Plains Folk

In late June 1898, a North Dakota boy—I suspect he was a serviceman en route to the Philippines—got homesick and wrote home to his mother in Jamestown. The question on his mind?: “Are there lots of juneberries at home? I would rather fall into a patch of juneberries, chokecherries, or bullberries than to have all the tame fruit in California.”

I'm on my way to St. Paul for the annual meeting of the Agricultural History Society (yes, there really is such a thing, comprising an impressive community of scholars), where I'm supposed to present a paper entitled, “A Hidden Hand: The Significance of Climate Change in Great Plains History.”

We're just home from a Lawrence Welk weekend, and by that I mean, total immersion in all things Welk. Three things came together.

Reading the documents on the rise of Syttende Mai celebrations in North Dakota in 1906, I was more than a little alarmed at the themes and tropes that emerged. In matters of ethnic identity, I am prepared to accept a certain measure of cultural chauvinism, but the remarks of future senator Asle Jorgenson Gronne in Grand Forks went way beyond that. They stereotyped immigrant cultures (including his own!), they invoked white supremacy, and they posed a fossilized model for immigration: We're here, we got ours, now close the door, we're done!

During the early heyday of Norwegian immigration to the northern plains, during the First Dakota Boom of the 1880s, nobody celebrated Syttende Mai. Occasionally a newspaper, doing its best to make a cultural translation, would note on 17 September the occurrence of what it called “Norwegian Independence Day.”

Was there ever a town whose name better expressed the buoyant optimism of the prairie frontier than Westhope, near the Canadian line, in Bottineau? Local chroniclers have credited the name to a phrase, “Hope of the West,” emanating from the railroad men who founded the town in 1903, but I want to believe the sentiment was honest. Westhope.

Things were pretty raw out on Duck Creek, northeast of Hettinger in Adams County, in 1907, but the Milwaukee Railroad had arrived. Soon, over in Lemmon, on the South Dakota line, there was a flourishing newspaper, the State-line Herald. By which we know that “the boys” on Duck Creek, as the editor said, were singing some stanzas about their life as homesteaders.

Pushing boxes and pulling folders from the massive Baldwin Corporation Records held for the Institute for Regional Studies at NDSU Archives, I come to the realization we have a lot to learn about life on the plains by rereading the considerable — I should say massive — documentation available in the reading room. Given that the papers of the Baldwin Farms in Dickey County alone comprise 32 feet of records, it's a heck of a job.

Having spent a fair bit of time in Ellendale over the years, I always wondered about the history of that elegant insertion in the business district, with its triple-arch facade, known as the Baldwin Building. I knew there had to be a story there.

The year 1889 is so full of meaning in the history of the Great Plains. To Samuel Western (that's his real name, seriously), it connotes the writing of constitutions, five of them, all in the Great Northwest — North Dakota, South Dakota, Montana, Wyoming, and Idaho — as authorized by Congress in the Omnibus Bill of 1889. He writes about them in his new book from University Press of Kansas, The Spirit of 1889: Restoring the Lost Promise of the High Plains and Northern Rockies.

This sort of notice appeared ritually in the newspapers of the settler society on the northern plains sometime in April — I quote from the Griggs County Courier Democrat, 29 April 1909: "The pasque flower or prairie crocus, the first flower of spring, is showing its head above ground."

There was a certain irony in the determination of immigration authorities and aroused citizens of the early twentieth century to turn back immigrants at Ellis Island on account of the eye disease, trachoma. It was true that many Germans from Russia and others arrived with telltale granules of the disease under their eyelids. But it was also true that trachoma was already established extensively in the United States. It could not be kept out. There is no reason to think trachoma had not been present here since the early days of the republic — at least ever since Napoleon's woebegone soldiers, shielding their diseased eyes from the sun, returned from the Nile in 1801.

Trachoma, the contagious eye infection, was a serious complication for Germans attempting to immigrate here from Russia. I've already talked about the cases of Magdalena Klipfel of Ashley and Benedict Fried of Richardton in the early 1900s. Germans from Russia were not the only ones affected by public fears of trachoma among immigrants.

Trachoma, an infectious eye disease now handled readily with antibiotics, was considered a menace, the major cause of blindness, early in the twentieth century. It came to public attention in 1897 when Dr. Porter S. Wyman, surgeon general of the US Marines, issued a report calling trachoma a “dangerous contagious disease,” after which inspectors at US ports of entry commenced watch for it. Inspections of all immigrants--lifting of eyelids, looking for the telltale follicles underneath--were standard by 1905.

In her 1941 book on the early history of McIntosh County, Along the Trails of Yesterday, Nina Farley Wishek writes of her life with the Germans from Russia among whom she lived. One chapter is entitled “German Maids Whom I Have Known,” for as the wife of the town's leading business figure, Mrs. Wishek employed domestic help. Like other upper-class women across the prairies, she recruited her help from among the immigrant farmers' daughters.

Most of us have a hard time admitting that the days of our youth are now history, and I'll admit a certain ambivalence on the question myself, but History is my job, and so I have to face up to the task of chronicling and interpreting the experience of what I have named, borrowing a label from Larry McMurtry, the Last Picture Show Generation on the Great Plains of North America.

Coming in from the icy parking lot, you don't really find your footing until the scent fills your nostrils. The place is the foyer of St. John Nepomucene Catholic Church, on the south side of Piesk. The scent is kraut, pungent and welcoming.

Comes now the time of year when North Dakotans of a certain age will tell you stories about the Blizzard of 1966. Which I myself, being not averse to storytelling, might do on a given day, but today I'm going to talk about the significance of this particular tale. It's a Lutheran question: What does this mean?

If in your historical memory, the open range of the northern badlands is fully stocked with lanky longhorns, then it's time for a reset. With the opening of the Northern Pacific railroad bridge at Bismarck in 1882, Shorthorn cattle, purchased in the northern midwest, flowed in freely.

In writing and conversation, nineteenth century Americans commonly would drop phrases, deriving from popular songs of the day, and expect people, of course, to understand the connotation. On the prairies, for instance, any old place of residence might be referred to, with nostalgic affection, as the “little old sod shanty on the claim.”

After you pass that biblical milestone of three-score and ten, if you're determined to remain active, then you have to take stock, make sure you're on course and on pace. By which I don't mean, chasing after every shiny new thing.

On 17 July 1939 Alan Lomax, of the American Folklife Center, Library of Congress, wrote to Myra E. Hull, the mild-mannered ballad collector from Kansas, “My dear Miss Hull: I just received the issue of the publications of the Kansas Historical Society and read your article on cowboy songs with great interest. It is a real contribution to original studies in the field.”

Let me tell you about a visit I made to the Library of Congress the first week of January. Specifically, to the library's American Folklife Center. I was following the trail of a prairie balladeer named Myra Hull.

The Friday evening of the 24th of April, 2020, you remember that spring when we descended into the COVID time of troubles, enabled by Dr. Kelly, I lit up a live streaming camera and commenced chatting and singing my way through the first episode of the Willow Creek Folk School. This wild hair grew from my checkered history as a folky in the 1970s and was, in retrospect, a response to the looming isolation of the pandemic.

We're expecting our second great grandchild in the spring, but I am done with proposing names. The name I put forward for great grandson #1 was Badger; suffice it to say, that is not his given name. Except when he's at our house, he's still known as The Badger.

Although water witching, or dowsing — the location of underground water resources by use of a willow wand or some other sort of divining rod — was common in the settler society of the northern plains, the practice had its contemptuous critics.

It was the business of the United States Geological Survey, in the progressive era of the early twentieth century, to provide authoritative answers to public questions. Science reigned in those days, or so the scientists thought.

In July of 1885 a settler named John Blaskey was 22 feet down in a well he was excavating on his farm near Conway, Walsh County. He was filling buckets with dirt, and his wife was at the surface drawing them up with a windlass.

Early American colonists, like the ancient Hebrews and Romans, knew all about hand-dug wells and their dangers. When settlement reached the Great Plains, the need for and peril from hand-dug wells was all the more acute.

In his nifty new history of the Homestead Act, Richard Edwards says the “three perils” of homesteading on the Great Plains were grasshoppers, prairie fires, and childbirth — and good on him for recognizing the third of these as the most perilous of all. Earlier historians of homesteading were so focused on masculine aspects of their subject, they neglected the obvious.

If we're going to live in this level land we call the Great Plains — and I expect to do so until I die — then there are some fundamentals we need to come to terms with. Like the Homestead Act, signed by Abraham Lincoln on 20 May 1862. Unless we are Indigenous, we should think about what it means to be the heirs of a landed, settler society. Fortunately, we have Richard Edwards and his book, Great Plains Homesteaders, to help us out.

I've been arguing, along with Richard Edwards and his new book, Great Plains Homesteaders, that we should rethink our history with the Homestead Act on the Great Plains. You can do some of this for yourself, of course. If you have a homesteading ancestor, then you can order up the land patent file from the National Archives and learn the gritty details of proving up. You can scroll through the digitized pages of your local and regional newspapers and watch the notices of final proof blink in across the landscape like farmyard lights at prairie dusk.

In the Enderlin Museum a few days ago I noticed an old handbill on display, dating from 1897, and addressed “To Cattle Owners”: The undersigned hereby wishes to announce that he is again ready to receive orders for herding cattle during the coming season, from May 1st to October 1st, 1897. Good and sufficient drinking water can be found on the land. All cattle entrusted to my care will receive the best attention. All cattle must be branded. Price of herding $1.50 per head.

Every year is a mixed bag, always with its measure of miseries, but this one, 2024, is packed with celebratory milestones for me. Fifty years of college teaching under my belt. One hundred fifty years of successful agriculture on our family farm. And now, one thousand radio essays under the title, Plains Folk, composed and voiced for Prairie Public.

Sometime soon I will come to Prairie Public studios and record Plains Folk radio feature no. 1000. I am not winding down, but ramping up toward that recording, wherein I will, of course, offer some wise and witty remarks about life on the Great Plains of North America and the enterprise of telling their stories.

To lovers of the outdoors, the legacy of Gunlog Bjarni “G. B.” Gunlogson is evident. Just visit Icelandic State Park, in Pembina County, established in 1964 following Gunlogson's gift of a 200-acre nature preserve along the Tongue River to the state of North Dakota. See the homestead buildings of his Icelandic immigrant parents, Eggert and Rannveig, along with an assemblage of other historic buildings representing rural life. Hike the nature trails. Homesteading + country life + nature + conservation: it's a simple legacy. Only, maybe not so much.

Women and men and how they get along, or not, are not just matters for contemplation and commiseration in our personal lives. They are historical questions in the settlement and development of the Great Plains. The homesteading era often featured men going out alone to stake claims. Historically, however, the late nineteenth century in America saw the enshrinement of romantic love as the beau ideal of the full life. Marriage came to be considered a love match, not just an economic alliance. Thus all those bachelor homesteaders in their little old sod shanties on the claim, they longed for their sweethearts to come join them and make their lives complete.

In a previous essay, I left you in the lurch, having quoted, in closing a discussion of the early work of the Institute for Regional Studies at North Dakota Agricultural College, now NDSU, a poem by John R. Milton. This opening poem of The Loving Hawk, a chapbook published by the Institute, ranges from the fall of man to the endless issues of place and identity fostered by open horizons. Never fear, there is salvation in the same booklet, in the form of another poem, Dust Storm, which doesn't sound optimistic, but wait, listen:

North Dakota Congressman, Hjalmar Nygaard, he knew his way around legislative corridors. A teacher and a businessman, his fellow citizens of Steele County had elected him to multiple terms in the state legislature, and then in 1961 he took office in the United States House of Representatives. One day in 1963, in the Capitol Building, Representative Nygaard felt a pain in his chest.

Threshing time in McIntosh County, 1926, and the thresherman Gottlieb Bendewald was in the field. A young bundle pitcher, a neighbor from just a mile away, sixteen years old — Christian Lux — hailed the thresherman to collect wages for work he had done, and things went badly from there. Witnesses disagreed what was said and done, and the parties disputed vehemently.

“When I went to Kent State in 1961,” recalls Shirley Fischer Arends, a great scholar of the history, language, and culture of the Germans from Russia, “I had no idea that I was part of any kind of a unique cultural people. I thought I was simply an American.”

The local press of Casselton reported in 1883 that a “broom brigade of ladies” assembled in town to march on the “residence of a grass widow with the expectation of finding their husbands.” They discovered, however, that their wayward mates were all occupied at a poker game in the saloon.