Life Lessons
at the Bath House
By Helen Miller Berger
N
o one who grew up in the “Bath City of America”
can forget the smell that made Mount Clemens
world-famous from the 1880s through the 1950s.
When the wells were drawing the sulfur-rich waters from
deep beneath the city, the aroma of rotten eggs permeated
the air. To my family, however, it was the smell of money. We
owned one of the bath houses that drew tens of thousands of
people to our community every year.
I was born in 1930, and by the time I was a teenager, the
bath houses were only open from April through September.
The Monroe Hotel, one of the more modest establishments
of the era, sat at the corner of East and Jones streets, near the
present-day location of the Macomb YMCA. My Uncle Joe
and Aunt Julia (his sister) owned the Monroe, the adjacent
Plaza Bath House, and the Plaza Hotel just two doors down.
Due to my own family’s financial circumstances, Aunt Jul
informally adopted me and was like a second mother. I spent
many wonderful years living with her and working at the
Monroe.
Every morning, I would wait for her to return from her
five o’clock run down Gratiot Avenue to Detroit, where
she picked up hotel guests at the Michigan Central depot.
If she had extra room, she’d make an effort to steal a guest
who came to visit a neighboring hotel—a common practice
among her peers.
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My job was to work
behind the hotel desk. I
managed our lock boxes
(where guests stored their
valuables), answered the
phone, sold booklets
of bath tickets, and ran
errands for the guests.
Every evening, I took clean
towels—permanently tinted
gray from the mineral
water—rolled 10 of them
together, then tied them
with a string and placed
them in each bathing stall.
We had 24 stalls: a dozen
on the women’s side and
as many on the men’s. I
have never since seen tubs
as massive as the white
porcelain ones in our bath house. Though large enough
to hold 65 gallons, each rested on graceful legs and had a
wide, curving rim that one could sit on while getting in and
out. A canvas strap was stretched across the tub’s width for
bathers to rest their heads on as they lay back. The salts in
the mineral water were extremely
corrosive; gray, powdery solids would
build up on the metal faucets. If a
rubber—those who helped the guests
with their baths—had even the tiniest
cut on his or her hand, the constant
exposure to the water would create a
deep, black sore.
Each bath began with a soaking
period of 15 minutes in warm mineral
water. This allowed the salt and heat
to soften the bathers’ skin and relax
their muscles. More hot water was
added to raise the temperature even
further. Then, while the bather floated
in the tub, the rubber would begin an
remember the time |
Facing page top: Helen Miller Berger around the time she was employed in the bath house. Bottom: The Monroe Hotel and bath house, at the height
of its popularity. Above: The Monroe’s rubbers pose with Aunt Jul (top row middle). Laura Dailey is pictured at the left in the bottom row. All images
courtesy of the author.
intense, whole-body, deep-tissue massage. Looking back on
it, I find it hard to believe anyone willingly sought out this
treatment; the water was greenish-black and uncomfortably
hot, and the odor was strong enough to cause your eyes to
water. It just shows how desperate people were for relief from
the pain and crippling effects of such conditions as arthritis.
And many who came using crutches and canes left without
them.
I could always tell, just by smell, how long a guest had
been with us. To achieve the maximum benefit, many chose
to take no freshwater baths during their three-week stay so
that the salts from the mineral water could seep into their
muscles and bones. That meant the smell of body odor
competed quite successfully with the mineral water for
attention!
In the hotel, I felt as though the world were coming to me.
Many of our guests (and rubbers) were new immigrants to
America. Aunt Jul was like an ambassador to all, respectful
of religious beliefs and cultures. I met European Jews,
Armenians, Poles, Belgians, Germans, and Russians while
working with her, and learned about World War I from
those who had lived through it. Laura Dailey, one of our
rubbers, became Aunt Jul’s closest friend and was my “third”
mother. She and her family had escaped from Belgium when
the Germans invaded at the beginning of the conflict. They
hid in barns in the French countryside and drank a broth
they made from soaking nails in water to ward off anemia.
Eventually, Laura came to America as a mail-order bride. She
wore a tight corset, and her ample bosom was the focus of
much attention from the male guests. I was introduced to the
art of flirtation by her. I’ll never forget her standard pose: one
hand on her hip, the other overhead, chest thrust out, cooing
“Ooh la la!”
I was often asked to write letters for our guests who
struggled to communicate in English. They wanted their
American-born children, who couldn’t read their parents’
native language, to hear about their travels. Over several
years, I learned so much about their families that I almost
felt related. Many guests worked in the garment industry in
New York and were kind enough to surprise me with gifts.
I distinctly remember the white suit that the Klein family
gave me for my high school graduation in the 1940s. Today, there are few reminders of the Bath City era in
Mount Clemens. All but one of the mineral-water wells
have been capped. And most of the hotels and bath houses
fell victim long ago to the bulldozers of urban renewal. But
my memories of the Monroe Hotel are still vivid. I learned
a great deal about life during the years I worked there. Most
importantly, I learned from my Aunt Jul to respect the
differences between people. She was accepting of everyone
and never acted superior to her employees or her guests. For
that lesson and many, many others, she will always hold a
special place in my heart.
Helen Miller Berger is a lifelong resident of Mount Clemens
and a graduate of Eastern Michigan University, where she
trained as an English teacher. She is working on a novel based on
her experiences during the Bath City period.
september/october 2013
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