The People's Tycoon: Henry Ford and the American Century (Vintage) (93 page)

Ford's relaxed domestic life was mirrored in his work routine. As
Fortune
observed in 1933,“He has no set program for his days, does whatever may come into his head.” Not only advancing age but a significant change in his staff helped create this easing of professional burdens. Frank Campsall, Ford's private secretary, had gradually taken over many of Ernest Liebold's duties by the early 1930s, and he managed his boss's affairs quietly and efficiently. Campsall and Ford met briefly nearly every morning to discuss various activities and plans, and Ford came to rely upon his gracious, capable secretary, whom he eventually appointed to the board of directors for both the Ford Foundation and the Ford Motor Company.
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Though Ford had no set work schedule, he did follow a routine. After arriving at the engineering laboratory every morning, he would talk briefly with Campsall and then head next door to Greenfield Village to attend morning services in the Martha-Mary Chapel. He usually sat alone in a special place in the chapel gallery. He especially enjoyed hearing the children sing old hymns. Then he would wander about the village doing whatever he
pleased—eyeing reconstruction projects, checking on the details of plans, dropping by Edward Cutler's office to look at sketches. According to Cutler, Ford always departed with a breezy “I'll see you later,” and for all you knew “it might be two days or it might be ten minutes.” For the rest of the day, he might check on exhibits at the Ford Museum or visit the Ford Farms to monitor ongoing agricultural experiments. Often he would drop by the chemistry labs he had established to test agricultural products, or go to a large farm near Macon, Michigan, where he had planted hundreds of acres of soybeans. He spoke with Harry Bennett on a daily basis; on rare occasions he would be driven to the Rouge to inspect the plant and consult with Charles Sorensen on production matters.
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Ford became renowned for avoiding his offices. He had one in the Rouge plant, but went weeks at a time without setting foot in it. Most often he used his office in the engineering laboratory, which was flanked by offices for Edsel, Liebold, Campsall, and Cameron; the entire complex served as a nerve center for the company. He dropped by daily, but seldom stayed for longer than a few minutes, to consult with Campsall or Cameron, and occasionally to chat with Edsel for a longer period of time. His office showed signs of neglect, often piled high with papers and artifacts such as old violins and children's games. But he did find one consistent use for the room. It contained a comfortable couch, and with advancing age sapping his energy, he would take a nap.
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Claiming that “everybody's office is my office,” Ford visited his subordinates whenever he wanted to talk to them about some issue. The habit suited his nervous energy, but a larger purpose also lay behind it. Dropping by others' offices helped him manage his time more efficiently, because he could monitor matters and get more accurate information by “circulating,” as he liked to call it. He trusted his own eyes and spontaneous interviews with his subordinates more than skillfully written official reports. Perhaps most important, by visiting others' offices he could avoid being trapped, either by an endless parade of supplicants winding past his door or by ambitious, talkative company executives who would tie him up for hours. By going to another's office,
he
could choose when the meeting was over. “I don't
want
an office with people coming in to see me,” Ford once confessed to Charles Voorhess. “If I have a fellow come in to see me and I'm done with him, I can't kick him out. If I go to his place, and I want to get up, I can get up and get out, can't I?”
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The lunch roundtables at the engineering-laboratory building in Dearborn provided Ford his principal means of staying in touch with the activities of his company. Every day at 12:55 p.m., a group representing the engineering, production, and sales divisions would gather at a large round
table in a private dining room. It included Edsel, Sorensen, P. E. Martin, Cameron, A. M. Wibel, Lawrence Sheldrick, W. C. Cowling, and three or four others (but not Harry Bennett). Occasionally special visitors would be invited. Ford would appear at one o'clock, shake hands with everyone, and invite them all to be seated. He usually consumed his “rabbit food” as the others, even if politely sharing Ford's fare on occasion, ate more heartily. He controlled the conversation, which often focused on company matters at some length, and he would absorb a great deal of information from the executives. He would listen and ask questions, often approving or disapproving various projects during these sessions. As a visiting journalist noted of Ford, at these daily lunches, “which may last anywhere from one to five hours, he is still 'the boss.' ”
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Henry Ford maintained an impressive personal presence well into the Depression decade. Always well groomed and conservatively dressed, he went about in his trademark gray suits, wearing comfortable shoes that were handmade in the village and, in warm weather, a natty straw hat. He was soft-spoken and reserved in most circumstances, though giving glimpses of the nervous energy bubbling just beneath the surface. Speaking simply and directly, he treated others politely. Reporters who interviewed him in the 1930s were struck by his alert manner, youthful step, and raw energy. According to Anne o'Hare McCormick of the New York
Times,
Ford was “more nimble, physically and mentally, than most boys, and as constantly in motion as his conveyor system…. He is nervous, shifting from chair to chair as he talks. Sometimes he is fluent, often hesitant; he goes blank at some questions and springs to life at others, but always he seems a little fugitive, like quicksilver, and just on the point of escape.” Ford seemed incapable of doing nothing. Even at his vacation homes, he had workshops with tools, nails, and lumber where he would steal away to build various projects. As Rufus Wilson summed up, “He had to be active. He just couldn't sit still.”
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Exercise, of course, remained a critical part of Ford's daily regimen, and his physical stamina impressed everyone who came into contact with him. Even as an elderly man, he took his bicycle from the porch early each morning and rode to the back gate of the estate, then turned around and rode to the front gate, a total distance of about two miles. Cycling was better than walking, he once told a reporter, because “it keeps you one jump ahead of the mosquitoes.” On many mornings, he would drop by the house of Clarence Davis, the son of old family friends who lived nearby, and the pair would go for a long walk. He also persisted in his lifelong habit of chopping wood; the Fair Lane staff would frequently glimpse him disappearing into the woods, dressed in overalls, with a large, newly sharpened ax carried over
one shoulder. Even as an old man, Ford surprised more than one visitor by challenging him to a footrace. “I never in my life saw a man who could run as fast, and run fifty yards, as what Mr. Ford could do,” a Fair Lane powerhouse engineer marveled. “He was in his seventies then.”
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In certain aspects, Ford's personality mellowed in old age. Much of the time, and to most people, he appeared a courteous, somewhat shy older man who could be lovably eccentric. Never a big talker in private conversation, he tended to disguise his own feelings and opinions and draw other people out. “He was a good listener,” acquaintances observed. He seldom used slang, or cursed beyond an occasional “damn.” Nervous around women, he often seemed tongue-tied in their presence. Robert A. Smith, who worked in one of Ford's farm laboratories, was accompanied by his wife once when he met his boss. “He dropped his hat three different times while we were standing there talking,” the younger man noted. Smith also commented on Ford's awkwardness when the lab hired a young woman with a college degree in chemistry. He always seemed startled by her presence, and embarrassed, but eventually came to like her and grew more comfortable.
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Ford's generosity grew in his old age. Employees at the Ford Farms and labs constantly received offers of help with their homes, such as putting up fencing, remodeling houses, and planting fruit trees. Irving Bacon had a serious heart attack in his fifties and spent nearly nine months in the Henry Ford Hospital. During this entire time, his boss took care to see that he was paid his usual salary. Ford gave an old house to Clarence Davis and his wife, who were expecting a child, and arranged to have it moved to a piece of land that Davis owned, where it was set on a new foundation and renovated.
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For all his attractive qualities, however, Ford nurtured a mean streak well into his seventies. He demanded that his wishes be followed in every province of his empire. He reacted angrily to any opposition and remained inordinately suspicious of unfamiliar people and ideas. Those who crossed him at the Ford Motor Company, or aroused mistrust in any way, found themselves dismissed by Harry Bennett. Staff members at Fair Lane discovered that if his instructions were not followed to the letter the courteous manner could evaporate and he would “chop off a head where necessary.” They took great pains to keep Ford informed on even the tiniest matter, because actions taken without his knowledge aroused his “very quick temper.” The powerhouse crew joked nervously that Ford “had at least a couple of personalities.” At Greenfield Village, he shocked Edward Cutler by throwing a brick through a portrait of himself—he had never appreciated the likeness—that was painted on a glass panel above his door. Similarly, John McIntyre of the powerhouse crew once encountered Ford as he emerged from the woods around Fair Lane with a big ax on his shoulder.

“Hello there, Scottie, what do you think of my key?” Ford asked. When McIntyre asked what he meant, Ford replied testily, “Some of these people around here are locking up the doors on these outhouses. They think they're smart.” Ford used his “key” to smash down the doors when he wanted to use the facilities.
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He gained a peculiar delight from keeping employees on edge. In the 1930s, he took a shine to a number of bright, capable young men at the Edison Institute, such as Wilbur Donaldson, Kenneth Petrack, and Jimmie Humberstone. Ford spent a lot of time ferrying them about among the many divisions of his enterprise, explaining and instructing. Having “built these boys up into such a state of ego that there was no living with them,” according to one observer, Ford then set them loose among the company staff. His protégés strutted about attempting to give orders, and Ford feigned taking their advice, all the while laughing as experienced executives fumed. “He just did it to get the older men's goats,” Lawrence Sheldrick concluded. On another occasion, two middle managers, one of whom worked at Greenfield Village and the other at the Henry Ford Museum, were bickering, and Ford chose to settle the matter in typical fashion. Secretly, he told each man to fire the other one, and then sat back laughing, along with a couple of confidants, as the two shouted and sputtered, neither agreeing to leave the premises.
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Ford's impish sense of humor remained constant, however, amid the benevolent gestures and mean-spirited outbursts. One day, Ford's barber, Joseph Zaroski, was at Fair Lane preparing to give his patron a haircut and shave, when Mrs. Ford stopped by. She commented that it seemed cold and brought her husband a sweater. Still unsatisfied, Clara then went in search of a blanket to cover his feet. Ford chuckled and said to Zaroski, “Well, I believe before you shave me I'm going to have a fur coat on.” He continued to be fond of practical jokes and pranks in old age. Mrs. Stanley Ruddiman, whose gentility could shade into pomposity, was a favorite target for his teasing. She once wore to one of the old-fashioned dances a “very giddy spring hat,” which she placed on a window ledge. When she retrieved it at the end of the evening, she was startled to see atop it a hand-lettered sign saying “For Sale.” Ford had placed it there. Another time, she was having dinner with a friend when the waiter handed her a card that said, “The next dance is a waltz.” She looked up as the orchestra started to play, and from across the room Ford, who had come in for dinner with Clara, winked at her. His joking also extended to his famous friends. When Will Rogers came visiting, Ford plotted with his driver to pull a scam. After bragging about his keen eyesight, he had the driver take out a penny, hold it out some distance away, and ask Rogers to identify the date on the coin. He could not
do it. Then Ford, who had seen it beforehand, peered at the coin and said, “Yes, 1913—is that right?” The driver nodded affirmatively as Rogers stared in amazement.
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Ford particularly liked to play tricks on his staff. One evening, he dropped by the powerhouse to talk to John McIntyre, and then left as the engineer started stoking the boilers in preparation for the night shift. With the fire roaring and the drafts opened, McIntyre became mystified when the steam pressure first failed to rise and then began dropping. After checking everything at the boilers, he inspected the pipes, only to discover that the big six-inch relief valve was wide open and all the steam pressure was flying out. “The old son-of-a-gun had opened the valve!” McIntyre exclaimed. When Ford came by a few days later, he told the powerhouse crew, “I gave Scottie a little bit of fun that night.” Rufus Wilson also endured a prank when Ford visited the agricultural lab and went for a walk in the woods. A rainstorm sent Wilson to collect his boss, but Ford came back by a different route and decided to hide from his driver. The lab staff played along and said they had not seen Ford, all the while exclaiming, “He lost the boss!” About half an hour later, Ford appeared amid great merriment and relieved Wilson of his anxiety.
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Many who encountered Ford during the 1930s were struck by his delight in the company of ordinary people. When John McIntyre started working at Fair Lane, Ford sat down with him one day and remarked that he “liked to know the history of a man.” In a couple of long conversations, he asked about McIntyre's upbringing and work history, and was especially interested to hear about his background in the coal mines around Pittsburgh. Ford's lack of pretension also surfaced in constant attempts to evade the staff at Fair Lane, who tried to keep track of him at all times after his 1927 car accident. He hated this attention and tried to escape. He had several maneuvers—crouching down on the passenger side of trucks leaving Fair Lane, hiding behind shrubs until the guards weren't looking, taking back ways off the estate and walking far around through the fields and woods. When he disappeared, the phones would start ringing with “Has anybody seen Mr. Ford?” As one of the staff observed, “You'd probably find him sitting along some old rail fence somewhere talking to some old farmer, just enjoying himself.”
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