From Here to There

Sometime in the 1980s, a family on North Magnolia in Santee, California, received an oil change reminder in the mail. Postwar housing tracts had filled in the San Diego suburb and a car was not optional. As much as new hot rods were in style, it was a nostalgic moment for vintage automobiles.

The card from John Horsman’s Chevron station showed a 1908 Benz. Drew Ford in La Mesa sent another with a 1911 Coey Flyer. On the back: a service reminder. Your oil is due. Come in soon.

Vintage dealer trade postcard front, 1911 Coey Flyer antique automobile, natural color postcard by Dexter Press
1911 Coey Flyer

The cards arrived with calculated regularity. Each addressed to the same house, each featuring a different antique automobile on the front. Curated from private collections and museums, these postcards were reproduced by the millions as stock advertising for companies across the country. Depicting automobiles from a bygone era, the trade cards themselves were designed to be collectible.

The man most responsible for preserving those automobiles was born in Venice, California, in 1911. Bill Harrah opened a bingo parlor there as a young man, moved to Reno in 1937, and built a casino empire that made him one of the wealthiest men in Nevada. He was meticulous about his clothes, his restaurants, and especially his cars.

His first collector car was a 1911 Maxwell, and Harrah bought, restored, and accumulated automobiles for the rest of his life. He acquired Winthrop Rockefeller’s extensive collection for $947,000, including 68 motorized vehicles and three horse-drawn carriages in a single transaction. It was a passion he pursued, and almost couldn’t contain.

By 1962, Harrah rented a huge brick building in Sparks to display around 150 cars. The cars moved in convoys. His mechanics restored them to running condition. When the restorations were finished, they test-drove the vehicles up and down Glendale Boulevard in Sparks, sometimes dressed in the clothing of the era.

The Harrah’s postcards in this set were produced from his collection’s photographs, shot when the restoration program was at its height. A glass company in Detroit printed them. An auto glass distributor in Phoenix mailed them to customers in the state. Though lovingly housed in Sparks, this 1913 Garford traveled through the postal system to Prescott, Arizona, tucked into a stack of bills and circulars.

The collection eventually spread across thirteen warehouses. His executive Lloyd Dyer put it plainly, “We owned thirteen hundred automobiles at that time. Bill wanted to have a perfect museum to show his cars.”

Harrah never finished that museum. He died in 1978. Holiday Inn purchased his hotels, casinos, and automobile collection in 1980 and announced plans to sell everything. Harrah friends and fans pushed back hard. Holiday Inn agreed to donate 175 cars if money could be raised for a museum.

The National Automobile Museum opened in downtown Reno on November 5, 1989, and is still operating with more than 225 cars on display. That gift became the largest corporate philanthropic donation in the nation’s history at the time.

In a small Michigan town called Hickory Corners, another collector built a museum for different reasons. Donald S. Gilmore ran the Upjohn Company, the pharmaceutical firm his family had founded in Kalamazoo in 1886. As the story goes, one day his wife told him he needed a hobby. Most people know what that means.

She gave him his first project car in 1963 as a retirement gift, a 1920 Pierce-Arrow. Within three years he had accumulated 37 cars, a steamboat, a steam tractor, and a biplane.

Eventually, he bought a farm up the road and the Gilmore Car Museum opened to the public on July 31, 1966, with 35 cars on display. That farm now covers 90 acres. The museum exhibits over 400 vehicles and motorcycles from all eras in several vintage buildings. A staggering scale for an effort that began because a his wife wanted him out of the house.

Then there’s Burton H. Upjohn, whose name appears on the backs of multiple cards in this collection. From a different branch of the same Kalamazoo family, he collected cars of his own. In the cards we see here, he loaned the 1908 Packard, 1911 Empire Racy Roadster, and the 1931 Ford Model A to Henry Clark for photography.

Henry Austin Clark Jr. started buying cars at Harvard in the late 1930s. After naval service during World War II, he and family settled in Southampton, New York, into a life of collecting, rallies and tours. The cars outgrew his sheds. He opened the Long Island Automotive Museum in 1948, in large part to house his collection.

He also photographed nearly every notable collector car in America. That’s not quite an exaggeration. Clark comprehensively and precisely documented a vanishing world with attention to what would matter later. He co-authored the Standard Catalog of American Cars with Beverly Rae Kimes. He participated in Glidden Tours for decades. He served as vice president of the Bridgehampton race circuit. He rescued the Thomas Flyer that won the 1908 New York-to-Paris race from a junkyard.

By the late 1970s, the museum’s operating losses forced him to begin selling. In 1979, over two hundred automobiles were auctioned. A year later, the museum closed. Clark died on December 15, 1991, the day after his collection of automotive history began to move to the Benson Ford Research Center at The Henry Ford in Dearborn.

The Auburn Cord Duesenberg Automobile Museum opened in 1974 after community leaders and volunteers spent years raising funds to restore the company’s old showroom and factory in Auburn, Indiana. The National Park Service designated it a National Historic Landmark in 2005. It holds the cars photographed by Nicky Wright for the 1991 postcard set in this collection.

A network of institutions now hold what these private collectors assembled, including the Petersen Automotive Museum in Los Angeles, The Henry Ford in Dearborn, the Revs Institute in Naples, the Gilmore in Hickory Corners, and the LeMay in Tacoma.

We can see in this collection where the credit lines overlap. These men likely knew each other, and certainly inhabited a postwar American world of inherited wealth, mechanical passion, and enough acreage to store what they acquired. Though the original collectors have passed, the images, trade cards, archives, museums, and the cars themselves are evidence of an American pastime that lives on today.

To Read More

National Automobile Museum (The Harrah Collection), Reno, Nevada — automuseum.org

Gilmore Car Museum, Hickory Corners, Michigan — gilmorecarmuseum.org

Auburn Cord Duesenberg Automobile Museum, Auburn, Indiana — automobilemuseum.org

Henry Austin Clark Jr. Photograph Collection, The Henry Ford — thehenryford.org

“The Pioneers of Automobile Collecting,” Seal Cove Auto Museum — sealcoveautomuseum.org

Henry Austin Clark, Society of Automotive Historians — autohistory.org

Why the Woods?

Vintage postcards reveal America’s enduring love affair with wild spaces. Through war, depression, and social upheaval, we’ve preserved these sanctuaries of peace.

On an autumn morning in 1935, Eleanor Roosevelt walked alone through the woods at her personal retreat in Hyde Park, New York. The First Lady had just returned from touring poverty-stricken areas in West Virginia, where families struggled to survive the Great Depression.

These morning walks were her ritual for processing the weight of what she witnessed in her tireless work. The woods, she would later write, helped her find the clarity needed to transform empathy into action.

Decades earlier, John Muir had written to a friend. His words would become a rallying cry for the American conservation movement, adorning everything from park posters to backpack patches.

The mountains are calling and I must go.

But what exactly is this call we hear from nature? Why do we feel drawn to preserve wild spaces and to protect them for future generations? And what happens to us when we answer that call?

The ephemera spread across my desk capture America’s parks in saturated colors and earnest prose. Welcome to Yosemite and Camp Curry! The hope is that some special part of life is revealed.

These mass-produced mementos tell a story of democratic access to wilderness, of a shared heritage preserved through an unprecedented system of public lands. But they also hint at something deeper – our innate recognition that we need these spaces not just for recreation, but for restoration.

The same wisdom that guided Eleanor Roosevelt to seek solitude among the trees has been confirmed by modern science: nature calms us at a biological level.

Science of Serenity

When we step into a forest, our bodies respond immediately. Cortisol levels drop. Blood pressure decreases. Our parasympathetic nervous system – responsible for rest and recovery – becomes more active.

Even our visual processing changes: natural fractal patterns, like those found in tree branches and leaf veins, require less cognitive effort to process than the sharp angles and straight lines of human-made environments.

Trees release compounds called phytoncides that, when inhaled, enhance immune function and reduce stress hormones. Natural sounds – running water, rustling leaves, bird songs – engage our attention in a way that promotes neural restoration rather than fatigue.

Physiologically, exposure to diverse natural environments even affects our microbiome – the community of microorganisms living in and on our bodies. This microscopic ecosystem influences everything from mood regulation to stress response through the gut-brain axis. In a very literal sense, communion with nature changes who we are.

Preserving Peace

The story of how Americans came to preserve our wild spaces is, in many ways, a story about seeking peace – both personal and collective. The movement gained momentum after the Civil War, as a wounded nation looked westward not just for expansion, but for healing.

Frederick Law Olmsted, who fought depression throughout his life, designed public parks as democratic spaces where people of all classes could find restoration. His work on New York’s Central Park and other urban green spaces was guided by his belief that nature’s tranquility could help ease social tensions and promote civic harmony.

John Muir found his own peace in the Sierra Nevada after wandering the war-torn South as a young man. His passionate advocacy helped establish Yosemite National Park and inspired generations of conservationists.

But it was President Theodore Roosevelt, another seeker of nature’s consolation, who would transform individual inspiration into national policy. Roosevelt’s experience finding solace in the Dakota Territory after the deaths of his wife and mother shaped his approach to conservation. He understood viscerally that wilderness could heal, that it offered something essential to the human spirit.

During his presidency, he protected approximately 230 million acres of public land, establishing 150 national forests, 51 federal bird reservations, four national game preserves, five national parks, and 18 national monuments.

Women in the Woods

While Roosevelt’s dramatic expansion of public lands is well known, the role of women in American conservation deserves greater recognition.

Susan Fenimore Cooper, a student of her famous father, published Rural Hours in 1850 – a detailed natural history that influenced both Thoreau and the early conservation movement. Her careful observations helped Americans see local landscapes as worthy of preservation.

Marjory Stoneman Douglas fought to protect the Florida Everglades when most saw it as a worthless swamp. Her 1947 book The Everglades: River of Grass transformed public understanding of wetland ecosystems. She found that regular communion with nature sustained her through decades of advocacy work.

These leaders shared a practical approach to conservation, focusing on specific, achievable goals while maintaining remarkable equanimity in the face of opposition. Their work suggests that protecting nature and being protected by it can form a reciprocal relationship – the more we preserve wild spaces, the more they preserve something essential in us.

Dark Places

The path to peace often leads through our own shadows. While Americans preserve scenes of spectacular beauty, the relationship between nature and human resilience has been proven most powerfully in places of confinement and struggle. These dark places – prisons, exile, places of oppression – have paradoxically served as crucibles for some of humanity’s deepest insights about peace and connection to nature.

Nelson Mandela’s garden on Robben Island stands as a profound example. In the harsh environment of a maximum security prison, Mandela and his fellow prisoners created a garden in the courtyard where they crushed limestone. In his autobiography, he wrote: “A garden was one of the few things in prison that one could control. To plant a seed, watch it grow, to tend it and then harvest it, offered a simple but enduring satisfaction. The sense of being the custodian of this small patch of earth offered a small taste of freedom.”

This echoes the experience of Albie Sachs, who after surviving an assassination attempt that took his arm and the sight in one eye, found healing partly through his connection to the natural world. During his recovery, watching the ocean’s rhythms helped him develop the concept of his later book – Soft Vengeance – achieving justice through law rather than violence.

Martin Luther King Jr. often drew on natural imagery to maintain his equilibrium and express his vision during frequent detainment. From the Birmingham Jail, he wrote of the majestic heights of justice and used metaphors of storms and seasons to describe the civil rights struggle. His deep understanding of peace was shaped not just by moments of tranquility in nature, but by finding inner calm in places of confinement.

The Dalai Lama often speaks of how the Himalayas’ steady presence influenced Tibetan approaches to maintaining calm, even through decades of exile.

These experiences remind us that while we focus on America’s preserved wilderness spaces, the human need for connection to nature is universal. Peace is an American pursuit and a global birthright. When we protect natural spaces, we’re participating in something that transcends national boundaries – the preservation of humanity’s common sanctuary.

Paths to Peace

The leaders who shaped American conservation found different routes to and through nature. John Muir sought transcendent experiences, climbing trees in storms and walking thousands of miles in solitude. Gifford Pinchot, first chief of the U.S. Forest Service, took a more systematic approach, seeking balance between preservation and sustainable use. Rachel Carson combined meticulous scientific observation with poetic sensitivity to nature’s rhythms.

Their examples suggest there is no right way to find peace in nature. Some need solitude and silence. Others seek the raw tests of strengths and capacity, and find restoration in active engagement with the natural world. Some seek dramatic landscapes to ponder in awe, others find sufficient wonder in a city park or backyard garden.

Wild Wisdom

Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote in his essay on Nature, “…in the woods, we return to reason and faith.” His words point to something profound about nature’s effect on human consciousness – how it seems to restore us not just to calm, but to our truest selves.

Modern research into nature’s calming effects – the lowered cortisol, the enhanced immune function, the restored attention – helps explain the mechanisms behind what people have long intuited. For those who find great equanimity through connection with nature, there also seems to be an innate genius in each of us that emerges more fully in wild spaces.

We might experience this as artistic, spiritual, or intellectual – and perhaps even more fundamental – a capacity for presence, for wonder, for sensing our connection to something larger than ourselves. It’s what Eleanor Roosevelt accessed on her morning walks, what John Muir celebrated in his rhapsodic nature writing, what Jane Goodall tapped into during her patient observations of primates in Gombe.

The preservation of wild spaces represents more than conservation of natural resources or recreational opportunities. It preserves access to this deeper part of ourselves – the part that knows how to find peace, that remembers how to wonder, that recognizes our belonging in the larger community of life.

These vintage postcards capture more than just scenic views. They record moments when people felt called to share their experience of wonder, to say to friends and family that the experience mattered. The fact that we’ve preserved and share these places, despite constant pressure to exploit them, suggests we recognize they offer something essential to human flourishing.

Why the woods? Because something in us comes alive there. Because in preserving wild spaces, we preserve the possibility of encountering our own wild wisdom, and these revelations are too precious not to protect for future generations.

Each time we step into nature – whether it’s a national park or a neighborhood green space – we participate in this legacy of preservation. We join a long line of people who recognized that human flourishing depends on maintaining connection to places where we might find peace and that help us face whatever challenges await when we return.