Trouble on the road to anywhere

Back in the days when there were no NFL games to keep us glued to the screen of our choice, we regularly piled into my Dad’s old Pontiac on a pleasant Sunday afternoon to take a ride in the country. That seemed to be a popular pastime even before there were Pontiacs to pile into, but also a bit more perilous.
At least that proved to be the case for a Lake Charles newspaper writer who on a Sunday morning in 1894 decided that “instead of attending church in the usual orthodox way” to “start out for a day’s drive with Mr. Mathews, the popular agent of the Singer Sewing Machine Co.”
The salesman needed to check on some machines he’d left on trial and put out some more. He’d discovered that Sunday was the best day to catch country people at home.
Leaving town at about 8 o’clock in the morning, with “ten cents worth of cakes to stay their hunger,” they proceeded to Bagdad, a ferry crossing on the Calcasieu River, where they “stopped to get a drink (water) and have a chat with some gentlemen that were sitting in front of a store.”
From Bagdad they crossed to Westlake, then a new town still called West Lake Charles, where their attention was “attracted by the flourishing look of that place and the numerous homes in progress.” Although it was a Sunday “a general bustle pervaded the business atmosphere.”
“The citizens look forward to the early settlement of [the town], and expect in the near future to rival the sister town across the lake,” the reporter said, even though the sister town had a good head start. “The view of Lake Charles,” he recorded, “with its long line of house tops, trees and mills is very pretty from this side.”
The Singer salesman did his business in Westlake and then they continued on across Schute’s prairie, which I think was to the west of the town (since they would have had to recross the river to go east).
And then the travelers did the thing that gets so many Sunday drivers in trouble. They “undertook to take a short cut through the woods.”
It was a bad idea. “To our dismay,” according to the story, “we found the road had played out, gone we knew not where, and left us at a dead halt in the midst of a thicket.”
Nonetheless, the salesman and the reporter “determined to go ahead at all hazards, and we did go (one in front picking the way),” until, “caught fast in the hub,” they were brought again to a stop.
At first, they didn’t realize how stuck they were and tried to move on, breaking the singletree (the bar between the horse and wagon that spreads the load and makes it easier to pull), bringing on “visions of a supperless night.”
Luckily, they were able to get the wagon fixed and, turning around, found their way back to the road that had disappeared. There they gave thanks for getting back on track, but they weren’t sure exactly where they were.
They came to a house, stopped to ask directions, and “after hallooing until we were hoarse” finally roused an old man who came out to see who was making all that racket.
“On being asked the way to a certain house, which was only two miles distant, he informed us that we were on the right road and that it was at least ten miles.”
The man would have none of it when they questioned the distance. He “blandly informed us that we were on the right road, and that it would take us anywhere we wanted to go.”
They thanked him, took their best guess, and drove on.
“With the exception of breaking down once more, we arrived home safely,” the report concluded, “not doubting in the least that a judgment had come upon us” for taking a ride to sell sewing machines instead of going to church.
You can contact Jim Bradshaw at jimbradshaw4321@gmail.com or P.O. Box 1121, Washington LA 70589.