TE Michiga n Daily Edited and manoged by Students atfthe University af Michigan Tuesday, July 30, 1974 News Phone: 764-0552 PASS THE MUSTARD, PLEASE Greenfield Village enters Golden Age of Convenience "when we are through, we shal have reproduced American life as lived; and that, I think, is the best way of preserving at least a part of our history and tradition." -Henry Ford, cirta 1929 Marriott Money accepted here. -Greenield Village, 1974 By DAVID BLOMQUIST DEARBORN - "And this is our natural wilder- ness," announces with pleasure the deep-voiced engineer of the Greenfield Village Railroad as his 106-year-old steam locomotive winds its way past a swamp adjoining the Rouge River. "Many species of wild animals live here' Still, the construction equipment has arrived. The train passes a long, thin mound of fresh sand rising up from the lush swamp - evidently the roadbed for a new, additional spur of the Village's little railway. Indeed, Greenfield Village, Mich- igan's foremost tourist attraction, is growing like never before - and not even nature's fickle ways seem able to slow it down. The Village is, of course, that hodgepodge mon- ument to early Americana assembled in the late '20's by auto pioneer Henry Ford. Ford took a basically worthless 260 acre plot of land immed- iately north of what was then his company's pri- vate airport and spent fifteen years filling it by convincing small towns worldwide to let him dismantle their most historic buildings and re- locate them along the banks of the Rouge. And thus the Village acquired an almost un- believable collection of antique structures, includ- ing the birthplace of the Wright brothers, the home of Southern songwriter Stephen Foster, the Illinois courthouse in which Abraham Lincoln practiced law, and - courtesy Phoenixville, Mass. - the oldest continuously operated post office in America. Ford's zeal for the project became so intense that at one point he even offered to purchase Independence Hall from the city of Philadelphia. The Philly city fathers politely refused; Ford had to settle for an exact replica worked out by his team of architects. By the time Ford died in 1948, the Village and its accompanying museum had developed in- to a nationally respected center of interest in colonial and 19th century studies. But more im- portantly, perhaps, the Village had evolved into the only calm oasis of the pre-assembly-line days in the midst of the sprawling Dearborn empire of the Ford Motor Company. It would remain that way for about another 20 years. But in the ed, the very business which had created the Village would bring it to the brink of utter ruin. The mass manufacturing techniques originated by Henry Ford had made it nossible by the '30s to market automobiles at a price well within the reach of most American families. The resulting increase in car population precipitated the de- velopment of the Interstate Defense Highway System in the '50s. And that, in turn, lead to the rise of a new breed of traveler: the motoring tourist. The Village was a natural magnet for these new vacationing families for several reasons. First, the relatively low admission price covered an entire day's worth of activities that both parents and kids could easily enjoy. Second, on-site park- ing was free and extremely plentiful. But most crucially, when the highway construc- tion dust cleared, the Village found itself border- ing on a north-south freeway that intersected in a matter of a few miles with all three Detroit- area Interstates. Suddenly, the Village had be- come "accessible", and quite rapidly pushed aside all competition to become the premier tourist attraction of the state. That was the beginning of the end. Like any good business organization (and the Village-Mu- seum complex is incorporated as The Edison In- stitute, a non-profit group), the Village soon realized that there was gold in them thar tourists -and has now struck out to mine as much of is as it can, hence starting the new "commer- cial" era of Greenfield Village. Touring families have, of course, a well-known failing: weak bladders. So to help ease the situa- tion along, the Village built a shiny new "com- fort station" directly across the street from one of the buildings in the Thomas Edison Memorial compound. Somehow, it doesn't quite fit in. Having duly relieved themselves, there's noth- ing those touring families like more than a cheap hot dog on a stale bun. Again, the all new Village seemed happy to comply. It erected a mammoth lunch wagon facility - complete with wire tables and beach umbrellas - just east of its legendary 1840 covered bridge. The biggest anachronism of all, however,-is the attempt at a pseudo-Disneyland called "Suwanee Park". One of the Village's proudest possessions for years has been the old Florida steamboat, the 'Suwanee", that Ford bought, reconditioned, and placed in a specially dug circular canal to sail away the rest of its days. Well, the small little wooden boat has now been joined by a host of glass-and-steel structures that have drastically - if not irrevocable - changed the skyline of the Village's northeast side, the home of Noah Webster's house, the Swiss Watchmakers' Chalet, and Luther Burbank's birthplace. The largest of the "Suwanee Park" intruders is a series of four hexagonal buildings that contain another new restaurant for the hungry hoardes. The two food counters of the 'Riverfront" concen- trate on what the Village calls "open-hearth spec- ialties" - read that fast food. Also ready to fill visitor's tummies is the new ice cream parlor, a gleaming edifice that contains an old wooden counter imported from New Eng- land to supply the one necesary "link" with the past. Kids can take their cones and head right around the corner to the Village's huge new merry-go-round while Mom and Dad settle the bill. Another money-grabbing addition is the "pen- ny arcade", a would-be pinball operation that contains a few old test-your-strength-and-win-a- marble machines outfitted for quarter-a-shot ser- vice. . Last of the new lively gimmicks is the "raft" that -- for a dime round-trip - will transport visitors to the recently completed picnic area and nature trail. It isn't an actual raft, naturally; the Village's technical wizards created an electric outboard boat to whiz across the muddy waters of the Suwanee Lagoon. Unfortunately, it has to be plugged in and recharged after every crossing. Meanwhile, the white paint slowly peels off the majestic columns of the old Clinton Inn, the car- pet frays in the Wright Brother's birthplace, and the chalked graffiti rises higher and higher on the venerable timbers of the covered bridge. The Village is still a fun place to visit, of :ourse - but these days that's all it now is. At one time the Village was an incomparble edu- cational experience - a chance to pretend for a few moments that time had reversed itself and that the quiet days of yesteryear had, if only briefly, returned. Today that is no longer possible. The jingle of coins in the Village gatehouse - and its bright new gift shop-souvenir complex - is just simply too loud. First aid blues By BILL HEENAN tI'YPICAL SUMMER concert. While the crowd playfully soaks up the sun, the chords of the Muskadine Blues Band, and gallons of Boones Farm, Drug Help watches them apprehensively. Their first-aid team awaits repeats of last week's motorcycle gang tussles or thunderstorms toppling ponderous speakers; yet the afternoon proves relatively uneventful as the usual beercan top victims and their salt tablet-hoarding com- trades wander into the inconspicuous Drug Help tarp. "When was the last time you had your tetanus shot?" inquire the Drug Help workers. While Pun Plamondon exhorts the masses to vote the GOP out of office (because City Council banned this year's Blues and Jazz Fest.) a man from the Upper Peninsula displays his Saturday 'light fight welts proudly, but refuses aid. Next, a woman whose foot "stings like a bitch" from a cigarette burn grimaces as an antiseptic is ap- plied. Finally, a bewildered fellow asks directions to "the gravel pits." A possible appendicitis case quickly banshes the concert's balmy effect on Drug Help's panor- amic hillside spot. Rushing the stretchered victim to their blue and white van, the first-aiders hope for a speedy getaway, but living obstacles con- front them. After the roar of the van's exhaust sends several dogs scurring for safer shelter, daz- ed onlookers and their ice chests still block their exit. What seems ages later, the path clears. Typical concerts ends. Loitering drunks are consoled; refuse from the festivities canned; and the tarp is neatly folded. One of the last to leave Otis Spann Memorial Field is someone's pet snake named Herman.