchmaking and their rarity makes them highly sought after by collectors. 

Photos of the Mozart Watch sold by Bonhams, 2016

In 2016, a "Chronometer-Lever Escapement" watch signed "Mozart Watch Co., Ann Arbor, Mich., No. 7, Don J. Mozart Patent Dec. 24, 1868" was sold by the auction house Bonhams for $5,250 (the patent date seemed to be a mistake, corresponding instead with the patent of December 24, 1867). Sotheby's auctioned another in 2004 as part of their “Masterpieces from the Time Museum” group. 

Remaining watches can be found as part of the National Watch and Clock Museum, the Paul M. Chamberlain collection, which was displayed at the Art Institute of Chicago in 1921 and found a permanent home at Michigan State University, and the Washtenaw County Historical Society.

Elzada Urseba Clover: Pioneering Botanist and the First Woman to Raft the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon

Year
2024

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“My life has been full of adventures but this sounded like the ace of them all.”

Elzada Clover, Nevills Expedition, 1938. (Photo courtesy of the Special Collections, J. Willard Marriott Library, University of Utah, p0077n011380)
With a name like Elzada Urseba Clover, you’re either born to botanize or you're born for adventure -- and it turns out she was born to do both. Clover marked several firsts in her lifetime: She was the first recorded woman (with University of Michigan graduate student Lois Jotter) to run the Colorado River through the full length of the Grand Canyon. She was the first botanist to catalog the flora along the river in the Canyon. And she was the first woman to become a full professor in the University of Michigan Botany Department.

I happened upon Melissa Sevigny’s wonderful 2023 book, Brave the Wild River: The Untold Story of Two Women Who Mapped the Botany of the Grand Canyon, and to my surprise, I learned that both Clover and Jotter were from the University of Michigan. I’ve lived in Ann Arbor for four decades yet this was the first I’d ever heard of them. As with many stories of women in science, their pioneering work was largely overlooked in their time and was unrecognized for decades.

Clover was 42 at the time of her Grand Canyon expedition, the oldest member of a six-person crew. She was born in Auburn, Nebraska on September 12, 1897, and later moved with her family to the southwest where she became fascinated by the plants of the region, especially cacti. Before coming to Ann Arbor, she taught public school in rural Nebraska and was the principal of a Native American mission school in Texas. Sevigny described her as “...a tall woman, active, robust, dramatic, daring, perhaps just a little bit wicked. She drank whiskey. She could swim, fish, hunt, and ride a horse. She preferred to describe her own code of behavior as ‘gentlemanly’ rather than ‘ladylike.’”

Elzada Clover and Lois Jotter, 1938. (Photo courtesy of The Huntington Library.)

 

“Elzada isn’t wanted because she is a woman.”

Clover graduated from the Nebraska State Teachers College in 1930 and earned her Master of Science degree at the University of Michigan in 1932, followed by her PhD in 1935. Not long before the Grand Canyon trip, she’d been denied a faculty position at U-M. Her departmental appointment was no more permanent than instructor and her department chair Harley H. Bartlett confided in his diary that “Elzada isn’t wanted because she is a woman.” Yet Clover wasn’t the kind of person to give up easily. So when she set her sights on cataloging the plant life of the Grand Canyon -- one of the few frontiers left to botanize -- she was determined to do it. “It has never been explored botanically and for that reason everything collected will be of interest,” she wrote. Clover’s goal was to gather specimens and document changes in plant life through the various elevations along the route into the river’s side canyons. 

Headlines from national newspapers.
Since hiking and riding horseback weren’t viable options, she knew she would need to raft the river. However, the prevailing viewpoint in 1938 was that the Colorado River was far too dangerous for anyone, let alone a woman. It had killed plenty of men who’d tried to run it, and the last woman to attempt it, Bessie Hyde in 1928, had disappeared with her husband on their honeymoon. Their bodies were never found. Perhaps because of these serious risks, the University of Michigan refused to sponsor the expedition. Still, Clover applied for a $400 grant from the Rackham Graduate School (they gave her $300) and chose a partner in Norman Nevills, an entrepreneur river runner she’d met by chance the previous summer. Nevills was living along the San Juan River near the remote outpost of Mexican Hat, Utah, and was looking to boost his profile as a river guide for tourists. Clover would therefore get to do her botanizing, yet it would be a commercial, rather than a university-sponsored, expedition. And she -- along with each crew member -- would need to come up with $400 to fund it.

Clover and Neville struck a deal: He would build and guide the boats, help drum up publicity, and bring a couple of men to help -- LaPhene “Don” Harris, a 26-year-old river runner for the US Geological Survey, and 24-year-old Bill Gibson, an amateur photographer who would film the trip. In turn, Clover would bring two students she was mentoring - a woman, Lois Jotter, age 24, in part for propriety since it would simply not do to be the only woman on an otherwise all-male trip; and 25-year-old Eugene Atkinson, a taxidermist working on his PhD in paleobotany at U-M. (At Lee’s Ferry, roughly halfway through the trip, tensions between the crew threatened to upend the expedition and led to the replacement of Harris and Atkinson with 44-year-old Del Reed and 24-year-old Lorin Bell.)

“The best man of the bunch”

The Colorado River was wilder and more unpredictable in 1938 than today. At the time of their trip, it was a raging torrent flowing at 70,000 cubic feet per second, full of scouring silt that clung to the body and clothes. The crew would drink unfiltered water and eat mostly canned food, though Atkinson would also shoot geese and deer along the way. They would face scorching 100-degree heat, risk rattlesnake bites and other potential life-threatening accidents with no feasible means of rescue -- as well as face the looming specter of the great unknown. As Sevigny points out, this was a period when people suspected there might still be undiscovered species of flora and fauna - potential primordial monsters - hidden down corridors of the Canyon. Clover and Jotter decided to don overalls (they considered jeans too masculine) and would take face cream and apply makeup through much of the journey before finally giving it up. 

A page from Clover's journal of the expedition, 1938. "The moon was brilliant and looked beautiful on the deep canyon wall." (Elzada Papers, Bentley Historical Library)

The story of the two adventurous women spread quickly across the country, with breathless predictions and sensationalized front-page coverage -- some of it misleading or cynical. Several accounts failed to mention the science, focusing instead on the danger of the river and suggesting Clover and Jotter were attention-seeking “school ma’ams” willing to risk the entire crew for their notoriety. A male river runner interviewed by the press even worried that a successful run by women might diminish his reputation. Over 100 newspapermen and gawkers saw the expedition cast off at Green River, and when they were late for a midpoint rendezvous at Lee’s Ferry, there was a media frenzy and a search by a Coast Guard plane. Even a commercial TWA flight out of Los Angeles rerouted its course to look for the river runners. 

Yet on the river, Clover would leave the outside world behind. In the smooth-water section during the early part of the voyage, she floated along playing her harmonica, and her journal of the expedition delights in the beauty of the moon rising over the canyon wall or the wonder of a rainbow after a terrific electrical storm. She would prove to be the most reliable crew member -- Nevills referred to her as “the best man of the bunch” -- keeping her cool even as personalities clashed and tension built as they made their way deeper into the gorge and the more treacherous rapids known as the graveyard of the Colorado River. But despite Clover’s role as the scientific leader of the expedition, traditional sexism persisted: A typical 24-hour cycle saw her and Jotter setting up camp at night, waking up early the next day to gather and press their plant specimens -- all before the men were up and the journey continued. And it was just understood the women would do all the cooking. “The men depend on Lois and me for so many little things. Mirrors, combs, finding shirts, first aid, etc. Just as men always have since Adam,” Clover wrote.

From the Michigan Daily, July 8, 1938

The 43-day trip, lasting from June 20 through July 29 and covering over 600 miles, was a scientific success: Clover and Jotter mapped five different plant zones and were responsible for four first-discovered species (the Grand Canyon claret cup, the fishhook cactus, the strawberry hedgehog cactus, and beavertail prickly pear). Their survey is the only comprehensive one of the Colorado River’s riparian species before the building of Glen Canyon Dam. Nevertheless, Clover fretted over the quality of the specimens, as well as a plant press that went missing temporarily with over a third of the specimens gathered (it was found later that year and mailed to Ann Arbor). In a phone interview with Sevigny, she notes, “[Clover and Jotter] had some scientific complaints about the quality of the work they did. And I think that may have unintentionally contributed to this perception that their work wasn’t important. That [impression] lingered for decades. But this was absolutely untrue. They cataloged 400 species of plants. That’s half of all the plants we know along the river corridor today.”

“I’m so lonely for it now I can hardly stand it.” 

When the trip ended, Clover fell into a melancholy funk. She missed her companions, retreating to her motel room to watch the films, dreaming of further adventures. And she missed the river adventure fiercely, noting in her diary, “I’m so lonely for it now I can hardly stand it.” Almost immediately, she joined Nevills for another excursion, this time down the San Juan River, and she would continue her travels in the following years, surveying the region’s flora on foot and horseback while also making excursions to Texas and Guatemala. Regarding Clover’s wanderlust, Sevigny notes, “I think she belonged out in wild places and that’s where she was happiest.”

Despite the trip’s success -- and perhaps because of its notoriety -- Clover’s work prospects didn’t immediately improve upon returning to Ann Arbor. Sevigny continues: “I think the sensational nature of the publicity did quite a lot of damage to Elzada’s career. She wanted any publicity to be very dignified and very focused on the scientific work.” Clover gave lectures and showed her films to several groups -- women’s clubs, schools, and church groups -- and in 1944, she and Jotter finally completed their species list and published it in the American Midland Naturalist, an influential paper on Southwest plants. Some of their specimens were also given to the Smithsonian’s National Herbarium. 

Grand Canyon Claret Cup, one of the species discovered by Clover and Jotter in 1938. (University of Michigan Herbarium)

But there was a notable lack of recognition for Clover’s pioneering work at the University of Michigan, and both she and Jotter were somewhat disinclined to discuss their trip with either family or friends. “I think they were proud of what they did,” said Sevigny. “But I think it wasn’t in Elzada’s personality to go around and crow about it. There were little things like, for example, she didn’t insist on being called Dr. Clover in the press. I think their honesty about the scientific challenges they faced and their reluctance to speak publicly about what they had accomplished might have contributed to people not knowing what an extraordinary thing they had done.” As to their being the first known women to successfully take a boat down the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon, Sevigny points out that Clover was always careful to say she and Jotter were the first non-indigenous women to boat the Canyon. She was respectful of and interested in the indigenous cultures that preceded her in the places she visited, including the Havasupai and Navajo peoples. 

Elzada U. Clover, circa 1938 (Ann Arbor News)
To Clover’s great frustration - one that followed her all her life - national wire stories would depreciate her and Jotter's scientific achievements and continue to focus on their gender and age. A former river runner described Clover as a “middle-aged woman who has lost her way in life” and a 1946 Saturday Evening Post article described Clover as a spinster looking for a last adventure. “The story depressed and infuriated Clover,” Sevigny writes. “Her work as a respected university professor had been reduced to bedtime stories for children, and instead of an accomplished scientist and explorer, she was depicted as an aging spinster with a life empty of meaning.” 

“Everything is so big and timeless there it makes so many worries and things here seem so petty.”

Yet Clover would funnel her passion into further botany, travel -- and teaching, eventually rising through the ranks at the University of Michigan. She became a curator at the University’s botanical gardens in 1957 (as well as the first U-M instructor to teach a class there) and she became the first woman in the U-M Botany department to earn a full professorship, serving from 1960-1967. By all accounts, she was excellent at her job. One of Clover’s former students, Jane Myers, penned an eloquent tribute to her in the Ann Arbor News when Clover died, and she recalled Clover’s infectious passion for plants and her memorable teaching style: “She was somebody with such intense interest in all things botanical that you did not want to disappoint her. She was not tough on her students—just always intense. Very quietly.” Clover also held small gatherings of students at her upstairs apartment at 1522 Hill Street.

Dr. Clover holds a frozen flower specimen at the University of Michigan, March 1952 (Ann Arbor News)
Meyers further notes: “In my class out at the greenhouses of the Botanical Gardens in their old 1950s setting, Dr. Clover had us make wire balls with soil in the middle into which we stuck many African violet plants. My mother loved it! There was nothing academic about it; it was just an imaginative use of plants. I think she was ahead of any educational trend by years. She wanted us to enjoy plants as much as she did.” During a book talk at the U-M Biological Station in Pellston, Michigan, where Clover frequently taught, Sevigny met two other former students of Clover’s, and their recollections echo Myers: “Her whole life was about plants. They both said that it changed their lives to absorb some of that passion for the natural world.”

After retiring from the University of Michigan in 1967, Clover moved to San Juan, Texas. On November 2, 1980, she died in McAllen, Texas, close to the Mexico border. Despite all the obstacles she faced, Elzada Clover dared to undertake both an epic adventure and a career path that up to that point had been exclusively the domain of men. “Before them, men had gone down the Colorado to sketch dams, plot railroads, dig gold, and daydream little Swiss chalets stuck up on the cliffs,” writes Sevigny. “They saw the river for what it could be, harnessed for human use. Clover and Jotter saw it as it was, a living system made up of flower, leaf, and thorn, lovely in its fierceness, worthy of study for its own sake.”

The same can be said of Elzada Clover herself. Her legacy is the cacti and succulent room at the University’s Matthaei Botanical Gardens, which was seeded by her southwest collections, and her over 300 specimens in the University of Michigan Herbarium.

Bobby And The Old Professor: Adventures In Science, 1938-1949

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It all began with an advertisement on the front page of the Ann Arbor News. It was Saturday, January 8, 1938, and readers were encouraged to visit page 5 of the newspaper to meet Bobby and the Old Professor "(who knows almost everything)" for an adventure in science. "The feature, written by R. Ray Baker, is intended especially for children but grownups will like it, too."

Advertisement For Bobby & The Old Professor Series, Ann Arbor News, January 8, 1938

Russell Ray Baker, 1948, Ann Arbor News, Associate Editor & Science Writer

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

R. Ray Baker was a known quantity to readers of local newspapers. In 1923 he became managing editor of the Ann Arbor News, then known as the Ann Arbor Times-News, and served in that capacity until 1934 when he became Associate Editor. Baker was also a feature and science writer for affiliated Booth Newspapers, Inc. (Saginaw News, Flint Journal, Grand Rapids Press, Jackson Citizen-Patriot, Muskegon Chronicle, Bay City Times, Kalamazoo Gazette, & Ann Arbor News). He published articles nearly every day, and tried to keep the public informed on new developments in the fields of science and medicine. Much of his information came from interviewing University of Michigan staff members, and professors regularly cooperated with him on major stories.

Bobby, The Old Professor, And (Sometimes) Julia

Jackie Carl aka "Julia"

Russell Baker aka "Bobby"

William H. Butts aka "The Old Professor"

The launch of R. Ray Baker's new Bobby and the Old Professor series was geared toward a young audience, but aimed to educate adults as well. The premise was simple: "Bobby" was a boy of roughly 10 years old who was curious about the world around him and had lots of questions. The "Old Professor" had all of the answers. With each article, a photograph depicting their weekly adventure would be published as well. Ann Arbor News photographer Eck Stanger shot all of the staged images for the series. "Bobby" was portrayed by R. Ray Baker's son Russell, and the "Old Professor" was retired University of Michigan Mathematics Professor William H. Butts. Baker thought of the "Old Professor" as a composite of all of the U of M faculty men he had interviewed over the years, and felt that Professor Butts had an appearance to fit this role. Later in the series the character of "Julia" was added, the female counterpart to "Bobby," and Jackie Carl portrayed that role in the photographs.

Bobby & The Old Professor With Julia: Radio, Ann Arbor News, October 1938

Scientific Adventures In Newspapers
R. Ray Baker's very first Bobby and the Old Professor article was titled "What's A Leaf?". Each week Baker would consult with experts at the University of Michigan to ensure the accuracy of his writing. Scientific mysteries would be explained in simplified language. Topics varied throughout the first year of the series from radios to turkeys, ancient pottery, the northern lights, quicksand, linotype machines, fire, sabre-toothed tigers, the four seasons, and volcanos.

The scientific adventures of Bobby and the Old Professor (and sometimes Julia) appeared originally in Booth Newspapers, Inc. publications. The Flint Journal, for example, ran the series as part of their "Children's Corner," which eventually grew into the "Wide Awake Club" page in Sunday issues. By March 1938, R. Ray Baker was encouraging children to participate in the series. "WRITE TO THE OLD PROFESSOR," the headline declared. "Boys and girls are invited to write to the Old Professor, in care of this newspaper, for explanation of anything that puzzles them." Soon the Old Professor was directly answering children's science questions in the series, increasing readership of the already popular articles.

Bobby and the Old Professor, Ann Arbor News, June 4, 1938

Bobby & The Old Professor Examine Mammoth Tusks At The University Museum, Ann Arbor News, 1938
Scientific Adventures In Books
In 1939 the first Bobby and the Old Professor book was released. "So That's The Reason!" published by Reilly and Lee, Chicago, was a collection of selected (and sometimes revised) articles from the newspaper series. Topics included spiders and webs, Saturn's rings, thunder & lightning, glaciers, why ducks swim, and snowflakes. The book contained a foreword by Dr. Alexander G. Ruthven, president of the University of Michigan, and was dedicated to "The curiosity of American youngsters - may it never grow less!". Illustrations were included, along with the photos that Eck Stanger had contributed to the newspaper series. Reilly and Lee, Chicago, would eventually publish five more of R. Ray Baker's Bobby and the Old Professor books: So That's Chemistry! (1940), So That's Astronomy! (1941), So That's Geology! (1942), So That's Life! (1943), & So That's Man! (1949).

So That's The Reason!, Bobby & The Old Professor, Book 1, 1939

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Adventure's End
The Bobby and the Old Professor series ran weekly from January 1938 until May 1949. At the end of June 1941, Professor William H. Butts aka "The Old Professor" died at the age of 84. The photos featured in the series after his death would be of Bobby & Julia, with no replacement for the professor's character. The series continued to run steadily through the 1940s, and remained a popular feature in Booth newspapers around Michigan. As Russell Baker ("Bobby") and Jackie Carl ("Julia") grew into young adults and moved on with their lives, the series eventually stopped featuring photos of them and turned towards the use of illustrations instead.

Bobby & The Old Professor: Reflections, Ann Arbor News, January 1940
 

Bobby, The Old Professor, & Julia Examine Coral, Ann Arbor News, October 1940

Bobby & Julia Investigate Tin Cans, Ann Arbor News, August 1941

Bobby and the Old Professor, Ann Arbor News, February 26, 1949

On May 2, 1949, R. Ray Baker experienced some chest pain. He collapsed on East Washington Street while walking to his doctor's office, and died before reaching the hospital by ambulance. His untimely passing at the age of 58 was mourned throughout the Booth Newspaper affiliates, especially in Ann Arbor by those who worked closely with him on a daily basis. He had just finished work on his book "So That's Man!" and it was published shortly after his death, along with his final installment of Bobby and the Old Professor. Baker was praised for his wide-reaching career in journalism that successfully made science education accessible to countless numbers of adult and children alike. 

Treasure Mart

Grace Bigby Outside "The Broadway" Card Shop, June 1970

In 1960, housewife Demaris Cash (Dee, to her friends) was forced to confront how she would provide for her family if she lost her husband, Travis, who had recently survived his second heart attack. The couple had two daughters: Janis, who had been diagnosed with muscular dystrophy, and Elaine. At a luncheon with friends, the idea of a consignment store was floated and soon Demaris was on the search for a business partner. 

Unlike Demaris, who had never held a job outside of the home, Grace Bigby was an experienced businesswoman. Her entrepreneurship began around 1945 when she learned to mount figure skating blades for her daughters. As her daughters grew it became wasteful to keep purchasing new skates, so she started a skate exchange and blade mounting enterprise. In 1966, she added a gift and card store to her ventures at 1115 Broadway in the converted old Northside Baptist church and she moved her skate business into the basement there. 

Treasure Mart Exterior, 1978

The Beginning

Grace and Demaris had never previously met, but after Grace heard of Demaris’s business idea they exchanged a phone call and soon were signing a lease for 529 Detroit Street. The old industrial brick building was originally constructed in 1869 as a steam wood planing mill, the second at that location after a previous mill had burned down. It was operated by John G. Miller, who lived next door at 521 Detroit Street. The large commercial space had lived many lives, having previously been home to a machine shop, furniture store, toy company, and a produce distributor. The pair’s plan to open a retail shop required a vision, and some remodeling. 

They named their store Treasure Mart and their first sale was a matter of fate. Demaris had learned that her daughter’s dance instructor was looking for a chandelier. A sign was hung during construction to announce a future resale business. As painting was still underway a man who had taken notice of the upcoming store stopped to offer up a chandelier. Demaris was a pious woman and saw that her prayers had been answered; she brokered the exchange. 

Grace and Demaris’s partnership fit their strengths. Grace handled the financials and bookkeeping, while Demaris managed the inventory. After 15 years, family illness led Grace to leave the business and the Cashes stepped in. Treasure Mart became a family corporation owned with daughters Janis and Elaine, along with Elaine’s husband, Carl Johns.

Treasure Mart Interior, September 1960

The Business

Treasure Mart’s sales floor encompassed the building’s three stories and a garage. Each level was filled to the brim with furniture, antiques, collectibles, and home decor of all sizes and eras. Items were brought in by consignors who paid an annual membership fee and earned a percentage of the item’s profit once it was sold. If something didn’t sell after a few months the price would be reduced, as would the profit. By 2018 the store had 1,000 consignors and a two-month wait for members looking to join. The specifics changed throughout the years, but in 2018 the annual fee was $25 and sellers earned 65 percent of the sold price, or 50 percent for items listed at less than $4.

Treasure Mart went through expansions and experiments throughout its 60 years. The company tried its hand at managing estate sales and used them as a means to collect inventory. The popularity of the consignment led to franchises and by 1979 Treasure Marts could be found in Elyria, Ohio; Kokomo, Indiana; Minneapolis; Bloomington, Illinois; and Flint. Travis Cash's health had improved and in 1962, soon after his heart attack that had spurred Demaris into starting Treasure Mart, he retired from his career as a Quaker Oil Salesman. In order to fill his time he began to manage a few racks of clothing at the store. In 1963, after outgrowing the allotted space, he founded “The Tree" for clothing consignment just up the block from Treasure Mart at 419 Detroit Street. 

Travis Cash At The Tree, July 1974

Demaris Cash At Treasure Mart, April 1989

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Second Generation

Janis Cash At Treasure Mart, July 1979

In 1982, twenty years after his retirement, Travis Cash passed away and Demaris became the proprietor of both Treasure Mart and The Tree. The following year the family was able to purchase Treasure Mart's building and the house next door that had once belonged to John G. Miller.  

When Treasure Mart was established Grace was 50 and Demaris was 55 -- ages when a person is more likely to be planning for retirement than entrepreneurship. Demaris could be found greeting customers at the store into her 80s, but after developing Alzheimer’s Disease she spent her final years at the Chelsea Retirement Center. She passed away in February of 2001, two weeks after Grace.

Elaine was teaching in St. Joseph, Michigan when she decided to come home to help her mother with the store in the summer of 1974. After that, she never left. Carl joined her soon after and the two took over the store’s management in 1995 as her mother’s health was declining, with Janis remaining as a co-owner.

After the loss of both parents, and increased competition from chain stores like Value World, Janis and Elaine made the difficult decision to close The Tree in 2005. Manager Josephine Watne was 83 and had been there for all but two of the store’s 43 years. 

The Treasure Mart remained an Ann Arbor staple, but the family confronted more obstacles in November of 2019 when Elaine was diagnosed with ALS. The Johnses had a balanced partnership like Demaris and Grace before them. Travis worked the floor and took care of billing and payroll while Elaine worked in the office. Alongside Elaine's diagnosis, Carl had gone through a series of pacemakers and their adult children had pursued careers of their own.

Treasure Mart had begun in response to health complications and now was ending for the same reasons. The building and business were listed for sale together in January of 2020 with the hopes of finding an owner to maintain the consignment.

Elaine Johns, Demaris Cash and Carl Johns inside Treasure Mart, October 1995

The End

The surrounding neighborhood had changed immensely in the store’s 60 years. Treasure Mart moved in when it was still "The Old Neighborhood'' and industrial works could be found nearby. When it came time to sell, real estate in what's now known as “Kerrytown” was highly sought after. The Johnses acknowledged that their vision for the store’s continuance may lose out to the building's redevelopment potential. 

The store's listing closely pre-dated the COVID-19 pandemic precautions that disallowed dense in-person shopping. It was a historically bad time to get into business and no buyer came forward. The store's permanent closure was announced in a Facebook post in June of 2020.

At Treasure Mart, it was common for employee's tenures to last a decade, or multiple. Frequent customers and consignors could expect to be greeted by the same faces, including the Cash and Johns family members. Both generations of owners had emphasized that Treasure Mart was always about the community of people who shopped and worked there. The hundreds of comments and likes that flooded in to profess gratitude and well wishes in the wake of the imminent closure proved that to be true.

Five months later, in November of 2020, Elaine (Cash) Johns passed away. She was followed two years later by her sister Janis (Cash) Raber, who lived in Florida and, true to the family business, had established herself as an antique dealer. 

The building was purchased in 2021 by the nondenominational Redeemer Ann Arbor church for $2 million with plans to undertake renovations and restoration. Treasure Mart may be gone, but the cherished finds and relationships formed there remain throughout Ann Arbor.

529 Detroit Street Under Renovation, July 19, 2024

Treasure Mart, May 1, 2020

James Babcock: Ann Arbor's Most Eligible Bachelor

Year
2024

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DEATH OF A WEALTHY UNCLE
This Ann Arbor story begins with the death of a Washtenaw County pioneer and the vast fortune he left behind. Luther James, born in Western Massachusetts, arrived in Washtenaw County in the 1830s and began dealing in horses. He then turned his business skills toward the wool industry, buying Michigan Territory wool and shipping it east. His work greatly encouraged sheep farms in the area and, for a while, he was the largest wool-buyer in Michigan. In later years, he loaned money to local individuals and businesses. All of these efforts amassed him a sizable fortune, and he became one of Washtenaw County's wealthiest citizens.

Luther James never married and lived alone. As he aged, and his health deteriorated, he needed an assistant to manage his business affairs and help with his physical care. His unmarried nephew, James Babcock, stepped in to fill the role and became his constant companion. When Luther James died, on July 25, 1888, his nephew was his principle heir. Unfortunately for James Babcock, this inheritance came with a unique stipulation that would turn his life upside down.

THE UNMARRIED NEPHEW
James Leland Babcock was born February 10, 1840 in Goshen, Hampshire County, Massachusetts. He was raised in Western Massachusetts by his parents, Dr. Leland Babcock & Elizabeth (James) Babcock. His mother traced her family back to the pilgrims at Plymouth Rock. James was educated in Goshen and Northampton, MA, and eventually moved west to work in Chicago around 1860. The Great Chicago Fire in 1871, as well as his uncle Luther James, both prompted him to relocate to Ann Arbor.

James Babcock worked as a private secretary to his uncle, assisting him in the management of his assets, and accumulated a small fortune of his own in the process. His uncle loved to travel, and James would escort him to the South during the winters. Each summer they would travel to Waukesha, Wisconsin where they stayed at the popular resort of George Burroughs, and visited the "healthful benefits" of the Bethesda Spring.

In 1888, Uncle Luther James died. He left behind an estate valued at half a million dollars or more, the equivalent of nearly $17 million in 2024. When the will was read, the sum of $5,000 was left to each of Luther James' 21 nieces and nephews, as well as his two surviving sisters. The rest of his estate was left to James Babcock, his close confidant and favorite nephew. This should have been the end of the story, but Luther James had left a condition in his will: James Babcock must be married within five years from the time the will was probated, or his share of the inheritance would be divided among the other surviving family members. James Babcock, 48 year old Ann Arbor resident, suddenly needed to find a wife.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
ALL THE SINGLE LADIES (and a few lonely men)
News of James Babcock's potential windfall spread across national newspapers, and even into Europe. Much like a current reality show with women lining up to marry a total stranger, single ladies across the country quickly jostled for the attention of James Babcock. No one seemed to be deterred by reports of him being "an abrupt, gray little man of 45", or the news that "In his slippers he stands up to five-feet-three".  His mailbox filled with correspondence from marriageable women of all ages, their parents, guardians, relatives, and friends. Each letter came from someone anxious to help him select a wife. James initially found these letters pleasant, but they quickly multiplied and grew to be a burden and an annoyance. He even received cables from women in England who worried that a steamship wouldn't deliver their letters quickly enough.

Many of the letter writers included photographs of themselves or someone else, all claiming to be beautiful. One music teacher remarked that her friends say "that she bears a striking resemblance to Mrs. President Cleveland." Single women looking for a wealthy husband contacted him from every state in the union. Massachusetts, New York, Wisconsin, Illinois, and Colorado, provided the largest amount of mail. Some letters arrived on delicate paper written in a fine hand, while others were impossible to decipher. Several letters were written in German, a language that James Babcock was not able to read. Many of the letters included poetry, some pulled from books and some crafted by the suitor herself. One widow from Detroit spoke of having three children that her parents were happy to take if Mr. Babcock did not want to be a father. Even men wrote to James Babcock, asking if he would share single women interested in marriage with other bachelors.

According to an 1888 article published in the San Francisco Chronicle titled "BESIEGED BY WOMEN," James took the time to read every letter. He devised a numbering and filing system for all of the correspondence, and jotted down notes about each potential suitor. When the amount of mail became too much for him to handle in his free time he was forced to hire a male secretary to take over the process.

San Francisco Chronicle, December 17, 1888, Page 6
EXAMPLES OF LETTERS TO THE BACHELOR
From Crystal Springs, Mass:
I have heard a great deal about you, and to say I am pleased with you does not express my feelings. What is the shape of your head? your complexion? Oh. Mr. Babcock, do you chew tobacco? I know I am all your heart could wish. I have a rich cream complexion that would charm the soul and paralyze the intellect. What is your ideal woman? I would practice until I reached perfection...

From Fairbury, Illinois:
...Oh, I nearly forgot to tell you my age, it is about 45, isn't that a nice age? I do hope this epistle will strike you favorably for I am so anxious to help you spend your fortune now pray do not keep me in suspense, but write to me ahead of my number and so relieve my mind, and if you write me favorably I will refuse to take in any more washings and feel that my hard lot in life is over, for I am so tired of washing for a living...

From Wareham, Mass:
Mr. Babcock: Here is one more letter from the Massachusetts surplus. If you are not too bitter a pill to take I will help protect you from the many lambs anxious to be taken into the fold. Understand, I do this from a sense of duty and not from greed. X. X.

From Indianapolis, Indiana:
I am really very much ashamed of my sex to think our American women would propose marriage to a gentleman for his wealth. I presume they will love your pocketbook and respect you...

From San Francisco, California:
I am the oldest of four children. If you have made your choice perhaps you know of some other gentleman friend who wants a wife...

THE BACHELOR CHOOSES A HOME

Ann Arbor Argus, June 2, 1891
Before James Babcock would choose a spouse, he would choose a new home. One sentence in the City & County section of the Ann Arbor Argus, June 2, 1891, quietly announced that James Babcock spent $10,000 on the purchase of 12 N. Division Street, the elegant former residence of the late Dr. Ebenezer Wells. Wells had been a physician, a banker, and the mayor of Ann Arbor during the Civil War. The stately mansion, which we now know as the Wells-Babcock House at 208 N. Division Street, was one of the finest homes in the city. Moving into the lavish dwelling only increased the fervor of women vying for his attention.

The Wells Babcock House, 208 North Division Street. The original address, 12 N. Division Street, is still noted above the grand front entrance.
 

THE BACHELOR CHOOSES A WIFE
As the years passed, stories circulated about who Mr. Babcock was engaged to marry. Several women claimed to be the chosen one, but none of these rumors proved to be true. In August 1892, after four years, and thousands of letters and proposals from potential spouses, it was announced that James Babcock was really, truly engaged.

On September 29, 1892, James Babcock married Ella Stanley Butler in her hometown of Waukesha, Wisconsin. The pair had met years before their marriage during James' regular vacations in Waukesha with his uncle, mother, and aunt. James appears to have thought Ella was engaged to another man, and proposed to her when he found out that she was actually single. The Waukesha Freeman ran a front page headline, "BRIDE AND FORTUNE. J. L. BABCOCK WINS BOTH ON HIS WEDDING DAY." Ella was a popular contralto who frequently sang in the area. On their wedding day James was 52 and Ella was 35, a seventeen year age difference. James had made the deadline set by his uncle, with one year left to spare. Much to the disappointment of countless single women, the news made headlines across the country.

Chattanooga Daily Times, Front Page, October 3, 1892
 

HAPPILY EVER AFTER
James & Ella Babcock used some of the inheritance money to renovate their large home. The Babcock coat of arms was commemorated in stained glass, leather wall coverings were shipped from Europe, pressed paper wall coverings were shipped from Boston, and mahogany furniture was upholstered in brocatelle. Many fine details of the home were upgraded and refurbished to reflect their personal taste, including Derby satin curtains, frescoed ceilings, and a Chickering grand piano. In December 1894, the Babcocks threw a party to show off their refashioned home. Nearly 300 invitations were sent out, and their residence soon became known as the site of many popular, upscale gatherings in Ann Arbor.

Philanthropy also became a focus of the Babcocks. One of the most important projects for James Babcock to support was back in his hometown of Goshen, Massachusetts. The John James Memorial Building, dedicated in 1911, was constructed as a town hall, library, and general civic center. John James was his great-grandfather, and the Babcocks contributed a portion of the funding to make the memorial a reality. Ella Babcock sang at the dedication ceremonies for the facility. The building still stands today and is on the National Register of Historic Places.

John James Memorial, Goshen, MA, 1929
On February 8, 1912, just two days before his 72nd birthday, James Babcock died at the Hollenbeck Hotel in Jacksonville, Florida. Ella and George Woods, his private secretary, escorted his body on a train back to Ann Arbor. He was buried in Forest Hill Cemetery, just steps from Dr. Ebenezer Wells, the former owner of his Ann Arbor home.

Three years later, in February 1915, Ella raised eyebrows in Ann Arbor when she married Allen Dudley. Ella was 57 years old, while Allen, a music student, had just turned 33. When she died on October 14, 1927, she was buried beside James in Forest Hill Cemetery. Little is known of what became of Allen Dudley, except that he moved to Beverly Hills, California and worked as a broker. He died in 1936. What happened to the fortune that started this whole story remains unknown.


Francie Kraker Goodridge & the Michigammes' Olympic Legacy

Year
2024

Francie Kraker Races Against Two Boys in Physical Education Class, May 1962
A decade before Title IX would establish equal access to sports across the sexes, Betty and 'Red' Simmons founded the Michigammes Track and Field team for girls and women. Six years later, three of the club’s alumni were competitors in the 1968 Olympics. One was Ann Arbor native Francie Kraker.

The Simmons’ Support

As spectators at the 1960 Roman Olympics Kenneth 'Red' Simmons and Elizabeth 'Betty' Simmons noticed how poorly the United States women's team performed in the 800m track and field event. They recognized an opportunity.

Red (nicknamed for his hair color) and Betty had met studying physical education at Michigan State Normal College (now, Eastern Michigan University). Red had earned accolades in high school and college athletics. As an undergraduate, he participated in the 1932 Olympic trials, but fell short of making the team. After college, he spent 25 years as a Detroit Police detective before returning to Eastern in 1959 to earn his Masters in Physical Education.

Francie Kraker Trains at Yost Fieldhouse with Red and Betty Simmons, February 1965
The Simmons' moved to Ann Arbor when Red was offered a job as an instructor in the University of Michigan’s physical education department. Betty found employment as a P.E. teacher at Slauson Junior High. It was Betty who saw 14 year old Francie Kraker run the 600m physical fitness test in a flash. Francie finished in less than two minutes, easily outrunning every member of her class, regardless of their gender. Betty shared the news of Francie’s feat with Red. They had discovered their Olympic hopeful.

Francie was the founding member of the Ann Arbor Ann’s Track Club in 1962. The team was renamed the Michigammes in 1965, by which time their membership had grown to include at least 14 girls and women from throughout Southeast Michigan. They participated in indoor and outdoor track and field, and cross country, becoming dominant in them all. 

Red was a trailblazer not only as an early champion of girls' and women's competitive sports, but in his embrace of weight training. He designed programs for the University of Michigan Football team and for Francie. She would later credit his strength building instruction as the reason she was able to avoid many injuries.

Road to the Olympics

Francie Kraker, 'Speediest' Waitress in Town, November 1967
Francea 'Francie' Kraker was the middle child of Dr. Ralph and Norma Kraker. She attended Slauson Junior High, graduated from Pioneer High School in 1965, and went on to the University of Michigan, competing as part of the Michigammes all throughout. The Ann Arbor News profiled Francie less than a year into her training when she was already aiming for the Olympics.

Francie had all of the elements that make a good athlete. Red commended her natural stride, intelligence, ability to take instruction, and quick learning. In the lead up to the 1968 Olympic trials Francie needed to be pushed by a higher caliber of competition, but traveling to events required money. Local supporters started fundraising to aid Francie. She took a semester of college off to train and work as a waitress at the Old German restaurant to finance her dreams. She faced more challenges when she was sidelined by appendicitis and tendonitis.

After years of anticipation the Olympic trials finally arrived, but she finished just short of the top three 800m qualifying spots. Red attributed her performance to anxiety, “She wanted to make the team so much that she just couldn’t hold herself in. She thought she could hold the pace.” Despite the shortfall, her accomplishments didn’t go unnoticed. She was offered a spot at the U.S. team's training camp at Los Alamos to prove her high-altitude running abilities that would be required for the Mexico City Games. Francie didn’t squander this second chance and she secured a spot on the team. 

1968 Mexico City Olympics

In 1968 Francie made history as the first Michigan-born woman to represent the United States as part of the Track and Field team. Her Games were short-lived after she was eliminated in her first race. She had gotten an unlucky draw of tough competitors that included the eventual 800m bronze and silver medal winners. If she had participated in any other first round she would have advanced to the semi-finals. The disappointment provided motivation to keep training for a chance to race again in 1972. 

The Olympics are an occasion for countries to project an idealized national identity, but what is ignored in order to present this vision? Ten days before the games began in Mexico City the Mexican Armed Forces had killed hundreds of student demonstrators in the city. For the United States, the fight for civil rights made its way to the international stage when Black athletes Tommie Smith and John Carlos each raised a gloved first on the podium during the medal ceremony for the 200m sprint. Francie was in the audience during this demonstration and in a 2013 oral history interview recalled her reaction, “I think it was one of the bravest things I’ve ever seen anybody do.” 

1972 Munich Olympics

Francie Kraker reunited with Michigammes coach Red Simmons before Olympic training camp, July 1972
After graduating from Michigan Francie moved to Boston and maintained her conditioning routine with the 1972 Munich Games in mind. The Simmons’ had identified a weak point in the women’s 800m and Francie did the same years later when she recognized an opening to excel at the newly introduced women’s 1500m event. 

The switch paid off, and Francie finished second in the event's U.S. Olympic trials to qualify for the team. In a diary of her 1972 Olympic experience Francie described the buildup to her first race in Munich, “As I get into my warmup I feel perfect, to my surprise, yet still have a sense of unreality that this mere physical effort is made confusingly out of proportion to all this preparation and waiting.” This time, Francie advanced to the semi-finals. 

Francie Training, July 1972
The Games are a global event and in 1972 violence was used to command the attention of the international media. Eight Palestinian militants affiliated with the group Black September captured nine Israeli athletes as hostages and killed two in the process, demanding the release of Palestinians held in Israeli prisons. A failed rescue attempt ended with nine athletes, five gunmen, and one West German police officer dead. The International Olympic Committee suspended events for one day to hold a memorial. 

Francie wasn't left with much time to process what had occurred. The following day she was back on the track to compete in the 1500m semi-finals. She finished with a time of 4:12.8, which would have ranked her sixth in the world the year before, but it wasn't enough this time. Her second Games were over. She left Munich before the closing ceremonies and later wrote, “My own feelings are still mixed about these and future Olympic Games. It must be a reflection of the confusion we feel to the roots of our society, this lack of agreement as to the value and meaning of these Games and our part in them. The place of nationalism must be redefined, the emphasis redirected to the competition of athlete between athlete.” 

The Michigammes, including Francie and Sperry, June 1965
The Michigammes' Medal Contenders

Francie was not the only Michigammes alumnus to take part in the 1968 and 1972 Olympics. In 1968 Sperry Jones Rademaker competed in kayak doubles alongside her sister, Marcia Jones Smoke. As a University of Michigan student Sperry was one of the earliest Michigammes members in 1963 and excelled at cross-country. Francie cheered her on in Mexico City and the two were close friends.  

Maxine 'Micki' King, a Pontiac native, was also member of the Michigammes at one time alongside her training with diving coach Dick Kimball. A repeat national diving champion, Micki was highly favored in 1968, but ended up fourth after she was injured mid-event. She forged a comeback in Munich to earn gold in the 3m springboard. 

Lasting Legacies

After her second Olympics, Francie vowed to keep training for more international competition, but she decided to hang up her spikes in 1975 after accepting a position at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. She became the women’s athletic director and track and cross country coach, the first role in a career path made possible by Title IX's passage in 1972. She later returned to Ann Arbor where she coached Greenhills' girls' track to the school’s first State Championship, then moved on to East Lansing.

The same year that Francie ended her competitive track career, Red retired from coaching the Michigammes. Betty had recently passed away after battling cancer and her contributions to the team were indispensable. Sustaining the club often came down to personal contributions from the couple, who would cover entry and travel fees when girls couldn’t afford them. “It’s a long ways to build a club,” Red later said, “But I never really got discouraged. Every now and then, I would see a little spark and determination in the girls. That’s all I really needed."

Red was coaxed out of retirement three years later when he was offered a job he couldn't resist: inaugural coach of the University of Michigan Women’s Track Team. He spent four years building up the team's roster and skills before passing the reins to the next logical successor: Francie. 

Red Simmons with Francie Goodridge, U-M Women's Track Coach, 1983. Courtesy of the Bentley Historical Library.
Francie had never had the chance to race for any of her alma maters. She later reflected, “It would have been something special if I could have been running for my high school or my university but they didn’t have women’s teams and I missed that.”

Now, she was able to provide that chance to the women who came after her. While the law stipulated equal funding for women, enforcement didn't come without persistence and long-held beliefs weren't changed overnight. In 2013, Francie described leadership in the University's athletic department that didn’t believe in the value of women’s sports. “By the time I started coaching at Michigan it hadn’t gotten much better because the same people were in place… it was a battle all the way.” 

The fight continued at Wake Forest University where she and her husband, John Goodridge, both coached. A decade after Title IX, Francie was combatting inequalities regarding medical and safety concerns, scholarships, and staffing. In 1999, Francie was fired from Wake Forest and John quit in support, alleging her departure was retaliation for her support of her athletes' rights. They returned to Ann Arbor where Francie worked in the University's admissions office and John coached at Eastern.

Red passed away in 2012 at the age of 102, leaving a legacy of coaching women and girls to challenge themselves and society’s expectations for them. He took pride in the impact he had on Michigammes’ members, “The main thing I try to teach the girls is an attitude about training and about life that will carry on into other activities as they get older. You have to bring them along gradually because they don’t understand a lot of the time what it takes to become a well-trained athlete, but they do learn about themselves both physically and emotionally.” 

Reflecting on her career as an athlete and coach in 1982 Francie said, “I’ve always felt a few years ahead of things, I was too old to wait for things to happen, so I took the opportunities as they came.” In 1995 Francie became the second person inducted into the Michigan Women’s Track Hall of Fame; the first was Red Simmons.

Markham Pottery: The Simple Beauty Of Ann Arbor Clay

Year
2024

Markham Pottery. Vase. Glazed Earthenware. Diameter: 5 5/8 in. (14.29 cm) Height: 7 1/8 in. (18.1 cm). Los Angeles County Museum of Art.

In 1948, a new street named Madison Place was constructed in Ann Arbor. Before the first two homes (615 & 621 Madison Place) could be built, developer W. O. Edwards had to demolish the remains of a large, conical, concrete pottery kiln on the property. This kiln, which hadn't been fired since before 1911, was the last physical trace of Ann Arbor's internationally renowned Markham Pottery complex. The business had once flourished behind Herman Markham's house, until a spectacular fire completely leveled the pottery works, save for a few free-standing kilns.

The Markham Family

Herman Cornelius Markham was born in Ann Arbor, Michigan in 1850 to a farm family from Connecticut. His parents were Augustine & Electa (Henion) Markham. His grandfather, Isaac Markham, was a revolutionary war soldier who had reportedly fought in the Battle of Bunker Hill. In his adult life, Herman proudly displayed his grandfather's flintlock musket in his Ann Arbor home. Herman married Ione Sprague in October of 1876. In November 1877 their only child, Kenneth Sprague Markham, was born.

Herman, like several of his siblings, was well-educated and had a wide range of skills and interests. He attended the University of Michigan where he focused on Chemistry, Anthropology, and Archaeology. Around Ann Arbor he was known primarily as a farmer and an apiarist, serving as the Superintendent of Bees & Honey in the Washtenaw County Agricultural Society. According to many newspaper reports, he was an employee of the University of Michigan's Department of Archaeology for several years. He was also a skilled wood engraver, watercolorist, occasional traveling salesman, and very briefly worked as a clerk at The Crescent Works, Ann Arbor's corset factory.

 

 

 

Herman C. Markham, Undated, Courtesy of the Markham Family

Herman C. Markham, Undated, Courtesy of the Markham Family
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ann Arbor Clay

If you follow Madison Street west through Ann Arbor, it ends at Seventh Street where the the Old Walnut Heights condominiums now look down from a hill. In the late 1800s, when this section of Seventh was still known as Jewett Avenue, the Markham family home crowned this high ground. A large bed of roses sat alongside the house, which complemented Herman's bees, and a tributary of Allen's Creek ran through the backyard.

All accounts of Markham Pottery's beginnings point to the roses as the inspiration. As the story goes, Herman Markham loved to display his roses and never had enough vases for all his fine flowers. He was also frustrated by water in vases quickly turning warm and causing the roses to wilt. In the manner of someone who is generally handy, with interests in chemistry and archaeology, he decided to craft a vase out of clay dug out of his yard and fired it in his home's fireplace. His first attempts at pottery making were untrained and undecorated, but achieved his goal of creating simple, natural forms that would keep water cool. He even crafted a potters wheel for his experiments, made from an old sewing machine and a jig saw.

The clay found on his Ann Arbor property would continue to be his creative material of choice as his foray into the world of pottery expanded. After the clay was dug, it would be washed, screened, and repeatedly graded. When a creamy, fine medium was achieved, it would be thrown on the makeshift wheel. Molds were constructed from successful pieces, and then could be duplicated. As Markham Pottery grew from a hobby project into a marketable business, Herman Markham constructed a simple wood building on the open land behind his home to use as a workshop.

"Markham Pottery; BL004793." In the digital collection Bentley Historical Library: Bentley Image Bank. https://quod.lib.umich.edu/b/bhl/x-bl004793/bl004793. University of Michigan Library Digital Collections. 
1904 - 1910, Ann Arbor

"Utile" mark: UP cipher, incised.
Art historians point to 1904 as when Herman committed to his pottery business as his main source of income. Herman Markham referred to his first pieces as "Utile" and incised the bottoms with a special cipher (see image). The name came from his desire to craft utilitarian vases that would not overshadow the beauty of the roses they would hold. As his work developed more distinct characteristics, and as dealers and friends urged him to personalize his pottery, he changed the name to Markham and incised the bottoms with his signature and an individual piece number (see image). In 1905 the Ann Arbor City Directory lists Herman Markham's occupation as "pottery" for the first time. The same was listed for Kenneth, Herman's son, who worked as an assistant in the family business.

In January 1906, the Ann Arbor Argus-Democrat published the article "New Local Industry Steadily Developing" about the growth and success of Markham Pottery. "The beautiful work of which is growing another plume in Ann Arbor's illustrious bonnet," declared the newspaper. The shape of Markham pots and vessels were all based on classical forms. Their surface appeal was the unique earth tones and textures, which look like delicate etchings, appearing as if they might have been recently unearthed by archaeologists. Matte in finish, with no two pieces the same, the glaze was a secret formula that Herman Markham developed with, in his words, "varied combinations of chemical, physical and mechanical forces." Throughout his career, he carefully guarded his glazing process, only revealing that the designs formed naturally like frost on a window pane. He was often interviewed about his work, and would let visitors watch his entire system of creating pottery, except for when the glaze was applied. Markham Pottery was crafted in two styles of surface known as reseau (finely textured) and arabesque (coarsely textured).

 

Markham Pottery. Arabesque Vase #4534. Glazed Earthenware. 4.25″h x 2.75″. Private Collection.

Markham Pottery. Pitcher. Glazed Stoneware. 11 1/8 in. x 3 9/16 in. x 5 3/4 in. University of Michigan Museum Of Art.
 

 

 

Markham Pottery never advertised their business, but demand grew steadily. Pieces were featured in exhibitions and galleries across the United States and Europe, and were sought after by collectors. In 1907, the Ann Arbor News-Argus ran a story on Markham Pottery, "A Story Of One Man's Genius", featuring photos of work crafted for the upcoming Brussels International Exposition of 1910. Markham Pottery even contracted with large businesses like Chicago's Marshall Fields, all while remaining a small business run by only two men.

Signature: incised
 

 

Markham Pottery. Reseau Vase #3578. ca.1908-1910. Glazed Earthenware. 4.25″h x 3.75″ d. Private Collection.
1911 - 1912, Tragedy

On August 23, 1911, the front page of the Daily Times News featured two tragic art world headlines: "Famous Painting Stolen", which detailed the theft of the Mona Lisa from the Louvre, and "Markham Pottery Burns", which detailed the destruction of Markham's workshop. University of Michigan Professor Hugo Paul Thieme was an avid collector of Markham Pottery. When he built a new home in Ann Arbor, he commissioned the Markhams to craft fireplace tile for his hearth. These pieces were drying, in preparation for firing, on the day of the accident. According to the story, which ran in newspapers across the country, an oil stove used to dry the hearthstones overheated and set fire to the pottery workshop while Herman Markham was on a lunch break. The entire workshop, with seven years of tools, molds, and machinery, was completely destroyed. "It's hard to estimate our loss," said Markham when interviewed by a reporter. Over one thousand pieces of pottery were lost in the fire, and five hundred and fifty of them were intended for Professor Thieme's home. After the fire, a small committee was formed in Ann Arbor to financially assist Markham Pottery in rebuilding their business. Professor Thieme was one of the committee members. The Daily Times News ran an editorial urging local citizens to lend their support, for fear that they might lose Markham Pottery to another city.

1913 - 1921, National City, California

Although Markham Pottery had thrived in Ann Arbor, production had always halted during the cold winter months of Michigan. It's difficult to dig clay out of frozen ground. Faced with the task of rebuilding his business, Herman Markham decided it was time to relocate to a warmer climate where he could work year round. Much to the dismay of many individuals and other businesses in Ann Arbor, he traveled to California in search of a new home and work space. The most important factor in the move would be finding a steady source of clay comparable to the supply found on his Ann Arbor property. In National City, just south of San Diego, the Markhams received an invitation to visit the the California China Products Company, and found what they were looking for.

National City Star-News, National City, California, September 13, 1913, Front Page

California China Products Company, National City, California, Ca. 1912
The California China Products Company (CCPCo) was founded in 1911 by mineralogist John H. McKnight & Walter and Charles B. Nordhoff. (Charles B. Nordhoff was best known as the co-author of Mutiny On The Bounty, but that is another story for another time.) Mining the extensive clay deposits around San Diego County, they manufactured high-quality porcelain, earthenware, and ceramic tile. The Nordhoffs and the Markhams formed a symbiotic relationship. The Markhams moved into a portion of the CCPCo space, using their equipment, kilns, and clay supply, to get their business back on its feet. The Nordhoffs benefitted financially having Markham Pottery as a tenant. November 29, 1913's edition of The San Diego Sun announced "The new Markham pottery at National City started manufacturing operations this week."

Markham Pottery. Reseau Vase #6990. ca. 1914. Glazed Earthenware. 5 h × 7½ dia in (13 × 19 cm). Private Collection, California.
It didn't take long for Markham Pottery to rebuild their business. For example, in 1914 they signed a $35,000 contract to furnish 100,000 souvenir ice cream steins for San Diego's upcoming Panama–California Exposition (1915 - 1917). In today's money, that contract is worth more than a million dollars. Within two years, they left their temporary space at CCPCo, and moved to their own studio and kiln. Kenneth Markham got married in National City on December 13, 1917. He and his father continued to work as a team, only halting production temporarily when Ione Sprague Markham died in late January 1919. During the last few years of Markham Pottery, Herman often did speaking engagements around the San Diego area. He still had the very first vase he had crudely constructed back in Ann Arbor, and shared it with his audiences to show how far his idea had progressed. He never shared the secret of his glazing technique. Markham Pottery stayed in business until 1921, when Herman was ready to retire.

Markham Pottery Advertisement, San Diego City Directory, 1914
 

1922 - Present Day

Herman Markham died on November 18, 1922 in San Diego County. Over 100 years later, Markham Pottery is still featured in the authoritative Kovels' American Art Pottery: The Collector's Guide to Makers, Marks, and Factory Histories. Pieces may be found in museums, private collections, and art auctions around the country. Connoisseurs of the work claim that Markham pieces numbered less than 6000 were crafted in Ann Arbor, and pieces above 6000 are attributed to National City.  The University of Michigan's Museum of Art collection includes some Markham Pottery, many pieces of which were gifted from the family of Professor Hugo Paul Thieme. If you happen to see Markham Pottery in person, know that you may be viewing an authentic piece of old Ann Arbor clay, dug from the ground near the intersection of South Seventh & Madison Streets.

Markham Pottery. Reseau Vase #3539. ca. 1909. Glazed Earthenware. 7.75″h x 3.5″d. Private Collection.

Sammy Ross: Ann Arbor's Early Auto Racing Ace

Year
2024


To be an early race car driver was to constantly confront death. To watch your friends die and get right back behind the wheel, following in their tire tracks. Born and raised in Ann Arbor, Sammy Ross raced cars for almost a decade, defying demise. This meant driving distances of between 100 and 500 miles on looped, trenched dirt tracks in cars without standard safety measures. Oil leaks from competitors were common, sending followers flying into a wall or over an embankment. By 1928, Sammy had reached the upper echelon in racing, qualifying to compete in the Indianapolis 500. 

The 1928 Indianapolis 500 Starting Lineup

Before Getting Behind the Wheel

Samuel “Sammy” Ross was born to parents Edith and Benjamin Ross in Ann Arbor on June 6, 1901. The family lived on South State Street before relocating to Wall Street, just north of the Huron River. This move brought young Sammy into contact with a neighbor who was repairing an old Studebaker. Sammy began helping and was soon hooked. His skills were furthered by his work with George V. Richard, a Wall Street neighbor who owned a garage. “I worked for him and learned every nut and bolt of every motor going.” Sammy didn’t complete his formal schooling, but he learned his trade in auto shops. He remembers seeing his first car race in 1922 and by the next year he was racing in them himself. 

Dirt Track Daredevil

Not just anyone could choose to compete in car racing, trials and qualifying were required first. Sammy earned his eligibility in June of 1923 to take part in a 100-mile race at the Michigan State Fairgrounds in Detroit. After facing engine troubles that forced him to make two pit stops he ultimately earned a respectable fifth place finish in this first showing. 

Motorsports were still in their infancy and investment had yet to be made in creating infrastructure for competition. Sammy’s first race took place on a dirt track that was initially constructed for horse racing. These earthen tracks easily accumulated ruts and quickly turned to mud with any rain. Without precipitation, their soil surfaces kicked up dust that rendered it difficult for drivers to see where they were going. Sammy would later recount using trees outside of the tracks as markers in order to determine where to turn.   

The Program for the 1923 National Dirt Track Championship in Detroit, including Sammy as an entrant

Just a year into his racing career, Sammy won 17 out of 19 races to earn the 1924 Dirt Track Champion of Michigan title. His triumph was a testament not only to his driving abilities, but his skills as a mechanic in maintaining a reliable car. In one 1924 race only four of the seven contestants completed the 100 miles. Of them, Sammy took the top position. The Ann Arbor News wrote, “Ross’ victory was due principally to the fact that he was the only driver that did not have tire or engine trouble.” The next year the Ann Arbor News further underscored how crucial a dependable car was when Sammy was struggling to defend his title, writing, “Things have not been breaking this year for Sam like they did in 1924. His car on several occasions went wrong.” Sammy fought his way back to regain the state title in 1926 and 1927. 

Of course, Sammy owed his success in no small part to his nerves of steel. During one 75-mile race in 1925, Sammy was a mile ahead when one of his tie rods collapsed, sending his car through a fence and down a 12-foot embankment. His car rolled three times, but he miraculously escaped with just a scratch on one eye. He was back behind the wheel two weeks later.

Other competitors were not so fortunate. In his first month of racing Sammy competed in a field of ten cars in Grand Rapids, four of whom were involved in a pileup that resulted in the death of driver Bug McCale. In 1925, Detroit driver Al Waters was killed in another race Sammy took part in. On lap 146 of 150, Waters crashed into a fence at the Michigan State Fair track, dying instantly, and injuring 20 spectators. The list of casualties could tragically go on.

The Brickyard: 1928 

The Indianapolis Motor Speedway, home to the Indianapolis 500, was built in 1909 as a 2.5 mile banked, oval track made of crushed stone and tar, rendering it double the size of the typical 1-mile fairground venues and a radically different composition. The gravel quickly proved too dangerous and within its first year the track was resurfaced with brick, bestowing it with the nickname “the Brickyard.” As champion of the dirt tracks, Sammy would have to prove his abilities on a different surface.

In order to earn a spot in the starting lineup at the 16th annual Indianapolis 500, drivers had to reach a minimum speed of 90 mph. Sammy soared past this on his first lap, reaching a high of 108 mph while simultaneously breaking a shock absorber. His next three laps were hindered by this fault, but he still managed to clock in at 107, 105, and 104 mph. He started in 17th position out of the 33 car lineup.  

Footage from the 1928 Indianapolis 500

On Memorial Day 1928 the flag was waved and the racers were off. Sammy stayed out in the race until his 79th lap when he made a pit stop to change the tires and replenish the car’s gas, oil, and water. He stopped again, to replace his right front tire, all the time climbing in the ranks. By lap 131 he had made it to seventh position, only a lap behind Louie Meyer, who would go on to win the race. 

What the spectators didn’t know was that Sammy had repeatedly lost consciousness as he was driving. Later, it was discovered that tubing was jabbing him in the back over every bump, snapping his neck so hard a few times that it knocked him out. “But I just stuck my head out in the air stream and came to right away,” he later recounted.

The pit lane at the 1928 Indianapolis 500

On his third pit stop, 350 miles into the race, it wasn’t just the tires and fluids that were swapped out, but Sammy as well. The plan was to check on Sammy’s health while the relief driver took over for 20 laps or so to hold the position until Sammy could hop back in for the final stretch. As the Ann Arbor News put it, “Only an unkind turn of fate prevented Sammy Ross, Ann Arbor race driver, from placing up among the leaders and perhaps winning the 500-mile grunt at Indianapolis.” 

Impatient to get in the race, the relief driver attempted to start the car too quickly, ripping out the transmission and ending any chance at reentering the field. That relief driver was none other than Wilbur Shaw, “one of the most important people in the history of American auto racing.” Wilbur would go on to win the Indianapolis 500 three times and eventually save the Indianapolis Motor Speedway from demolition. But in 1928, he put a stop to Sammy’s first chance at Indy. In the end, Sammy earned $526. 

Sammy at the 1928 Indianapolis 500

Sammy continued racing despite this setback, but the luck he had maintained in evading damage ran dry. In 1929, just a week before the next Indy 500, Sammy was racing on a dirt track in Toledo when he lost control of his car. A fence was lined with fans in front of him and he did his best to steer toward a gap. He succeeded in missing the spectators, but he took the brunt of the harm himself. As a result of his injuries he was hospitalized for 13 months. The damage to his left arm was severe enough that doctor’s debated whether or not it would have to be amputated. Wilbur Shaw went on to win that Toledo race.  

Back at the Brickyard: 1931

1931 brought Sammy’s second chance at the top racing prize. He reached a qualifying high speed of 106 mph, only enough for him to start in 37th position out of 40. Having just regained his health, Sammy was again faced with the true risks of his chosen career. Just two days prior to Sammy’s qualifying run, driver Joe Caccia and his required co-pilot, riding mechanic Clarence Grover, died after their car slid in a turn, crashed through the retaining wall, and caught fire. 

Sammy and riding mechanic "Olie" Wilkinson at the 1931 Indianapolis 500

Race day arrived and Sammy remained steady in spite of the fact that he had been awake for the last 48 hours making final changes to his car. Still, he completed the entire race himself with no assistance from repeat relief driver Wilbur Shaw who had failed to qualify after a broken crankshaft. Relief drivers were shared across competitors and after stepping in for driver Phil Pardee, Wilbur crashed during the race, driving over an embankment. He was uninjured and walked back to the pits to continue his role as a substitute. Sammy crossed the finish line fifteenth, having gained 22 spots from where he started, but that also made him the last car to finish that hadn’t faced mechanical malfunction or been involved in a crash. 1931 would be Sammy’s final run at the Indianapolis 500 – at least as a driver.

Racing “Retirement”

Cars were his true love, and though Sammy gave up the driver’s seat, he remained a part of the racing community. For years Sammy returned to the Indianapolis 500 to work as a “goodwill mechanic” in one driver or another’s pit crew. He offered his assistance to men he had previously raced beside. 

Sticking to what he knew, outside of racing Sammy also continued to work as a mechanic and eventually transitioned his skills with machines into a job at Argus Inc. as a toolmaker. Argus’ employee newsletter included a feature on Sammy’s racing career and continued connection to the motorsports community in 1947. That year, Sammy served as a part of Shorty Cantlon’s crew at the Indianapolis 500. The two had raced against each other for years, but it would prove to be Sammy's last time working at the brickyard. Shorty died during the race after crashing into a barrier wall. 

Another Ann Arbor Generation

It took 48 years after Sammy's turn around the Indy track for another Ann Arbor native to compete in the famed 500. Howdy Holmes was born and raised in Ann Arbor as the heir to the Chelsea Milling Company and their famous Jiffy Mix. Leading up to Howdy's first race at Indianapolis in 1979, Sammy told the Ann Arbor News, “I’ve been reading about him. He sounds like a fine racer, a fine young man. And he sounds smart. That’s what you need down there at Indy. You need the smartness. Anybody can keep turning left.” Howdy rose from his 13th position start to finish seventh. As the only rookie to compete, he earned the title of Rookie of the Year. Howdy also raced alongside another teammate with Ann Arbor ties, Janet Guthrie. Janet graduated from the University of Michigan with a physics degree in 1960 and went on to become the first woman to compete in the Indianapolis 500 in 1977. 

The Finish Line

At age 24, early in Sammy's racing career, he married 21-year-old Ann Arborite Marjorie Bergeon. The press described her as Sammy's "mascot,"  “a charming petite little miss" who "has lent an air of charm and distinction to the races she has attended." The couple's rush to get married made the papers when they embarked on a race to the city clerk’s office before a new act went into effect that would have required them to wait five days before they could be issued a license. Their haste to get married was followed by a divorce not long after in June of 1927. In an era when divorce required a fault, Marjorie listed “extreme cruelty” as the cause. As one 1917 book on divorce law put it, “Extreme cruelty as a ground for divorce may embrace a good many different acts, and the term is somewhat elastic. What may amount to such cruelty as would constitute good cause for a divorce in one case may be entirely insufficient in another.” Whatever it meant in this case, Sammy did not contest it, and he never married again.

In his subsequent years, Sammy continued the trade he had learned in his youth. In 1968, the Ann Arbor News caught up with him in his small repair shop at 1342 N. Main St, located across the Huron River from where he had fallen in love with cars. A recent leg amputation now required him to use a motorized wheelchair. He joked, “Well, I guess you’d say I just ran out of legs.”

Sammy never held Wilbur's error against him. He recalled him later in life as, “the best friend I ever had in racing. He was sharp, eager, a tough competitor and a wonderful person besides. He was a good loser, a good winner, a credit to racing. I never said anything to him about that 1928 race. We just never talked about it. How can you fault someone who’s got his soul in the game.”

Sammy in 1973

What compels someone to repeatedly risk their life? To keep going even after watching compatriots killed on the track? Sammy described his mindset:

“Before most races I was scared, I was scared of the cars, the whole thing. But once that green flag is dropped, you just stop thinking about it. You stopped worrying and just drove by reflex and if you hit those big bumps on that Indianapolis brickyard you just tried to hit them a little harder the next time. It was always a pretty rough ride down there until you got over 100. Then you just flew over those bumps. But in any race when it was all over it was a good feeling to know you were still alive and if you’d won, it was that much better. If you had it in you– I mean that real passion for motors and racing and speed– well, it was something you had to do. I’m glad I did it.”

As Sammy's health was failing, friend and former riding mechanic Olin “Olie” Wilkinson, who had been alongside Sammy in the 500 in 1931, would take him out for drives. Sammy spent his final months in the Whitmore Lake Convalescent Home, where he could be found listening to races on the radio. When Sammy passed away in 1980 he donated his body to the University of Michigan medical school.

The Steel Magnolias, Ann Arbor's First Women's Hockey Team


In 1991, a group of women who grew up playing hockey with neighborhood boys started renting ice at Yost Arena and formed Ann Arbor’s first women’s ice hockey team. They called themselves the Steel Magnolias. 

The Metro Skaters Hockey League

The Steel Magnolias were one of the original five teams in the Metro Skaters Hockey League (MSHL), which is a recreational women’s hockey league established in 1993. Other teams included the Polar Bears (Inkster), the Ice Pack (Melvindale), Team Michigan (Fraser), and the Terminators (Howell). Prior to the MSHL’s founding, women in southeastern Michigan had very few opportunities to play hockey, let alone join an organized league. By comparison, Ann Arbor offered four recreational men’s leagues catering to over 600 players in the mid-1990s. The MSHL–now known as the Michigan Senior Women’s Hockey League (MSWHL)–still exists and thrives today, expanding to multiple divisions based on skill level to accommodate the fast growing sport.

When it was first established, the MSHL was supported by former Red Wings players. NHL Hall-of-Famer Ted Lindsay dropped the puck at the league’s annual Ruicci Cup tournament for many years. “We laughed about calling it the Stephanie Cup because the name Stanley was taken,” recalls former MSHL president Sue McDowell. Ultimately they decided to name the tournament after Gil Ruicci, husband of MSHL co-founder Michele Monson. Ruicci was a longtime friend of many Wings players and had been instrumental in getting equipment and running skills sessions for the players.

Founding of the Steel Magnolias

As one of the founding teams of the MSHL, Ann Arbor’s Steel Magnolias hold an important place in Michigan hockey history. It took grit and determination for these players to carve out a space for themselves in a male-dominated sport. Former player and assistant coach Sue McDowell (née Edwards) recalls a time in the early 1990s when she had difficulty even renting ice time at Ann Arbor rinks, while her male friends had no trouble. A friend advised, “List your name as S. Edwards and they’ll call you.” Reflecting back on this disparity, she says, “At the time, I doubt I could have secured ice if I didn’t play with the men.” 

The co-founders of the Steel Magnolias first dreamed up the idea of playing together as a women’s team during pond hockey weekends in the late 1980s. For readers not familiar with this popular winter pastime, pond hockey consists of playing pick-up or “shinny” on a frozen lake or pond and nearly freezing off your fingers and toes while drinking and socializing with your friends. The goals are wooden boxes on either end of the rink, and the rules are informal. It’s a time for tossing around your best hockey banter while showing off your dangles and dodging ankle-breaking cracks in the ice. 

Marie Coppa and Jayne Haas enjoyed playing pond hockey so much that they began renting ice time at Vets and Yost, and inviting friends to practice with them. Coppa, a local business owner, and Haas, a teacher and granddaughter of Fielding Yost, lived together on Ann Arbor’s West side. They were thrilled to be building a space where women could play hockey together. Another co-founder, Susan McCabe, brought in her friend Don Bartolacci as a coach. In 1991 they decided to make it official: they set a practice schedule and began recruiting players. The Steel Magnolias were born.

Coppa remembers choosing the team’s name because it seemed like “a good representation of women on skates.” The popular film Steel Magnolias had just come out in 1989. The original team logo, stitched in pink and gray, features a skate with magnolias blooming out of it. Over the years some team members felt the name wasn’t tough enough, but Theresa Marsik (née Juetten), who joined the team in its second season, recalls that it was quickly shortened: “Everybody just called us the Steel Mags so we weren’t getting hit with Sally Field references.” The team’s name evolved over the years depending on leadership, including a stint in the mid-2000s as the Mag-a-Ritas, and finally simply the Mags.

Early Years of the Mags

 

In their inaugural 1991-92 season, the Steel Magnolias ranged in age from 16-yr-old Sarah Stockbridge, a Pinckney High student who played goalie, to skaters in their 40s and 50s. Many had grown up playing on neighborhood rinks with their brothers or dads in the 1960s and ’70s, and continued to play drop-in or beer league as adults. They were accustomed to being one of only a handful of women they ever encountered on the ice. Others took their first strides at Yost Ice Arena during Steel Magnolias practices in the early 1990s. Despite differences in age and skill level, the team stuck together and went on to win in their first tournament appearance, the inaugural March 1992 Ruicci Cup.

The Steel Magnolias advertised their practice times and actively recruited players. Sue McDowell remembers seeing an ad in the Ann Arbor Observer for drop-in practices. She showed up, and asked “Hey, do you guys need a goalie?” McDowell grew up on Cape Cod and played for Colby College in Maine before coming to Ann Arbor in the 1980s.

Theresa Marsik had grown up in the Upper Peninsula and played men’s intramural hockey at the University of Michigan, where she was a graduate student in environmental engineering. She heard of the team through a mutual friend of Susan McCabe.  Teammate Carol Lentz Wiley remembers what an impact Marsik made on the ice: “I was just in awe of her when we met, because she had such a great shot.”

Wiley connected with the Mags when a coworker at Parke-Davis told her he had heard of a women’s hockey team starting in Ann Arbor. She had been playing for the company team, but jumped at the opportunity to join the Mags. There she met her partner Amy Brow, and the two took over from McCabe to manage the team from the late 1990s through 2006. 

Growing the Women’s Game in Ann Arbor

While many of the Steel Magnolias were seasoned players, just as many were relatively new to the game of hockey. Ken Weber recalls that his wife Jill was using figure skates when she joined the Mags. He and Jill both started playing in the early 1990s, when their three boys were playing in the Ann Arbor Amateur Hockey Association. Jill was “a novice skater,” but the Mags practices helped her learn the fundamentals of the game. Ken remembers being invited to play pond hockey at a team member’s lake house: “All the families and kids were skating together.”

The Steel Magnolias were supported by several local businesses with connections to the team. The team’s sponsors in the 1990s included the Lord Fox (owned by Marie Coppa’s family), Weber’s Inn (owned by Ken and Jill Weber’s family), Espresso Royale, and Play It Again Sports of Ann Arbor. Sponsors typically helped cover the cost of jerseys, ice time, and tournament fees. Many skaters who were just starting out also needed help buying hockey equipment, which is notoriously expensive.

The Steel Magnolias were able to secure practice and game times at Yost Arena with the help of teammate Camille Hutchinson, who was a scheduler for the rink. McDowell remembers that it was “quite a coup” to get ice at the home rink of the University of Michigan’s men’s team; the Wolverines hit their stride in the 1990s under coach Red Berenson, and they were NCAA champions in 1996 and 1998. During these same years, the Mags held regular practices and games at Yost. 

“Sometimes we played after the U-M men’s games on Saturday nights,” Marsik recalls. “I’d have to duck under the bleachers [to get to the locker room].” Wiley attended games at Yost as a child, soon after the Wolverines moved there from the Coliseum in 1973. “My dad drove us down to Ann Arbor, and we would watch those U-M vs. MSU hockey games. I couldn’t believe it, twenty years later–playing on that ice, sitting in that penalty box.” Fans who stuck around after the U-M games might have been surprised to see a group of women skating onto the ice. No matter the number of fans their own late-night games drew, many former Mags agree that it was some of the best ice they ever skated on.

Wiley and Brow, longtime co-captains of the Mags, remember how much fun they had playing on a line together. Their teammate Angie was fifteen years younger and her dad used to drive her down from Port Huron to play. She heckled their coach, Don Bartolacci, with comparisons between the Mags and the Red Wings. “I told him we were the grind line,” she said to her teammates one day, referring to a popular nickname for one of the Wings’ forward lines. The trio of Kris Draper, Joe Kocur (replaced by Darren McCarty in 1998), and Kirk Maltby were known for their physical presence on the ice, and their role as enforcers. On the Mags’s “grind line,” Angie was Draper because she played center, Carol was Maltby, and “Amy was McCarty because she was always in the penalty box.”

The team also pulled together when times got tough. When Jill Weber was diagnosed with breast cancer, her teammates supported her and her family. She passed away in January 1995, just a few years after the Mags started playing together. Soon afterwards, her teammates dedicated a game to Jill, and they won a decisive 11-1 victory against the Howell Flash. Vicki Loy helped organize an award in memory of Jill, which was “given to the female AAAHA [Ann Arbor Amatuer Hockey Association] player who demonstrates desire, confidence, and sportsmanship on the ice.” Nine-year-old Mary Cohen was the first recipient.

The team’s roster shifted over the years and the Metro Skaters Hockey League grew from five teams to several dozen, but the Steel Magnolias usually landed in one of the top MSHL/MSWHL divisions based on skill level and playing experience. They brought home the Ruicci Cup in 1992, 1995, 1997, 2000 and 2011. The Mags played together for almost thirty years. Their final 2019-2020 season was cut short by the COVID-19 pandemic. After that, a core group who had been playing together as a tournament team reformed as the Top Titties (a tongue-in-cheek reference to what most hockey players call “top shelf” or “top corns”–the sweet spots just above a goalie’s shoulders but below the crossbar). Many longtime Mags skaters still play in recreational and house leagues in the area.

Changing the Narrative

Most female hockey players are familiar with the comments leveled towards women in the male-dominated sport. Whether it’s sexist slurs uttered among players or skepticism about women’s ability to excel in a fast-paced, physical sport, the pattern continues to this day: “You skate like a girl.” “No checking? That’s not real hockey.” “Can I have your number, sweetheart?” Players on the Steel Magnolias had to weather these types of comments (and much, much worse) just to step out on the ice and play the game they loved. The team’s mission was to grow the women’s game in Ann Arbor, and they had to put themselves out there in order to do so.

The Ann Arbor News ran several articles about the Steel Magnolias in the mid-1990s. There was even a short documentary picked up by PASS Sports about women’s hockey in Michigan. Ken Weber remembers that Jill appeared on screen in her Steel Magnolias uniform: “They brought cameras into the locker room at the Joe [Louis Arena], and Ted Lindsay was there.” While press coverage was great for raising awareness about the game, some players got tired of hearing the same narrative repeated. Back in the 1990s, McDowell explains, “There was a pattern in the press. Every year there’d be an article about how groundbreaking, how fascinating it was [that girls and women were playing hockey].” But what these players and coaches really wanted was equal opportunity to play and coach the game. 

McDowell was a co-founder of the city’s first girls hockey program, the Ann Arbor Girls Hockey Alliance, in 1994. She and fellow Mags players Kate Pinhey and Camille Hutchinson also helped found the University of Michigan women’s club hockey team in 1995. Nearly thirty years later, another Mags player, Deb Bolino, spearheaded the launch of Biggby Coffee’s AAA girls hockey program in Ann Arbor. Local girls now have the opportunity to play competitively at the 12U, 14U, 16U, and 19U levels, or to join their high school team at Pioneer, Huron-Skyline, or Washtenaw United. But when the original roster of the Mags were growing up, playing in an all-girls league wasn’t an option.

Theresa Marsik, captain of the Mags from 2013 until 2020, remembers that her hometown of Pelkie, Michigan had “a lot of hockey” for a small farming community in the UP, but no girls league. She played with the boys until her family doctor told her parents that “she might never have children if she got hit.” Marsik talked her dad into coaching a non-checking girls team. There weren’t any other girls teams around, so these 11- and 12-year-old girls played against younger boys teams who hadn’t learned checking yet (in hockey lingo, that’s peewees versus squirts). These days, body contact and checking is allowed more and more in girls’ and women’s hockey.

Historically, girls hockey programs didn’t really take off in the U.S. until the 1990s, and even then it was in hockey hotbeds like Minnesota, Michigan, and New England. Momentum picked up when the U.S. women’s hockey team won gold at the 1998 Nagano Winter Olympics. Seeing female hockey players succeed on the international stage drew more women and girls into local leagues. USA Hockey and the Michigan Amateur Hockey Association reported only 610 female players registered in the state of Michigan in the 1990-91 season (compared to 23,984 male players). By 2000-2001, that number had risen to 3,636, and the latest 2023-34 season totaled 5,327. In the same timeframe, the number of female players registered nationwide climbed from just over 6,000 to reach a milestone 100,000 this year.

Despite major gains recently such as the January 2024 launch of the Professional Women’s Hockey League (which has six teams based in Boston, Minnesota, Montreal, New York, Ottawa, and Toronto), female hockey players at all levels are still seeking parity in funding and opportunities to play. In Michigan, a state with one of the leading AAA girls hockey programs, there are no NCAA Division I women's hockey teams. There is only one Division III team (Adrian College) and a few club teams. Many young women leave the state to play elsewhere. When McDowell and others lobbied the University of Michigan for a women’s team in the mid-1990s, they wanted a D1 team, but that dream never materialized. In 2024, rumor has it that Ann Arbor may someday have its very own D1 women’s team. Who knows, maybe the PWHL will even expand to Detroit!

Author’s Note

When I joined a team called the Mags in 2015, did I know that I was donning the jersey of Ann Arbor’s first women’s team? Did I know that years later I would find newspaper articles and photos documenting this legacy in the Ann Arbor District Library Archives? Did I know that I would be writing that history to celebrate the 200-year anniversary of the city? No, no, and no–but I sure am glad to be doing it! Now enough about me. Let’s hear it for the Mags!