Tucked away in a corner of the Coolidge Museum at Forbes Library is the now inoperable electric horse that Calvin Coolidge once rode three times a day in the White House. It resembles a small barrel and has no head or tail.
The mechanical equine had its 15 minutes of fame in April when The Washington Post published a feature article about it, which included a quote from Julie Bartlett Nelson, the curator of the local museum.
The device was nicknamed “Thunderbolt” by an amused press corps in the 1920s and it just added fuel to the risible image many of them already had of “Silent Cal.” He was compared unfavorably to Teddy Roosevelt, who had been known to ride a horse at full gallop through what was then a much more rural Washington, D.C.
I understand the impulse to make fun of Coolidge, as he is an easy target. Looking back at that era, even I could satirize him by saying he was a man ahead of his time. He foresaw the era of self-driving cars and decided that “Thunderbolt” should be a prototype of a self-driving horse — the Uber of its time. He rode “Thunderbolt” to put a little Lyft and spark in his life and to reduce his carbon footprint.
But all the wisecracks would be grossly unfair to the man. As you read the Post article, you learn that electric horses were a status symbol in the 1920s and the latest thing in exercise equipment. The device was invented by John Kellogg of breakfast cereal fame who had one in his own health sanitarium.
“Thunderbolt” was a gift to Coolidge from his college classmate, Dwight Morrow, who presented it to his friend after the president, who loved to ride real horses, was prevented from doing so by the Secret Service that was concerned about his safety in the increasingly urban Washington area.
Morrow had one of the electric models as did three-time Democratic presidential candidate, William Jennings Bryan. Another owner was Secretary of the Treasury Andrew Mellon, and no one ever made jokes about him.
When Coolidge and Mellon weren’t riding their horses, they once made a decision that affects all of us to this very day. In the 1920s, paper money was much larger than it is today. A dollar bill was 7 3/8 inches long and 3½ inches wide. Coolidge and Mellon decided they could save money on ink and paper if the bills were made smaller. Beginning in 1929, a dollar bill became 6.14 inches long and 2.61 inches wide.
This long-forgotten decision had a ripple effect through many aspects of our economy. Wallets had been much bigger and were carried in the inside pocket of suit jackets. Because of Coolidge’s decision, the leather industry could now produce a smaller version that is still in use today.
Think about the clothing industry. The dimensions of the rear pockets of men’s pants were also dependent on that choice, as was the size of women’s clutch purses.
It affected an entire industry that manufactures machines that give change for paper money. Each time I get cash from an ATM, the size of the opening through which the bills emerge was based on that same decision by a Northampton resident who lived in a two-family house he rented on Massasoit Street for most of his adult life.
There has been much talk recently, and deservedly so, about removing Andrew Jackson’s portrait from the $20 bill. Jackson hated paper money and wanted all financial transactions done in what he called “specie” — hard money.
I have previously endorsed Harriet Tubman, an incredibly brave woman, as a replacement for Jackson. But now I think Coolidge should be in the mix of possible replacements, if not on the $20, then on one of the other bills. He may have shrunk the physical size of the dollar but did much to bolster its fiscal worth.
But, whatever happens, I hope you will visit Forbes and the Coolidge Museum to view “Thunderbolt” and perhaps take a selfie with it. It will cost you nothing and you will certainly be welcomed.
You will also learn a good deal about our enigmatic 30th president.
Richard Szlosek, of Northampton, volunteers in the Calvin Coolidge Room at Forbes Library.