The elevator groans to life. And as docent Tom Toggweiler and I descend, a stunning mural of the old Saginaw Trail slides past on the wall. It’s a painted reminder that long before this was a Detroit suburb with trendy restaurants and bustling nightlife, Native Americans walked this path between Detroit and Saginaw.
The moment encapsulates our tour of the Royal Oak Historical Society Museum: every corner tells a story most residents never knew existed.
The museum is housed in a 1921 fire station where firefighters once slid down poles; one remains as a memorial. A generous lease (”a dollar a year,” Tom tells Royal Oak City Lifestyle publisher Amy Gillespie and me) brought the station back to life as a museum in 2010. Before that, the Historical Society, which was founded in 1939, spent decades storing artifacts in members' houses.
"Owen Perkins had display cases full of stuff in his basement," curator Johanna Schurrer recalls. "We have practically all of them now.”
Our city got its name in 1819, courtesy of a majestic observation by territorial governor Lewis Cass. He and his crew stopped for lunch beneath a mighty oak tree, near what is now the intersection of Main Street, Rochester, and Crooks. As the legend goes, the tree reminded Cass of the oak tree in which King Charles II of England hid from the Roundheads after the Battle of Worcester. "This truly is a royal oak," he reportedly declared while lying beneath it.
That original tree died long ago—progress demanded roads go right through—but Royal Oak still calls itself the "city of trees," and England once gifted the city oak saplings that now grow in Memorial Park. It's a fitting metaphor: Royal Oak's roots run deep, even as its surface changes.
In front of the museum stands one of five stone Native American figures that once guarded Hedge's Wigwam restaurant near 10 Mile and Woodward. "Nobody's going to take that thing away from here," Tom jokes. "It took a crane to get it out."
But the real treasures live inside.
In what Tom calls "the Lincoln Room," you'll find an extraordinary collection tied to Royal Oak's first mayor, George Dondero. During his time as a U.S. Representative, Dondero befriended Abraham Lincoln's son, Robert. The Lincoln family gave him an astonishing array of photographs and documents, including one that made Johanna's heart race.
"I kept seeing this one document," she says, "and I said, 'I think this is real.'"
It was: an original Abraham Lincoln signature on a Civil War discharge. PBS authenticated it years later when they came to film in the museum. The letter freed a Confederate prisoner whose mother had begged Lincoln for mercy—on the condition that her son switch sides and fight for the Union.
Standing in that room, surrounded by Matthew Brady daguerreotypes and Civil War memorabilia, you get goosebumps.
We move on to other artifacts. Tom shows us a Civil War-era bomb that sat live and undiscovered in two different buildings—for years—before someone finally recognized what it was. "The Michigan State Police bomb squad came in and took it away," Tom remembers. Now it sits safely defused in a display case, a reminder of how close history can come to explosive consequences.
Not all of Royal Oak’s history is comfortable to remember. In the 1920s and ’30s, Father Charles Coughlin’s radio broadcasts made the Shrine of the Little Flower nationally infamous. What began as religious programming and early support of President Franklin Roosevelt’s New Deal curdled into virulent anti-Semitism aired across the country, before federal pressure removed him from the airwaves.
Tom was an altar boy for Coughlin. "He was very kind to me personally," he says carefully. The museum acknowledges this complicated legacy without celebration.
The Ku Klux Klan also marched up Woodward in Royal Oak. Photos exist. The museum does not shy from documenting it in February’s Black History Month exhibit.
"We have photographs of signs that made it clear who was not welcome," Johanna says. "Redlining was big here." It’s history that demands recognition, even—especially—when it makes us uncomfortable.
But that isn’t the whole story. The exhibit also traces Royal Oak’s place in the Underground Railroad network that helped freedom seekers escape to Canada; at least thirty known abolitionists lived here.
“They tried to protect people in case bounty hunters came looking,” Johanna explains.
Museum archivist Leslie Edwards is writing a book about that piece of 19th century Royal Oak history. Her research has uncovered a network of African Americans who bought land, built lives, and created community here.
Henry and Elizabeth Hamer escaped slavery in Kentucky in the 1860s, made it to Detroit, crossed to Windsor for safety, then returned years later to settle in Royal Oak. Seven generations of their descendants have lived in the area since.
One man, born into slavery, self-emancipated and bought land here in 1847, specifically to encourage other Black Detroiters to become landowners. He was also an Underground Railroad conductor.
"Did he know the other freedom seekers? Probably,” Tom says. “But is there proof? No, and that's the whole thing about the Underground Railroad. It was underground for a reason."
Johanna and Tom lead us through more stories, like how Royal Oak transformed from farmland to suburb. When workers flooded into the area to be a part of Henry Ford’s five-dollar workday, Royal Oak promoted itself as escape from "dirty" Detroit living: fresh air, trolley access, camping opportunities.
By the 1960s, downtown Royal Oak thrived with small shops. Then the malls came.
"You could ride down Main Street and there would be nobody there," Tom remembers. "You could just ride your bicycle down the middle of the street."
The turnaround started in 1980. Mr. B's Bar sparked the slow revival that caught fire in the mid-’90s, and resulted in the vibrant restaurant scene that defines Royal Oak today. Along the way, we lost some businesses too; artifacts from those are on display as well, like the neon signs of Main Street mainstays Hermann’s Bakery and Incognito.
The museum survives entirely on donations, memberships, and quarterly euchre tournament fundraisers at Pronto Diner. They run four major exhibits, host monthly programs (like January’s presentation by District Court Judge Meinecke on courthouse history), and operate a fascinating gift shop where you can buy, among other things, reproductions of Royal Oak’s gorgeous WPA murals that were lost for 25 years—rolled up under Kimball High School's stage—before being rediscovered and restored.
They'll also help you research your home's history. And if your house is over 100 years old, they'll sell you a commemorative plaque to display proudly.
Speaking of displays, look closely at the museum’s shelves and cases. You’ll see hand-drawn maps from the 1800s. Civil War powder horns. An old grain cradle from when Royal Oak farmers grew cranberries in bogs. Even… cowbells. (They’re from when Royal Oak was, believe it or not, the cowbell capital of America.)
So next time you walk or drive through Royal Oak, realize that you're moving through layers of history. Freedom seekers. Auto workers. A community that’s transformed from farmland to ghost town to vibrant suburb.
It's all preserved here, by volunteers who believe that knowing where we've been is the only way to understand where we're going.
The Royal Oak Historical Society Museum (1411 W. Webster Rd.) is open to the public. Visit royaloakhistoricalsociety.com for hours, programs, and information about their Black History Month exhibit, featuring freedom seekers and the Underground Railroad in Oakland County. Memberships and donations support their mission: no city funding means every contribution matters.
“[Royal Oak's Underground Railroad members] tried to protect people in case bounty hunters came looking."
"I kept seeing this one document, and I said, 'I think this is real.'"
— curator Johanna Schurrer, on finding an original Abraham Lincoln letter
Docent Tom Toggweiler shows us a Civil War-era bomb that sat live and undiscovered in two different buildings—for years—before someone finally recognized what it was.