Greenfield Village - Part 2: Amalgamation.

November 17, 2018 by Dave Gottwald

If you’re a history buff, Greenfield Village is somewhat confusing. Like several other places I’ve passed through during my travels, there is a layering going on; reality, history, fantasy, re-creation, reconstruction, restoration all blend together with no discernable boundaries.

Amalgamated Spaces

I’ve come to call these amalgamated spaces. The 1890s-vintage building pictured above caught Henry Ford’s eye like so many other shops, barns, school houses, and churches—so he bought it and just plopped it down in his Village. It’s the the Cohen Millinery shop and it was moved from 444 Baker Street in Detroit; an urban structure that has been, for lack of a better term, ruralized.

Moved and restored? Rebuilt? Or just designed to look old?

You have to look carefully, and in some cases ask the staff (the guidebook is unclear) which are which. Henry Ford was essentially a hoarder of settings and environments, and much of Greenfield Village is like a playground where he deposited (and sometimes shuffled around) buildings he had accumulated, along with some he had built anew. Some of these structures and settings were personally important—his childhood home, or school, or church—and some were ideologically valuable to Ford, like Edison’s laboratory.

The Wright Cycle Co. building moved from Dayton, Ohio.

Or the Wright Brothers home and bicycle shop. As with Thomas Edison, Henry Ford was enamored of any American (man) whom he considered a.) self-made and b.) an innovator or entrepreneur. In other words, his heroes were those who reminded him of his own conception of himself; hardworking, industrious, intelligent, and something of a maverick.

Sarah Jordan Boarding House moved from Menlo Park, New Jersey.

Even structures merely adjacent to Edison’s legacy were crated up and moved to the Village. More than a dozen employees at Menlo Park, unmarried men, lived in this boarding house. As such it was one of the first three residential structures in the country to be wired for electricity in 1879. The Henry Ford Official Guidebook proudly states that the house was reconstructed at the same distance from the Menlo Park laboratory complex re-creation as it had sat at the actual location in New Jersey.

Imported slate at Liberty Square, The Magic Kingdom, Walt Disney World, 2007.

This is something I saw repeatedly at Greenfield Village, and it’s the kind of creative chicanery Disney does at their parks; the “real fake,” in which inconsequential details are replicated with great attention to complete a presentation or environment that is, on the whole, inauthentic. For example, again to reference Liberty Square at the Magic Kingdom, Disney spared no expense in importing slate from a quarry near Williamsburg, Virginia. There are also rocks from the Potomac River and from a quarry some six miles away from where General George Washington crossed the Delaware. Does anyone notice? Probably not, but Disney does things like this anyway, to establish a “real fake.”

And then there are bizarre amalgams which defy any attempt at categorization. This building touts the year 1886 on its facade, but was constructed at Greenfield Village in 1944, it’s home to a Jumbo dynamo which Edison had originally installed at the company’s first commercial lighting station in Manhattan in 1882, and is called “Station A” (from which it takes its architectural inspiration) yet includes equipment from both A and B. The Henry Ford Official Guidebook calls the structure “something of a hybrid” which I’m not sure is an understatement or an overstatement.

Here is one of the studio workshops of the Liberty Craftworks area. The Weaving Shop is a converted 1840s cotton gin mill which was brought from Georgia and reconstructed at the Village. Ford’s desire to transport buildings from locations far and wide and then arrange them as he saw fit despite their disparate origins gives Greenfield Village a complete lack of context—or perhaps it’s a hyper-contextuality; it’s just “American History-ness.”

Costumed historical reenactors walk down Main Street.

A pleasant experiential aspect of the Village is the presence of Henry Ford museum staff wandering around in period costumes, presenting themselves in character. This is something that became very popular in the 1960s and 1970s, and has roots in earlier historical displays at World’s Fairs. Many outdoor historical parks and museums today—of which Greenfield Village and Colonial Williamsburg are only the most visible—employ this practice.

Sometimes the role of the reenactors is very specific, and a vital part of educating the public about certain issues. The Susquehanna House from the Tidewater region of Maryland was probably built before 1820 and was moved by Henry Ford to Greenfield in 1942. Along with slave quarters elsewhere on the property, the house represents the Antebellum South at the Village. It was closed for some years while how to update its interpretation was considered. When it reopened in 1988, reenactors answered questions about the house and told the truth about the slaves who had once built it and worked the Maryland plantation it once sat on.

Amalgamated Time

So spaces are mixed up all over the place, whether they be moved, re-created, or newly built. But time is also amalgamated at Greenfield Village. It’s odd enough that this building comes from the Cheapside thoroughfare in London, England; even odder still that the business occupied it from 1846 until 1929. The problem, of course, is that Henry Ford bought and collected and moved to the Village whatever he fancied. His lifelong fascination with clocks and watches led him to save the clockwork and much of the facade of the Sir John Bennett Shop. Otherwise it doesn’t belong on Main Street in Greenfield at all; not in place, and not in time. Put another way, something belongs in Greenfield Village only if Henry Ford thought it should. Jessie Swigger notes in History Is Bunk that

…the design and appearance of the village reflected Ford’s personal understanding of what constituted historical authenticity. In some cases it was re-creating original buildings down to the last detail (as with the replica of Independence Hall facade); in others it was adherence to an idea of the past or historical generalities.

In the case of the Sir John Bennett Shop, Ford wanted it for the clockworks, but he insisted it not harm the scale of his Main Street. The building was originally five stories tall; Ford had his draftsman, Edward Cutler, chop it down to two.

Grimm Jewelry Store (1885) moved from 613 Michigan Avenue in Detroit.

Only a few yards to the left sits another building that only exists at the Village because of Ford’s interest in watches and clocks (he bought parts there when he was an engineer working for Edison). The Grimm Jewelry Store and other storefronts from Detroit represent industrialization and urbanism in the final years of the 1800s, yet here they are on a Main Street of a very small mid-nineteenth century farming community. It’s even odder that these city buildings are cleaved from their neighbors; there are no buildings on either side of any relocated storefront, so they feel not unlike massive tombs in a graveyard.

In the background we have a carousel (part of the 1974 Suwanee Park expansion) which is supposed to represent the late 1800s or perhaps the turn of the century. But based on the illustration and lettering styles, these broadsides look to be from the 1910s, 20s, and 30s.

Cotswold Cottage moved from southwestern England.

Here’s a particularly ancient standout—a limestone cottage from Chedworth, Gloucestershire built in the early seventeenth century. That’s right, the 1600s. Ford bought it and had it reassembled at Greenfield because he felt it represented the lives of American ancestors before the settled in the New World, even though (as the Henry Ford Official Guidebook concedes) ”most Americans did not actually come from the Cotswold region.”

Replica of Edison's Menlo Park laboratory.

The “real fake” is embodied in the Menlo Park complex, along with both amalgamated place and time. The staff boast of the authenticity of the wood used to hew the floorboards, and the size of the various glass bottles on shelves, nothing that “The Wizard” himself approved of the re-creation. The chair in the center of the room, however, represents the opening ceremonies of 1929, not electric lighting’s creation fifty years prior. Edison sat in that very chair to reenact the illuminating of his incandescent bulb, and immediately after it was nailed to the floor.

Give Me Liberty and Give Me Lunch

But not everything is a jumble of time and place here. Sometimes they take the effort to really dial in and deliver a top-notch thematic experience. An absolute highlight of both my 2017 and 2018 visit to Greenfield Village was having lunch at the Eagle Tavern. Here time stands still in the mid-nineteenth century; there is no electric lighting, no gas heating, and no refrigeration. Food is prepared as it was in the 1850s.

The Tavern was moved to the Village from Clinton, Michigan (about fifty-some miles from Detroit) after Ford bought it in 1927. The structure dates to 1831–32. The thematic dining experience was added in 1982; curiously EPCOT Center opened at Walt Disney World that year, featuring themed fine dining in its World Showcase area from various countries.

The small details at Greenfield Village, such as this hand painted shingle sign, really make the experience. After all, what would be the point of contemporary printing if they’ve gone to the trouble to deny patrons electricity once inside?

Servers at the Eagle Tavern did their very best to stay in character, speaking with an odd but identifiable American regional accent, somewhat stilted diction, and occasional obscure vocabulary (the kind of word or phrase you can discern, but is not in common use today).

Eagle Tavern Bill of Fare. Click to enlarge and read the tavern’s history. — Eagle Tavern *Bill of Fare*. Click to enlarge and read the tavern’s history.

I don’t think I’ve ever had a fresher meal. Ever. Fricassee (a kind of flat noodle in a thick white sauce) of chicken with roast beef and gravy, potatoes, and fresh seasonal vegetables (all from the working farms on the Village property). Salt and pepper were not in shakers, but had been ground with a mortar and pestle. The butter was churned at the Village, and kept cool in an icebox. The butter and muffins were baked that day. And my favorite touch? True to the period, there were no straws in our drinks—they were instead straight, hollow pieces of macaroni.

A Model Experience

Probably the most unusual structure at the village is the 1/4 scale replica of the original Ford Motor factory on Mack Avenue in Detroit, which was added to Greenfield Village in 1945. Unlike Disney's use of forced perspective, this building is literally "shrunk" by a quarter. The factory sits right next to where visitors queue up to take a ride in its product.

I’ll admit it—riding in a restored, antique Ford was right at the top of my list for Greenfield Village, and I was able to do it both times I visited. It’s the closest thing, besides the Weiser Railroad, to an amusement park ride or theme park “attraction” on the property.

As always, passengers like to wave at passersby.

The Model T ride is extremely ironic, actually, because Henry Ford’s intention in the development of his Greenfield Village was to showcase American farm and small town life before industrialization—and more pointedly—before the proliferation of the automobile. Ford innovations were on display inside the main museum building of the Edison Institute from day one but cars were verboten on Village property itself until well after Ford’s death.

For the most part, as you’re being driven around, waving at other antique automobiles, busses, and trolleys (all from approximately the same era) it’s a cohesive experience. Despite the architectural leaps from Europe to the United States and spanning centuries of building styles, the caravan of automobiles making their way through Greenfield Village keep you grounded roughly in 1920s and 30s America.

And then I saw the soldiers.

Union troop reenactors on the battlefield after their tactics demonstration.

A Civil War in the Twentieth Century

As it turns out, during my second visit to Greenfield this blend of time periods without clearly defined edges was further (and bizarrely) compounded by the annual Memorial Day Weekend Civil War Remembrance festivities. My colleague Greg and I lucked into this time-warp, as we had no idea it was going on the day we had scheduled to tour the Village.

I can't describe what it was like to walk along Union (called "Federals") and Confederate (known as "Rebels") troop encampments while restored Model T automobiles cruised by. My thoughts ran immediately to Disneyland, of course, where you can see the rocket ships of Tomorrowland from Main Street U.S.A.

An extensive list of the weekend's activities.

But at least at that park there is a kind of fantastical disconnect. Here at Greenfield Village, the clashing time periods are presented in vivid detail—authenticities sparring for attention. The Civil War reenactors are perfect, right down to their brass buttons and razor-sharp bayonets. These men, women, and yes, even children stay in character as you converse with them while they cook food and boil coffee over open fires. Their tents are real, and so are all the trappings of hearth and home. So too are the antique Fords with the sounds and smells of their engines. The realism goes beyond mere patina; it's visceral and multi-sensory.

At first this historical soup struck me as a kind of temporal cognitive dissonance. But as the day wore on, it sort of washed over me. In a sense the Civil War and the Model Ts were just a more pronounced extension of Henry Ford's entire vision for Greenfield Village—imaginary, amalgamated spaces of amalgamated time.

My colleague and I fight over the use of our time machine on May 26, 2018.

Just like Walt Disney and Ward Kimball, Greg and I couldn't resist posing for an authentic tintype. Our wet-plate photographer, Robert Beech, suggested a pose of 'fisticuffs.' We had to hold the pose for a full eight seconds to expose the film. Our concessions to period authenticity included tucking in shirts and matting down hair. I also turned my t-shirt inside-out, as a tintype is actually a reverse image of the original pose, so the text would have been mirrored.

As we took turns holding the developed, dried tintype, I noted a strange sensation. The material reality of the chemicals, the glass; the unmistakable reality of the specks and dirts and imperfections in the print, all this presented a kind of time travel. Our fisticuffs photograph actually looked and felt like it had been taken in the 1890s. In a sense, it was.

Greenfield Village - Part 1: Brave Old World.

November 11, 2018 by Dave Gottwald

The following observations and photos are culled from two separate visits to The Henry Ford museum complex in Dearborn, Michigan. My first visit was on July 15, 2017 and the majority of the photos featured in this post are from that day. Most recently I visited again on May 26, 2018 with my colleague Greg Turner-Rahman.

"History is more or less bunk." — Henry Ford, 1916

Industrialist Henry Ford—founder of the Ford Motor Company and perfector and popularizer of the mass production assembly line—was also an obsessive collector, and by the late 1920s he had amassed perhaps the largest collection of Americana in the country. Ford was fascinated by two notions; first, the preservation of ordinary, useful objects such as machinery and household goods, and second, an appreciation for pre-industrial times (quite ironic, given his most profitable efforts to hasten that very industrialization). Most of Ford’s vast accumulation of objects were deposited in a former tractor assembly warehouse while he planned for a larger display project.

The resultant museum was designed by Robert O. Derrick and resembled Independence Hall in Philadelphia; dedicated in 1929, it opened to the public in 1933, and was mostly built out by the 1940s. The museum was initially called the Edison Institute in tribute to Ford’s friend and mentor Thomas A. Edison (the 1929 dedication marked the 50th anniversary of Edison's electric light).

Greenfield Village, satellite view. Click for link. Map data: Ⓒ Google.

Although interesting on its own, the purpose of my two visits was the adjacent Greenfield Village property, an outdoor living history museum noted by the National Register of Historic Places for being a model for subsequent types of museums (along with Colonial Williamsburg which was restored and re-created with funding from John D. Rockefeller at roughly the same time). At its time of opening, a re-creation of Edison’s Menlo Park Laboratory Complex was a key highlight of the Village experience.

Souvenir map of the Greenfield Village property, 1951. The David Rumsey Map Collection. — Souvenir map of the Greenfield Village property, 1951. *The David Rumsey Map Collection*.

In History Is Bunk: Assembling the Past at Henry Ford's Greenfield Village, Jessie Swigger offers perhaps the best description of the park and its intentions. Calling it "an imagined place" she notes that it was named after the township where Henry Ford's wife was born, and that the

village was constructed in Dearborn, just a few miles from the farmhouse where [Ford] grew up and a short drive from downtown Detroit. Only a few of the buildings represented local history, however; several were moved to the village from across the country or, like the Menlo Park buildings, built on the premises. The homes, artisan and industrial shops, and businesses were not linked by geography or time period but, as the replica of Menlo Park suggests, by Ford's personal interests. [emphasis mine]

If this sounds like Walt Disney’s intentions in building his park, it’s no coincidence.

Walt Disney with his daughter Diane at The Henry Ford museum on April 12, 1940. Ⓒ Disney Enterprises, Inc. — Walt Disney with his daughter Diane at The Henry Ford museum on April 12, 1940.
Ⓒ Disney Enterprises, Inc.

The Henry Ford records two visits by Walt Disney to the Edison Institute and to Greenfield Village, the first being in 1940, and both times he took a tintype souvenir photograph. Given the broader timeline of his ruminations for the concept which became Disneyland, this is somewhat premature for a ‘scouting’ trip. Officials remarked that Walt was much impressed by all he saw, particularly showing “a great interest in everything mechanical.”

Walt Disney with animator Ward Kimball at The Henry Ford on August 3, 1948. Ⓒ Disney Enterprises, Inc. — Walt Disney with animator Ward Kimball at The Henry Ford on August 3, 1948.
Ⓒ Disney Enterprises, Inc.

Disneyland Origins: The 1948 Chicago Railroad Fair

By his second visit in 1948, however, Walt’s ideas for Disneyland were beginning to solidify, and he was surely paying closer attention this time. Walt had travelled to Chicago that summer with Disney animator Ward Kimball to visit the Chicago Railroad Fair. Kimball had grown close to Walt over their mutual love of trains, and when the Disney Studios nurse, Hazel George, suggested that her boss was in dire need of a vacation to relieve stress (despite having just returned from Hawaii a few weeks prior), Kimball was pressed into service as his companion.

Vintage postcard, Chicago Railroad Fair.

The Chicago Railroad Fair is a curious chapter in the development of Disneyland all on its own. Several themed environments that would later become part of the Disneyland concept, such as an Indian Village and a Gold Rush-era ghost town, were highlights of the Fair.

The historical re-creations and thematic design which Disney and Kimball ate up during their visit served as the perfect appetizer for their visit to Henry Ford’s own take on Americana.

Disneyland Origins: Main Street Muse

After visiting the Railroad Fair and gawking over the massive spectacle of locomotives and rolling stock on display, Walt and Ward spent two days at Ford’s Edison Institute and Greenfield Village on their return trip to California. The one-two punch of the Fair and the Village managed to reignite Walt’s imagination and pushed the visioning for his park into overdrive. Kimball later said that it was all Walt talked about during their entire trip.

Left: Village Green, Greenfield Village. Right: Main Street U.S.A., Disneyland. Map data: Ⓒ Google. — Left: *Village Green,* Greenfield Village. Right: *Main Street U.S.A.*, Disneyland. Map data: Ⓒ Google.

During both my visits, it became quite clear that Walt Disney took some very direct planning cues from the Village. Greenfield's Main Street aligns with a long symmetrical lawn, or Village Green, flanked on either end by two structures Henry Ford had in mind for his Village since the very beginning—a town hall and a chapel. The exact same vantage and dual “weenies” would later employed at Disneyland—the train station at the park’s entrance and then down Main Street U.S.A. to Sleeping Beauty’s Castle.

The Town Hall at the opposite end of the Village Green from the Chapel.

Upon his return to the studio, Walt passed on detailed notes to studio production designer Dick Kelsey that clearly show the influence of his time spent in both Chicago and Dearborn. According to Neal Gabler in his comprehensive and well-regarded biography, the memo to Kelsey dated August 31, 1948 described “a Main Village with a railroad station and a village green…a small town would be built around the green, with the railroad station at one end and a town hall at the other…there would be other sections too: an old farm, a western village, [and] an Indian compound” [emphasis added].

Vintage postcard, Suwanee Riverboat at Greenfield Village. — Vintage postcard, *Suwanee* Riverboat at Greenfield Village.

Disneyland Origins: Steamboat Sympaticos

There’s another key feature of the Village which Walt tucked in his back pocket and later deployed as a main attraction at Disneyland—a steamboat river ride. As with so many things at Greenfield, all things point back to Thomas Edison. While in Florida, Edison was fond of travelling on a 19th century steamer, the Suwanee. In time it was sunk and Henry Ford had the engine salvaged. In 1929 (the year the museum and village were dedicated) Ford hired Conrad Menge, who had once captained the Suwanee, to help rebuild it. In 1937 a loop of the adjacent Rouge River was dredged to create Suwanee Lagoon, and boat tours began around it.

Interestingly, ten years later the Suwanee was one of the last things Henry Ford saw on his final visit to Greenfield Village on April 7, 1947—the day he died. The Rouge River had recently been flooded by heavy rains, and the riverboat was submerged at its dock, disabled. Ford’s driver reported that with a laugh, he quipped “We’ll soon put it back on an even keel again.” The craft was indeed repaired and continued to offer tours to guests for decades until the Suwanee was taken out of service at the Village in 2004; she was finally dismantled, board by board, in 2011.

The Mark Twain Riverboat at Disneyland, 2008. — The *Mark Twain* Riverboat at Disneyland, 2008.

Although the vessel Walt had built for his park was far larger than the Suwanee, it was still smaller than an actual Mississippi riverboat—roughly 5/8 scale. Comparing the two from roughly the same vantage point, it’s evident that the Greenfield craft informed the Mark Twain’s central role in Frontierland, even down to the looped route of travel.

Left: Suwanee Lagoon, Greenfield Village. Right: Rivers of America, Disneyland. Map data: Ⓒ Google. — Left: *Suwanee Lagoon*, Greenfield Village. Right: *Rivers of America*, Disneyland. Map data: Ⓒ Google.

The Rivers of America at Disneyland is longer, narrower, and more elaborate, snaking back and forth around Tom Sawyer’s Island—but the DNA of the experience is right here at Henry Ford’s Greenfield Village.

Disneyfying Greenfield

For most of the Village’s history, the park had grown organically. There was no cohesive master plan, and this unplanned nature of the attraction became even more pronounced after Ford’s death. Ironically, Henry Ford’s obsession with historical re-creation and that influence on Walt’s Disneyland concept would come full circle by the late 1990s; Greenfield Village would be, quite deliberately, turned into something of a Disney-style theme park.

A history attraction uses the techniques of theater, drama, storytelling, pacing and crowd control of the themed attraction to address the important stories that matter in people’s lives [emphasis added]. — The Henry Ford’s “History Principles,” 2002

The Village entrance plaza and visitors center which were built during a massive 2002–2003 renovation reflect the Colonial look of the Independence Hall facade of the Henry Ford museum complex right next door, but these structures are even more elaborated planned and themed than that older “re-creation.”

Liberty Square, The Magic Kingdom, Walt Disney World, 2007.

The renovation designers appear to have taken a very direct lead from the Liberty Square area of Walt Disney World’s Magic Kingdom, which is themed to the time of the American Revolution. This land was wisely included on the opening day menu of that park in 1971 as a substitution for New Orleans Square (the real Big Easy was thought to be too close to Florida to be exotic), and five years later both the area and its signature attraction, The Hall of Presidents, were inundated with guests as the entire country was caught up in Bicentennial fever. Perhaps I digress; bottom line, Greenfield’s new entrance is more Disney than Ford.

Greenfield Village's full-size steam train.

Or perhaps I digress not. Even though the Disneyfication of the Village wasn’t complete until the early 2000s, I’d argue that it actually began much sooner, in direct response to that very opening of the Magic Kingdom at Walt Disney World in October 1971. It was not until the summer of 1972 that Greenfield received an antique steam train attraction, and just like in the fashion of Disney parks, it circled (and thus enclosed and provided a perimeter for) the Village on a three-mile course. The subsequent Main Street and Suwanee Stations was completed and operational for the 1974 season. Unlike the Disney Version, however, Greenfield’s Weiser Railroad is standard gauge and employs no reduced scaling.

Company leadership was very direct about these alterations to the Village (which included not only the new railroad but also Suwanee Park, a themed re-creation of a turn-of-the-century amusement area by 1974) and that the emphasis now needed to be experiential:

We must realize that the area in which we operate—the attraction of visitors—has become extremely competitive in recent years [meaning, among other things, Walt Disney World]… A major purpose of our development program is to add the means by which we can offer visitors a greater sense of personal participation—all within a historical context [emphasis added]. — William Clay Ford, July 1972.

Themed districts with their own title signage.

The ultimate extension of this desire to compete with attractions like the Disney parks and also to offer visitors a more immersive experience meant not just redesign in the late 1990s and early 2000s; it also meant reorganization.

Rather than an organic assemblage of buildings Ford had bought and moved, or had ordered constructed new “as old” on site, Greenfield Village took on the narrative approach of seven newly organized themed districts (much like Disney’s “lands”) during its 2002–2003 renovation. As indicated in colors and numbers on the above map, those areas in 2017 and 2018 when I visited were:

1.) Working Farms: This is a demonstration of traditional American farming. Produce grown and livestock raised here are served at some of the Village’s finer restaurants.

2.) Liberty Craftworks: Pottery, Glassblowing, Metalworking, Milling, and Printing are demonstrated in period-appropriate settings, with wares available for sale.

3.) Henry Ford’s Model T: A scaled down replica of a Ford manufacturing plant frames perhaps the park’s most popular contemporary attraction—the opportunity to ride in restored antique Ford automobiles around the Village.

4.) Railroad Junction: A reconstructed roundhouse from Marshall, Michigan was added to the Village in 2000 and became the heart of this area dedicated to Greenfield’s trains.

5.) Main Street: The area which probably required the least amount of reorganization as its theme was evident at the Village’s opening. Also includes the Suwanee Park amusement area which was added in 1974, and the Suwanee Lagoon (now lacking a riverboat).

6.) Edison at Work: This re-creation of Edison’s Menlo Park Laboratory Complex has been Greenfield’s signature attraction since the day the park was dedicated.

7.) Porches and Parlors: Essentially a residential district composed of historic structures which Ford had moved to the site, or re-creations constructed in situ at his direction.

Greenfield Village is one of those rare examples of a park which not only predated Disneyland but directly informed Walt’s design choices for his project—and then in turn was itself Disneyfied to remain a compelling and competitive experience in the wake of the success of the Disney Park Model.

Continued in Part 2.

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Bronner's.

November 01, 2018 by Dave Gottwald

Before leaving Frankenmuth, there was one last stop to make (again, at the insistence of fellow traveller David Janssen, Jr.). Bronner's CHRISTmas Wonderland advertises itself as the “World's Largest Christmas Store” and it’s certainly big—a sprawling complex of landscaped grounds covering some 27 acres.

Bronner's CHRISTmas Wonderland, satellite view. Click for link. Map data: Ⓒ Google.

Wally Bronner had an earlier career designing window displays in which he met vendors that needed custom Christmas decorations. He founded Bronner’s in 1954 with his wife Irene, and the first location was in downtown Frankenmuth on Main Street. The store expanded in 1966 and again in 1971, as additional buildings were procured nearby the intersection of the original downtown location. Six years later, the entire business moved just south of town to 45 acres of former farmland. It has grown at that location ever since. The actual address? 25 Christmas Lane.

Vintage postcard of Santa’s Village, Lake Arrowhead, California. — Vintage postcard of *Santa’s Village*, Lake Arrowhead, California.

When I was growing up in Southern California, we often visited Santa’s Village at Lake Arrowhead in the San Bernardino Mountains come Christmas time. Opening a couple months before Disneyland in 1955, the park was franchised by its founder Glenn Holland; two other locations, one near Santa Cruz, California and the other in Illinois (which ended up a failure that sunk the company). By the late 90s, Santa’s Village was ailing and had to close. After years of dormancy and disrepair, it reopened in 2016 as an outdoor adventure area called SkyPark at Santa's Village. Many of the original structures from the 1950s have been restored.

Vintage Postcard of The Village, Lake Arrowhead, California. — Vintage Postcard of *The Village*, Lake Arrowhead, California.

Appropriately enough, given my discussion of Frankenmuth, Lake Arrowhead has carried an “Alpine Village” theme since the 1940s.

Vintage postcard of Santa’s Village, Jefferson, New Hampshire. — Vintage postcard of *Santa’s Village*, Jefferson, New Hampshire.

The “Santa’s Village” model cropped up all over the United States in the 1940s and 50s. Some, like the example above from New England, mixed general fairy tale and nursery rhyme iconography in with the elves and the reindeer and the gingerbread and candy canes. Perhaps this made them most appealing as year-round destinations (it sure doesn’t look like a New Hampshire Christmas in the photograph…more like June).

Which is all to say that I was a bit disappointed in Bronner’s, to be honest. I mean, I loved this castle of kitsch in its own way, but it was a lost opportunity, thematically speaking. None of the architectural detailing in the “Santa’s Village” style was evident, or even the “Alpine Village” look of the rest of Frankenmuth.

There’s some nice thematic typography however—very midcentury—in and around the complex. The painted Blackletter shows up on all kids of signage. Red and Green are, of course, in effect everywhere.

It occurs to me that the “Santa’s Village” North Pole theme might have been avoided rather intentionally as Santa Claus is such a secular representation of the Holiday Season in the United States. Bronner’s is deeply religious in its iconography—somewhat tackily, I might add. “Christmas” is always, always rendered CHRISTmas on everything from signage to merchandise. According to the Bronner’s website, this is because

[Wally, founder] always spelled Christmas, “CHRISTmas.” He never wanted his Savior to be hidden by the holiday's celebration and decorations. Wally Bronner celebrated CHRISTmas year-round, but his greatest joy was knowing Christ year-round and helping others know Christ, too.

The sincerity is certainly touching, but as on-site graphic design and theming, the result is less than classy.

Vintage Bronner’s postcard. — Vintage *Bronner’s* postcard.

As for thematic design? I’d say not. This is a space with a theme, for sure, but that’s not the same. There is no setting (time + place) and there is no immersion. Time and again, those are the qualities I refer to when describing (admittedly—postmodern, consumer-grade) thematic design. The exterior architecture might suggest the North Pole (if you squint) but it’s very nondescript—none of the Chalet or Bavarian trappings seen around the rest of Frankenmuth. It’s certainly nothing like the relatively lavish look of the Santa’s Village I grew up visiting.

But I did love it—camp doesn’t even begin to describe the excess of the interior retail spaces which is Bronner’s. It’s sort of like if Liberace owned a Christmas museum. Curated by John Waters. With everything for sale.

There is a series of large scale tree ornaments to greet you on your drive and and again on your drive out of the parking lot. And again, it’s always CHRISTmas. If you’re in the region, I recommend stopping by. Just don’t expect to be immersed in anything but tinsel.

Anytown, Europe.

October 27, 2018 by Dave Gottwald

The last stop on the first leg of my summer 2017 road trip was the themed “Alpine Village” town of Frankenmuth, Michigan. Again it was at the suggestion of my travel companion David Janssen Jr. who (rightly) declared it as something I had to see.

Frankenmuth, Michigan, satellite view. Click for link. Map data: Ⓒ Google.

Frankenmuth—known as the “Little Bavaria” of the region—is a tourist destination of less than 10,000 people nestled along the Cass River about ninety miles northwest of Detroit.

Vintage postcard of Alpine Village, Torrance, California. — Vintage postcard of *Alpine Village*, Torrance, California.

The Alpine Village Model

European themed “villages” like Frankenmuth are common throughout many parts of the United States, and much of their thematic design dates to after the opening of Disneyland. Southern California’s Alpine Village, for example, opened in 1968.

Vintage postcard of Solvang, California.

When I was growing up my family often visited Solvang in the wine country of the Santa Ynez Valley in Santa Barbara County. Solvang has a Danish theme and, like many such towns, was actually founded as a community of settlers from a particular part of Europe, but by mid-century had begun to embrace an enhanced, Disneyland-like form of design to further attract tourists. In 1958, Paul Kuelgen, a scenic artist at RKO Studios, was commissioned to construct stylized gables and dormers on buildings downtown, and when done commented—quite satisfied—that Solvang now “looked like a movie set.”

Vintage postcard of Leavenworth, Washington.

Another such famous town is Leavenworth, Washington which adapted a Bavarian theme in the early 1960s as part of a larger economic revitalization plan. Planners for this project actually travelled to Solvang, California for inspiration. In his history masters thesis The Origins of the Recreational Theme Town in the West (University of Idaho, 1996), Jake Sudderth notes that Solvang was the prototypical model for the “Alpine Village” themed town, utilizing what he calls “contrived architecture.”

In this way, many such towns developed “traditional” brand identities like any other product or company or service. Frankenmuth is very loud and proud about this—the banners above, complete with a (R) registered trademark—are hanging from every street lamp. It’s certainly not subtle and it’s not in any way clever; as a result it’s fairly off-putting.

Frankenmuth is the kind of place where the public trash cans thank you personally—in German.

Historian Richard V. Francaviglia suggests that this move towards regionalization was indeed a marketing tactic, and a way for communities to survive (and perhaps even thrive) as out of the way, off-the-beaten-path tourist stops. Again from his Main Street Revisited:

There are signs that Main Street design reflects a need to recognize diversity in the face of overwhelming assimilation. This has been become apparent in the late twentieth century, when regional or ethnic identity is marketed by communities. On Main Street, the search for regional identity has taken on a touch of the fanciful or bizarre as certain towns have deliberately attempted to create townscapes that recapture the original ethnic heritage of their residents.

The “Alpine Village” look of the Matterhorn Bobsleds at Disneyland, 2008. — The “Alpine Village” look of the *Matterhorn Bobsleds* at Disneyland, 2008.

The original concept art for Disneyland featured highly detailed and stylized European theming, a true ‘village’ look surrounding the courtyard of Sleeping Beauty’s Castle. However, the project ran out of funding in the long march to opening day, and Walt Disney had to settle for a “Medieval Royal Pageantry” look of tents, festive flags, and shields which barely disguised the steel sheds containing the land’s dark ride attractions.

A year after Disneyland opened, Walt got his wish for an “Alpine Village” theme with the addition of the park’s Skyway attraction; aerial tram buckets departed from a traditional chalet-style building. And in 1959, the Matterhorn Bobsleds debuted, featuring a queue building straight out of the Swiss Alps.

The 1983 redesign of Fantasyland at Disneyland, 2008. — The 1983 redesign of *Fantasyland* at Disneyland, 2008.

In the early 1980s, Fantasyland was largely demolished, and the former festival sheds were replaced with a highly realized European village which was a much better fit for both the Matterhorn and Sleeping Beauty’s Castle. In this sense, the “Alpine Village” had come full circle, returning to the park which spawned the popular look of towns like Frankenmuth.

As Francaviglia points out, a great many towns in the Midwest embraced an Alpine theme in the wake of Disneyland’s enormous success. He notes that “merchants in Sugarcreek, Ohio, added Alpine motifs, including detailed porches, balconies, and gables to their Main Street to achieve a Swiss theme; some communities in Minnesota perpetuate their Finnish and German ethnic heritage through themed architecture on Main Street.”

It’s clearly the influence of Disney, as “this type of themed remodelling as been taking place since the 1950s and 60s.” Francaviglia could easily have been talking about Frankenmuth; note the resemblance here.

Very much like the Old West, the “Alpine Village” theme is often expressed liberally and abundantly through typography. The average American tourist is unlikely to be able to identify the various European regional forms of Blackletter script (Textura, Schwabacher, Fraktur, Cursiva, Hybrida/Bastarda etc.), so anything appearing to be “calligraphy” fits the bill. Again, Disney certainly popularized these uses throughout the twentieth century.

Sometimes this lettering is painted, but often it’s cut out of wood as well. Frankenmuth is also the kind of town where you’ll find a Haus instead of a House.

Generic Blackletter lettering is also rendered in 1950s–style neon, as here on the marquee for the very locally famous Zehnder's chicken dinner restaurant.

The original property dates back to the decade before the Civil War, was remodeled in the 1920s, and took off in its current incarnation after World War II. During the late 1950s, the family-owned Zehnder’s company started buying other properties around town. Curiously, the current restaurant looks very much like this postcard from the 1940s—no attempt has been made to retheme it, and it retains this sort of New England colonial flavor.

The Bavarian Inn Restaurant

“Strong regional identities persist, if not as an authentic part of their character then as almost theatrical sets,” notes Francaviglia. This theatricality—this thematic design—is perhaps best executed at the Bavarian Inn Restaurant.

Originally Fischer's Hotel, Zehnder’s bought the property as part of its post-war expansion in Frankenmuth. In 1959, it was renamed and rethemed in a very Disney-esque style.

Although the town is popularly known as “Little Bavaria,” the architectural details featuring X’s and diamonds on the buildings in Frankenmuth are actually Franconian.

The signage resembles the original Fantasyland voice of the Disney parks—circa 1950s, given the casual advertising style of brush script type. If this sign has been redone since Kennedy was in office, I can’t tell.

The complex is far larger than it appears from the exterior—three levels of shopping and dining.

From the side alley, the illusion is clear; the castle-like structure which faces the primary thoroughfare (South Main Street) hides the true depth of the building—again, a trick borrowed from Disney’s designers.

The castle tower out front is also designed with forced perspective, making it seem far taller than it actually is. Of course, in Frankenmuth medieval architecture like this isn’t authentic in any historical sense, but it adds a touch of Disney-esque fairytale fantasy—despite the American flags fluttering in the breeze above the ramparts.

Another trick borrowed from Disney is having a single structure appear to be different things from different angles. Looking south from Main Street, the castle is dominant. Looking north, it’s more of a haus presentation later in history.

The entire complex appears to slowly morph along Main Street, becoming more domestic and rustic, less regal and imperial.

To the south side of the Bavarian Inn is another massive facade featuring a decorative clock based on the The Rathaus-Glockenspiel of Munich which performs on a regular schedule.

After eating at one of the Inn’s German restaurants, we strolled the Holz Brücke (German for “Wooden Bridge,” as the sign indicates), a 239 foot, 230 ton covered span across the Cass River traditionally designed to look like it was built in the 1870s, but was of course actually erected in the 1970s.

Apparently folks walk the bridge, and then they walk back.

The Bavarian Inn Lodge

The Holz Brücke also is drivable over to the Bavarian Inn Lodge on the other side of the river, which is—you guessed it—owned by the family company behind Zehnder’s.

Bavarian Inn Lodge, satellite view. Click for link. Map data: Ⓒ Google.

Again Frankenmuth demonstrates design cleverness at subverting scale (and thus expectations). From above you can see how extensive the complex actually is.

The Bavarian Inn Lodge was part of a 1985–86 resort expansion in Frankenmuth, and it shows. While the theming has more of a master plan approach, a bunch of Las Vegas (ala Vail) components hang off the lodge like these waterslides—giving the whole thing something of a silly Willy Wonka vibe.

The hotel entrance is clearly designed to harmonize with the original, late 1950s Bavarian Inn on the other side of the Cass River.

Part of the newer, Walt Disney World-style theming that is not evident in midcentury Frankenmuth is the concept of constructing a single large facility which appears, outwardly, to be a natural conglomeration of smaller local businesses.

In Europe, you’d likely be paying an actual small-time proprietor named “Oma,” but here the cash registers all ring for the owners of the Bavarian Inn Lodge—Zehnder’s.

The Bavarian Belle Riverboat

After walking across the Holz Brücke, we bought our tickets to take a cruise down the Cass River on the Bavarian Belle Riverboat, a fully restored 150-passenger paddlewheeler.

It was neat to go on a “ride” which added a theme park element to the town experience—very much like the Mark Twain Riverboat at Disneyland.

The River Place Shops

The newest thematic addition to Frankenmuth are the Frankenmuth River Place Shops which were built in 2001 and are dripping with late 90s theming. The website proudly proclaims “OVER 40 SHOPS AND ATTRACTIONS” and invites you to “SPEND THE DAY AT FRANKENMUTH’S VERY OWN GERMAN THEMED OUTDOOR SHOPPING MALL.” I thought it curious that the term ‘German Themed’ was emphasized.

Frankenmuth River Place Shops, satellite view. Click for link. Map data: Ⓒ Google.

The shops are a stand-alone, integrated complex along Main Street on the south edge of the Cass River. The Bavarian Belle Riverboat can be seen docked at the right.

I was struck by the strong likeness to the Mackinaw Crossings retail district which I had recently visited on this same trip; they could have been designed by the same company by all appearances.

The architecture—as typical of these types of outdoor malls—is an eclectic mix, in this case, of “European-ness.” Not just German but also French, Dutch, and Scandinavian forms are evident.

Some of the shops are a very drastic departure from the Bavarian/Franconian theming which was introduced to Frankenmuth at midcentury.

Also typical of themed developments from this era are cost-cutting measures that impact the immersive qualities of the design—here most distinct in the windows, which could be from any late 90s McMansion track housing neighborhood. The painting schemes are also more garish and less carefully considered than you’d find at a Disney park; this is Disney on the cheap.

One of the hallmarks of late 1990s to early 2000s thematic design is the indoor painted sky. You can see this kind of treatment everywhere from Las Vegas casinos to Dubai shopping malls. I think Disney realizes how tacky this looks—they’ve only ever attempted “indoor for outdoor” in a nighttime setting, which can be quite stunning. Painted white clouds on powder blue just look cheap, like a children’s hospital daycare center.

I have a different appreciation for these kinds of spaces, a kind of ironic appreciation, like a guilty pleasure. Late 1990s to early 2000s theming—shopping malls, but also dining and casinos—is the b-movie equivalent of thematic design. I kind of love it because it’s so shabbily executed, because it’s so cheesy. The architecture is clearly planned and built to be appropriately referential, but the environmental immersion falls apart in poor materials choice, slapdash color, and an overall lack of detailing. All negatively impact verisimilitude.

Like many layered cakes I’ve seen on this journey, Frankenmuth is surprisingly complex, with multiple eras of theming, redesigns grafted onto authentic history, and fabricated history. From the late 1950s, Disneyland-inspired Bavarian Inn Restaurant (“Fake Real”) to the late 1990s Las Vegas casino-esque Frankenmuth River Place Shops (“Real Fake”), this classic Midwestern “Alpine Village” has it all. Even signs in German that bid you farewell.

Big Mack Attack - Part 2: The Island.

September 16, 2018 by Dave Gottwald

It was at David Janssen Jr's insistence that we visited both Mackinaw City and nearby Mackinac Island. When we were in the early stages of planning our summer 2017 road trip, I recall his words were something along the lines of "You've got to see Mackinac Island, man! No cars allowed! All horses." And indeed, in my above photo there are no cars—just a horse-drawn trolly and a ton of rented bicycles.

Mackinac Island, satellite view. Click for link. Map data: Ⓒ Google.

I was intrigued by Janssen's pitch. This fit snugly within the historical preservation / re-creation niche of thematic design, and the place sounded vaguely familiar. It was only in preparing notes for this post did I remember where I saw it.

As a kid growing up in the late 1970s and early 1980s, I was an avid reader. The Childcraft Encyclopedia Series was one of my many windows to the outside world via the written word. My very favorite book of the 1980 set which my sister and I shared was called Places to Know.

1980 Childcraft Encyclopedia Volume 10, Places to Know.

The rest of the books in this set are long gone, lost to moves and garage sales. But I still have this one.

Mackinac Island spread in Places to Know.

Places to Know was all about exploring the planet through geographical oddities and curiosities, whether interesting natural settings or human-made places. The headline for the Mackinac City spread nearly paraphrases Mr. Janssen: NO CARS ALLOWED. The black and white photographs (probably dating to the fifties or sixties) on the spread from Places to Know above followed me around like ghosts as I explored the small downtown district on the island. But more on that a bit later.

Mackinac Island is a great example of a place with a real historical legacy that has been elevated through layers of kitsch and camp to the status of Tourist Trap.

There are resort towns like this all over the United States, and they tend to go well with bodies of water and a strong Summer Spending Season.

Conversely Mackinaw City, which we had just departed by ferry, doesn’t have the same kind of historical claim. It was built up and kitschified simply because it’s the access point to the island—which is the real enchilada, tourist-wise. The layers of historicity, remodelling, and redevelopment are similar, but there was no “original attraction” in Mackinaw City to latch onto. It’s just second banana; a gateway to another place.

As is typical with these types of towns, Mackinac Island dials up its “historicity” in service of branding. There is contemporary signage all over, replete with Victorian-looking typography that badges certain sites as “official” and “historic.”

There are numerous buildings which, at least to my untrained eye, appear to be restored historical structures from some past era. The materials use is the most telling; the mixtures of brick work and wood, and the lack of metal framing. Also window size (smaller, before mass-produced plate glass technology).

In other instances (again, I’m no architecture historian) the buildings appear new “as old” more in the Disney theme park loose interpretation of turn of the century Victorian forms.

I have mixed feelings about this, design-wise. In some ways, the lack of Total Control like you’d see in a Disneyland-type environment—or the Mackinaw Crossings retail district I had just left behind in Mackinaw City—means that the experience is more authentic.

Not everything is clean, shiny, upkept; there is less fiberglass and plasticity and gloss.

But that same lack of central ‘design authority’ means a visual hodgepodge; a mess.

Here a block-length Western clapboard saloon lives side by side with a small domestic bungalow—a contradiction you’d be hard-pressed to find at a Disney theme park environment.

With national chains, however, at least Mackinac Island tries. Many restored “historic districts” or renovated small town Main Streets across the country provide visual standards to companies that wish to plop down next to much older structures. Here Starbucks is presented with the same Old West-style false front architecture as many other shops on the island.

You get pockets of beauty, sure—a restored house, a renovated business block.

And then you get souvenir shops selling awful cheap t-shirt designs and retail spaces crammed to the gills with tchotchkes and too much fudge and way more ice cream than you can handle. The strongest vibe I got was of Lahaina on the West Side of Maui, where I spent a lot of time growing up.

The very historic storefront, circa 1960. But the signage and facade rather suggest 1860.

That’s the real rub; the authentic “contradictions” of the urban experience—which legendary Imagineer John Hench often noted with pride were rather intentionally eliminated through the Disney design process—are, from a certain perspective, compelling. Some are also ugly as hell.

The Disneyland-esque Mackinaw Crossings development is the kind of design that many (mostly architecture critics) label tastelessly contrived. But there is a holistic vision, a single story, being executed—even if you think it’s too shiny.

Mackinac Island has no such sweeping, cohesive narrative to its structures and spaces. There are bits and pieces—Fort Mackinac which was built during the American Revolutionary War, the tradition of fishing and fudge-making, the grand Victorian hotels and rooming houses, the banning of automobiles.

What’s interesting about the island is that there’s more than one level of tourism going on here. By that I mean that Mackinac Island was a tourist town historically. The well-to-do have been vacationing here and eating fudge here and buying souvenirs here since just after the Civil War.

And Mackinac Island is also a tourist town today. The crowds it draws during the summer months these days are really only two groups: overnight guests and day visitors.

Those who stay overnight at the island’s restored hotels and Victorian bed and breakfast houses basically pay through the nose for the privilege. They are the contemporary, upmarket equivalent of the island’s traditional, 19th century tourist base.

And then you have folks like me; we come out on the ferry for the day, take a bunch of pictures, buy some food and maybe a couple t-shirts of the “I Was Here” variety and some nautical-but-nice brass bric-à-brac from Ye Olde Candle Shoppe, and get right back on the boat to the mainland. This is the downmarket group, and I include myself in it.

The odd tension between downmarket and upmarket guests is expressed well in the spaces and structures seen on Mackinac Island.

Essentially, the nice, restored, well-kept stuff is mostly on the inland side of the streets of the downtown area. Or it’s far, far further down the water’s edge, like this restored hotel.

And the rest of downtown faces (and smells strongly of) the water. Here’s one such establishment—the obligatory “Western Trading Post” hocking cheap t-shirts.

In closing this brings me back to the book I read as a child, which gave me the mental pictures I carried along with me on my visit to Mackinac Island. I didn’t remember the text, not until I examined the book recently while preparing my notes for this post. But I had a vague sense of the photographs—they were pictures of the island as a tourist town historically. No tacky t-shirt shops and shabbily dressed (average) American visitors.

Photograph from Childcraft Encyclopedia’s Places to Know.

Although these photos hardly have people in them, I imagined them—in my mind’s eye—in historical costume. I imagined wealthy Victorian hotel guests. And although I’m speaking of pictures in a children’s encyclopedia, this is still the language of cinematic subsumption. I was let down ever so slightly that the Mackinac Island from the pages of my virtual childhood didn’t meet the reality. These heightened expectations are something I will return to time and again.