Written
by Emma M. (Goodwin) Smith
Donated
by Pat
Goodwin,
grandson
of John
(Johny)
Lyman Goodwin
This is the note
to Ricky
Moore from her Aunt along with the following story:
As you can see
the original
of this paper was written in 1963 for the ones who were trying to fix
up
the history of Minong and it’s surroundings. There have been
a lot of
changes
since then, but I copied it just the way I had it then, for the basic
things
are the same. Your Uncle Jack has since moved to Texas. Your uncle
Clint
lost his wife in 1966, and has since remarried, and lives in
California.
The old depot that is mentioned in here has gone the way of all old
depots.
The old Blackburn place has been deserted for years, and the buildings
are all fallen down. It really is heart breaking to go around and see
those
old places, and see all the changes, I don’t think
I’ll ever go again.
Your dad maybe can fill in on some things you might want to know and
think
of asking about, and if there should be anything else that
you’d like
to
ask, I’ll be so glad if I can answer you. The little cemetery
that is
spoken
of being by the old school house has been cleared up, and a stone
placque
has been set up, with all the names of those buried there that they
could
find. I don’t know if your Dad would remember any of the
names. The
place
where I told about spoiling the carpenters tools for a joke, your dad
said
we were paying him back for drowning our cat with her kittens, I guess
that was it, too. - Aunt Emma
~~~
In trying to write the memories
of my childhood things are a little hazy, at least until I was about
six
years old. My only excuse is that my childhood was so long ago.
I was born on July 6, 1887,
at Cumberland, Wisconsin, and was only one year old when my parents
moved
to the area about seven miles east of Minong. We landed in a little
settlement
called Frog Creek. The name of the settlement came from the little
creek
that ran along the southern boundary of the settlement. Perhaps it
should
have been called a camp rather than a settlement, for most of the
people
were Indians. The very first thing I can remember about the settlement
was the lack of white people. There were only two white families beside
our own people, which consisted of our own immediate family and that of
my grandparents, my Dad’s father and mother, and his three
brothers. My
parents were Johnny and Zina Goodwin, my grandparents were David and
Martha
Goodwin. His brothers were Bert, Dan and Ed. His two older brothers
were
Archie and David, who was called Pug. I don’t know why, for
he was very
tall arid thin, They were both married and lived at Withee, Wisconsin,
a little town thirty or forty miles south of Minong. (I think).
I can vaguely remember living
at the old mill-camp mentioned in the Memoirs of Hal Wolfe, and I know
that for a little while Dad ran the mill there, which was very small,
with
only a few mill-hands. But this brings to mind one incident that
happened
there when I must have been very, very young. One of the mill workers,
(and as it seems now it was Irv Wolfe, an older brother of
Hal’s), in a
moment of absent-mindedness, cut his hand very badly on the saw, and
was
laid up for quite a while. As in a dream I can still see him walking
around
the mill with his arm in a sling. He finally came back to work, and on
the first day of his return one of his co-workers asked him how in the
world the accident could have happened. He answered, “Well,
you see, I
had my hand on the log like this, and looked over there for just a
minute,
and it went right against the saw like this,” and the very
same
accident
happened again, although as I remember it was not as serious as the
first
one.
It was about this tine that
Dad started his logging operations. At first he was associated with a
Mr.
Sutton, also mentioned in Hal’s Memoirs, but Mr. Sutton soon
retired,
for
I do not remember any more about him, except to hear his name mentioned
casually once in a while.
Soon after this we moved
from the mill-camp to a little log cabin further up the creek, and
nearer
to the home of John Chittamo, the only Indian there who lived in a
house.
He and his wife were childless, but loved children very much, arid were
as good to we children as our own grandparents could be and spoiled us
as much, too. I do not remember how long- we lived in the log cabin,
but
that was where my oldest brother, Percy, was born, and that is the
first
memory I have of tie Joe Davis family, the only white people there in
those
early days beside our own people and the Wolfe family.
It must have been at this
time that Dad built our new frame house on up the creek only a few
rods,
and nearer to Grandpa Goodwin’s house. We had a comfortable
home at
last,
with a big yard and two enormous big pine trees, one on either side of
the path leading up to the road, Down a little path the other side of
the
road from our house was little Frog Creek, tinkling along
it’s little
crooked
way to who knows where, In this same little creek we children spent
many
happy hours with my Uncle Bert, who was only a few years older than I.
There were so many wonderful things of interest about that little
creek,
anyway to three little kids in a beautiful wilderness like ours. There
were little green frogs along it’s banks. There were little
snail
trails
to follow, little black water-bugs to try to catch, tiny minnows to
chase,
and bright little colored pebbles that we could see on the bottom
through
the clear waters. We could wade up around the bend, and there was
Grandma
Goodwin’s house, at the first bend beyond Grandma’s
house was Dead
Man’s
Rock, a big flat rock jutting out into the water a couple inches below
the surface. The center of the rock was a bright red, and the story was
that a man had fallen from the log he was riding, had hit his head
against
the rock and had died. ‘Whether it was true or not who can
say, but it
gave us an excuse to creep carefully over to the rock, look at that big
red stain, and scamper back through the water as though real ghosts
were
chasing us. I wonder if that old rock is still there?
Across the creek on a little
hill was a grove of maples that Grandpa called his
“sugar—bush”, and
the
height of our joy in the early spring was to go with Grandpa and
Grandma
and Uncle Dan and Ed to “help” them get the sap
ready, and make maple
sugar
arid syrup. They would boil the sap in an enormous great big black iron
kettle hung over an open wood-fire. To this day the smoky, pungent
smell
of an open wood-fire takes me back across the years to those happy,
carefree
hours. That, and the sweet odor of trailing-arbutus, the dainty little
pink blossoms that crept along the ground, and we pretended they were
trying
to play hide-and-seek with us before we picked them for Grandma. The
brave
little tiny blossoms would almost poke their bright little faces
through
the snow in their eagerness to meet the spring. All of these hours seem
now to have been happy and sunny and warm. Not one memory seems dark or
dismal, though I am sure there must have been some dark days, too.
We were always with Uncle
Bert, and followed where he led. There were miles and miles of solid
woods
without even a clearing of any sort, and one day Bert and my brother
and
I got lost in the woods. We wandered around for hours. There was
supposed
to be wolves and bears galore through those woods, too, and
I’m sure
they
were there, but there were three of us, and I imagine with all our
chattering
they were glad to steer clear of us, and none of them were hungry this
time of year. Finally Bert climbed on the high stump of a tree that had
been burned to try and determine where we were. Sure enough he did see
a land-mark that he recognized, but he was so glad and excited and
relieved
at finding he knew where we were that he failed to be careful in
getting
off the stump and he jumped, landing on the stubble of a green tree
that
had been broken off near the ground. He was lucky there were no bones
broken,
but the stubble went almost through his foot and we had a terrible time
helping him out of the woods, and home. I remember too, that he walked
on crutches for a long time, home-made crutches that Grandpa made out
of
two sturdy poplar trees. But it seems now that even that exciting,
terrifying
day was sunny and happy and warm.
This must have been about
the time that Dad began his affiliation with Joe Irvine, and the
logging
firm of Goodwin and Irvine was formed, Dad built a big room on the east
end of our house, which was some day to be a big kitchen for my mother,
but this first year was to serve as a cook-shanty and mess-hall for the
men working in the woods. Walter Cashman was the cook, and Mother
helped
him. The men slept in another building a few rods away. Many of them
were
Indians, many of them were transients, just taking any job for the time
being. There was not much in the form of entertainment for anyone in
those
days, and I remember sometimes they would have the Indians entertain us
all with some of their Indian dances before they would give them
supper.
It was all in fun, and as I remember they never had to be coaxed.
Dad also had quite a few
horses that he worked in the woods. One group of men had their
headquarters
where we were living, others at a camp east of Gordon, and still
another
farther north towards where the town of Maple is now. It was
Dad’s
habit
to visit all of his camps quite often. Of course he had his
headquarters
at the camp at home, where Mother did all the bookkeeping, but he would
make regular visits to the other camps, too. He was at a camp east of
Gordon
one time when a terrible blizzard blew in. It was one of the worst they
had ever had since they had been living there. Instead of lasting a day
and a night as they usually did, it kept on and on for three or four
days,
and then turned bitterly cold. The men were running short of
provisions,
and also short of feed for the animals, and the drifts were so high
they
were afraid to try to get to town with the horses. Dad had his
snowshoes
with him, so he volunteered to go to Gordon and send provisions and
feed
back with the snow plow. I have no idea what kind of a snowplow they
had
in those days, but they were equipped in some way to
“break” the roads
open. Dad was young and strong and thought he could stand anything. He
got to Gordon all right and told them what he wanted and they started
immediately
with the snowplow and all the things that were needed at camp. But poor
Dad’s feet were frozen, his face was frozen in spots, and one
hand was
practically useless. For weeks they couldn’t be sure if his
feet would
ever be of use again, but luck was with him, and they apparently got
all
right. But in a real cold spell of weather they always bothered him.
The
very last letter I received from him before his death he asked if I
could
remember when he froze his feet and said they were still bothering him
that winter, which had been unusually severe.
Dad undoubtedly had other
camps beside the ones mentioned, but I do not remember. To a little six
or seven year old girl that couldn’t be too important. What
was
important
was the fact that among the horses was a beautiful little Indian pony
that
Dad gave to me, and taught me to ride. But as much as we were together,
as much as I loved her, I cannot remember when we parted, or what
became
of her, or even what her name was. Loving her as I did, this seems
incredible,
but it is a fact. They say we remember only what we want to, and
perhaps
that is true.
The horses hadn’t much to
do in the summer, except the pony team we used on the carriage, but
when
fall came Dad would send a crew of men and the horses to work in the
harvest
fields of Dakota. By the time they came back it was almost tine to take
to the woods again.
My second brother Clinton,
was born in this house, and we had another potential playmate, There
were
a few Indian children, but as a rule they were very shy and seemed
backward
about playing with us, but as we all got a little older they became
bolder,
and in time we all did have marry happy hours together.
We went in and out of the
Chittamo home almost as though it was our own. Mr. Chittamo made us
little
snow-shoes and little bows with their tiny arrows, and we thought we
were
pretty smart. They lived, slept and ate in the same room, but it was a
very large room, very modern at that time for an Indian family, --but
no
system. Potatoes and flour and corn and salt-pork and clothing might be
piled together on the bed or the table, tanned deer hides in the middle
of the floor, but everything clean as a whistle. Unfortunately this
could
not be said of all the Indian women.
I think the name Chittamo
means squirrel in the old Chippewa language, although I’m
sure it has
been
corrupted a lot through spelling and a small matter of miss
pronunciation.
As I remember, it should be spelled a-gid-a-mo, but has been shortened
and made easier by saying Chittamo.
Both mother and Dad were
very good to the Indians, and in that way earned their undying
devotion.
If one is really kind and fair with an Indian they never forget, which
is unlike some people of our own race and color. The Chittamos dearly
loved
children, but never had any of their own. Then one day when Mr.
Chittamo
was in town at the Parent Hotel, Mrs. Parent told him that she had a
baby
there that he could have if he wanted it. At that time tie Parent Hotel
was the hotel and was run by Mr. and Mrs. Frank Parent. It was located
directly behind the railroad station or depot at Minong, the same old
depot
that is still there. I believe a filling station is now on the site of
the old hotel. Anyway, Mr. Chittamo went in and looked at the baby,
picked
it up, and without saying a word to anyone walked out of the hotel and
straight home, tenderly carrying his precious little bundle the whole
seven
miles. I believe there were some officials who did some investigating
afterwards,
but at any rate they kept the baby, a little boy, born of an unwed
mother.
Mrs. Chittamo had done Mother’s
washing ever since we had been there, but the next day when we children
went down to see the baby, she told us to tell my mother that she
couldn’t
wash for her this week unless I could come down and “shaken
boy”. Mr.
Chittamo
had made a sort of hanging cradle that swung back and forth, and that
was
what I was supposed to do while she did the laundry. Sometimes I marvel
at the ingenuity of those old pioneers, and of the Indians who were
supposed
to be so simple minded. The scientists of today would hold up their
hands
in horror if they could have seen some of those old inventions, but
they
worked, and very seldom broke down.
All of the other Indians
lived in teepees, or wigwams, as they were also called, One Indian
family
lived in a tent, which I know was furnished them by my Dad. Any of them
who were in need of anything, he could never refuse, especially if
there
were children involved. I remember when they came one day, the Indian
woman
and a little boy. She said her husband was away hunting, and they had
nothing
to eat or a place to stay. She asked if they could sleep on our kitchen
floor, Dad would have let them do this, but Mother put her foot down
and
said no, for they most certainly were not the sort to be classified
with
Mrs. Chittamo. It was a cold, raw day, and Dad’s big, kind
heart would
not let him send them away empty handed, so he gave them one of the
tents
the men used in the spring when they went up the river to drive the
logs
down, They slept on the shore in the tents when necessary, but if it
was
not too cold or too wet they slept in the open. Mother gave the Indian
woman enough food to last until her husband came home, and told her to
come back if they needed more. She could speak very little English, and
when Dad asked her what her name was she said it was the outside rim of
a wagon wheel. From then on they were Mr. and Mrs. Tire and son Willie.
Our brother Clint was big
enough now to tag us around~ and we had a time keeping track of him and
keeping him out of trouble. He wasn’t mean at all, but was so
full of
life
and energy, and so curious about everything, it was a problem for us,
and
of’ course any mischief the rest of us got into, he was right
in the
middle
of it.
Dad had hired a carpenter
by the name of Mr. Dunton. I don’t know if we ever knew his
first name
or not. He was building a huge room on the south side of our house,
which
was to be a family room. Mr. Dunton lived with oar family, so we felt
entirely
at home with him. One day we conceived the bright idea of playing a
real
funny joke on him, not realizing in the least who the joke would really
he on. While they were having lunch we stole into the big room where
all
his tools were, and ‘practically ruined all of them that
could possibly
be ruined. We took all of the blades out of the planes and pounded them
on the sharp edge with a hammer. We broke the glasses in the levels,
and
tried our best to bend all the teeth in the saws so he would be
surprised
when he tried to use them. And all the time we just intended to play a
good joke on him, not realizing in the least the awful damage we were
doing.
I guess when people picture children as being little demons at heart
they
aren’t far wrong. He was surprised all right, but so were we.
Unnoticed
by us, he must have returned and saw that we were up to some kind of
mischief.
We were so busy and interested that we didn’t even think of
anyone
disturbing
us, until here he came with both Mother and Dad, and the look on their
faces made us begin to realize that what we were doing might not be
such
a good joke after all, I don’t remember the punishment meted
out to us,
but in a vague way I know it was sufficient to instill in us a healthy
respect for any carpenter’s tools which we might find lying
around. I
know
though, that it could not have been too severe, for Dad could not stand
any of us kids getting spanked or punished in any way, hardly even
scolded.
He sometimes got very provoked at us but it never lasted very long, and
never led to anything drastic. One day I distinctly remember because it
was so humorous. When our big kitchen was built to be used first as a
cook
shanty, the floor was made of big wide boards, like planks, with quite
wide cracks between them in places. Later we had a beautiful hardwood
floor,
but for a while it was the big boards. One evening just when it was
beginning
to get dark, Dad and the two boys were at the big table in the kitchen.
Dad was trying to do his best to put something together for them, and
Clint
could not keep his little fingers out of things. Dad spoke real sharply
to him a couple of times, but I guess it couldn’t have done
much good
for
he kept on. Finally Dad told him if he had to speak to him again he
would
get a good spanking. But Clint forgot as usual, and Dad dropped what he
was doing and started after him. Clint ran around the table like a
deer,
and Dad right behind him. Then he saw what he thought was a little
switch
lying on the floor. In the semi-darkness he stooped arid tried, and.
tried,
two or three times to pick it up before he realized it was a crack in
the
floor. It struck Dad as so very funny, thinking how ludicrous he must
have
looked, he had to sit down and laugh, then Clint started laughing, and
then Mother, and the spanking was forgotten, as we all thought it would
be. But that was the story of my dear old Dad. Kind and generous and
tender
hearted, easy going to a fault, and always taking the part of the under
dog. Mother was kind and generous, too, but to her right was right and
wrong was wrong, and if anyone deserved punishment they should be
punished,
even if it was us kids.
Another incident came to
mind, also involving Clint. We must have been very small, for I can
still
see Clint in his little flannel night shirt. We were spending a quiet
evening,
and we three children were sitting on the floor in. front of the fire.
It seems there must have been a fire place, although I do not remember
having one. Clint had a little stick and was poking it in the fire when
all at once he screamed and jumped up, and that little flannel night
shirt
was all ablaze. It had flashed all over him in an instant, it seemed,
and
everyone was to shocked to move. Then Walter Cashman, who was staying
with
us as Dad’s cook, grabbed up Dad’s coat and caught
Clint, who was
screaming
at the top of his voice and running from one side of the room to the
other,
and put the fire out in just a minute. It really all happened much
faster
than it has taken to tell it but we were all so frightened we could not
move. There was not a sound or a movement, in that room except
Clint’s
screaming and Walter darting to catch him. He was not burned badly at
all,
and we could laugh at it afterwards, but it certainly was an incident
to
be remembered, and one that could so easily have been a tragedy, had it
not been for Walter Cashman.
I am very poor at remembering
dates, but this all must have been in the middle and late
1890’s. Bert
was getting old enough now to seek the companionship of older boys, the
Wolfe boys and Cashman boys and Davis boys. Too old to bother to play
anymore
with a bunch of little kids like us, but there were three of us now,
playing
together, happy and content. I was what one could call a regular,
dyed-in-the-wool
tomboy. Anything the boys could do I could do better, or die trying. I
had no sisters, and all the kids near my age were boys, so it is no
wonder.
I had to be a tomboy to hold my own, much to mother and dad’s
confusion.
But generally the three of us were pretty much satisfied to find our
own
fun, and time passed quickly.
I suppose we had our childhood
quarrels and differences, but that is the part I have forgotten, and I
am glad. I’ve often wondered about the children of today with
all their
piles of modern toys. That would they think if they could have seen the
little bit the children had to play with in that long ago time, and the
simple ways we amused ourselves in our happy forest home, No toys at
all
that I can remember, except perhaps something that Grandpa or Dad had
made
for us, and of course our swing between the two big trees. We usually
had
a dog and a cat, and one day Bert brought home a little baby screech
owl.
We kept it and grew to love it, and it loved us. And by the way, that
is
what we named it, “It”. They said we might as well,
for that is what
everyone
called it anyway. Mother used to tie a fish line around one of
it’s
legs,
the other end around a rung of our old highchair. One day she found It
untied, and was puzzled as to how It had gotten loose. She tied It up
again,
and once more found It untied. Then she watched, and the little rascal
would pick and pick at that knot until it was untied, but never tried
to
get away. We kept the little owl for a long time, and then one day we
came
home from somewhere and found only a pitiful little pile of feathers.
We
had always been very careful, and made sure the cat was nowhere around
when we left the house for any length of time, but this time someone
slipped
up and it was fatal for our poor little owl. We were all broken
hearted,
but it was a part of life, and of growing up. Like the time Grandpa
killed
a big black bear and he and Uncle Ed brought it home. We just could not
understand how anyone could kill a beautiful creature like that. We
thought
he should have brought it home to us for a pet. My family was a family
of hunters and still are, especially Clint. They hunted everything from
chipmunks, gophers, squirrels and rabbits, to lynx, wolves, bear, deer,
and sometimes wildcats and panthers. In fact, the biggest part of the
meat
problem for the woodsmen was solved by their ability. It was fortunate
that we never saw all the deer they killed, or I suppose we would have
thought them monsters. As it was, by the time we saw them they were
just
more pieces of meat that we, with the rest, thought delicious. Later on
we had two little tame deer that Bert found and brought home. They had
either been abandoned by their mother, which was doubtful, or she had
been
killed. For a while we had to feed them with baby bottles until they
were
old enough to eat by themselves. We kept them for over a year, then
Mother
had to sell them for they would eat everything in the garden, all the
leaves
off the fruit trees that they could reach, then start on the neighbors
gardens. They really were a nuisance, but of course we kids could never
see it that way, and could never understand why such a fuss should be
made
over such a little thing. We named one Fleet, the other Beauty, and put
little bells on them, tied on with red ribbon so no one would hurt
them.
And they would come running whenever we called them if they were within
hearing distance. But she sold them, to a man who had a private park
somewhere
in Iowa, and again our hearts were broken when we had to part with our
beautiful pets. From that day to this I cannot endure the taste or
smell
of venison.
We had a dog, a dear little
brown water spaniel, but I don’t remember her name. All she
asked or
expected
of us was a little bit to eat, and our love, and she surely got both.
Bert
had two dogs, one as black as coal that we called Black Jack. He was
old
and slow, but so kind and good, and would have fought to his death for
any one of us kids. Then there was Bruce, a shaggy faced, poodle-type
dog,
a kind of brindle and white, with one brown eye and one blue one, he
was
not much younger than Black Jack, but where Jack was a very serious,
quiet
dog, Bruce was still frisky arid ready at any time to play. They were
our
constant companions, and we loved each one of them as though they were
members of the family. Then suddenly, again tragedy struck. Both Black
Jack and Bruce died within a few days of each other, and then our
little
dog died. Dad said it was from lonesomeness and a broken heart. We
buried
them all in a little grave in a grove of young pines about half way
between
our house and Grandma’s. We all felt terrible and a torrent
of tears
were
shed, but we did give them all lovely funerals, with flowers, and
planted
ferns around them, and even put a little cross at the head of the
graves.
In spite of our little
heartaches, which were very real to us at the time, it seems we could
get
a thrill out of everything, especially the very old Indian that they
called
“Old Chicog”. Chicog, I believe, means skunk in the
Chippewa language,
but that was the only name we ever knew him by. An old, very old
Indian,
who always walked straight as a ramrod, and yet always used a cane, he
was always dressed in a fringed buck skin suit, wore beaded moccasins,
and on his head a little black felt hat with one feather sticking up in
it. He would glory in creeping up behind us as close as he could get
and
then saying in a loud, cracked voice, “Ti-yah”,
without us seeing him
first,
and then laughing, toothlessly and soundlessly when. we ran like
everything,
pretending to be scared to death.
Frog Creek is a little narrow
stream, in most places narrow enough to almost step across, but in the
early spring it could be a raging torrent, and millions of feet of
lumber
has been sent down it’s swirling, tumbling waters. Frog
Creek, the
Totogatic
River and St. Croix River were the main channels of Dad’s log
drives.
The
town above Gordon was a little settlement called White Birch at that
time.
It is now Solon Springs, and in the summer time quite a vacation spot.
Years ago the lake there was called Lake St. Croix before it was
officially
named, if it ever was. Perhaps that is still it’s name, I do
not know.
But I do know that there was an old Indian legend connected with the
small
island not far from the shore at Solon Springs. The legend is that
years
ago that region was the favorite hunting ground of the
Chippewa’s, who
were always being tormented by the Sioux Indians from the southeastern
parts, and out Dakota way. The Sioux thought that if they tormented
them
enough perhaps they would move on and leave the rich country to them.
Then
the Sioux sent some Scouts to try and find out how many Chippewa there
were, and if there could be a chance of over powering them. If in some
way the Sioux could get possession of the rich hunting and fishing
ground
in the area where Gordon and Solon Springs now lie. But the Chippewa
also
had lookouts and scouts and the Sioux warriors were captured an
stripped
of their bows and arrows and wampum belts. They took the Sioux braves
out
to the little island and left them there, patrolling it with a solid
line
of canoes to prevent them from escaping by swimming. They left them
there
to starve and die, and th~ bows and arrows were sent back, broken, to
the
Sioux tribe, a warning as to what would happen to further trespassers.
This was the legend, true or not, cruel or not, but when it was told to
us it was claimed that human bones had been found on the island to
prove
the truth of the legend.
After the winter was past,
the drive over, the logging all done for another year, Dad would get
his
money in a lump sum. He would pay the men off, and then he and Mother
would
take off for Superior and Duluth, and we would be left with Grandma. We
didn’t mind, in fact, we looked forward to our stay with
Grandpa and
Grandma
Goodwin. There were always so many interesting things to do. There was
candy to make and popcorn to pop, and ground cherries to find along the
little path running on the creek. There were picnics and fishing trips
and rides on horses. Sometimes when mother and Dad came back we
didn’t
even want to go home, and would have to be bribed by them telling us of
all the things they had brought back for us. One return home I remember
distinctly, Uncle Ed had met their train at Minong, and we were waiting
at home. Grandma knew how hard it was for them to get us home, so she
thought
it might make things easier if she took us home first, and besides
would
give us the thrill of waiting for them to come. She made the pretext of
getting things ready at our house, so we walked the short distance from
their house to ours. They arrived safely with the usual boxes and
bundles,
then Dad went back to the wagon and brought out a bicycle. I can still
hear Grandma’s exclamation of wonder and surprise. Of course
we had
heard
of bicycles, had even seen pictures of them, but never dreamed we would
ever really see one. No one in the neighborhood had ever dared to
express
a wish that they could ever own one, and for the next few days our
house
was a show place for all the neighbors who came to see and try to ride
the bicycle. They also brought back weird tales of what people were
talking
a bout in the city. For one thing, they were talking about some kind of
a gadget they fastened to the wall, and you could talk to a person away
in another town. This, of course, was taken with a grain of salt. And
another
machine was being made where you could turn a crank and music would
come
out. But the weirdest of all was the story that someone had invented a
carriage that would run without horses, but of course that was all out
of reason. Anyone with any common sense at all would know better than
to
even think of believing anything so far out. Only the crackpots could
dream
on anything so ridiculous.
My family was also a family
of walkers. We had a pair of beautiful ponies, a new
two—seated
carriage
and bright, shiny harnesses, but Dad, and Grandpa too, would walk the
seven
miles to town like nothing. And the list of groceries always began the
same way, from Grandma or Mother, bacon, salt, beans, sugar, salt pork
and flour. They raised almost everything else themselves.
We were mingling more with
our white neighbors now, as they were moving in faster. The youngsters
were getting older, and we could visit back and forth. The Davis family
were our nearest neighbors, now that the Wolfe family had moved to
their
new home a few miles away. A beautiful home, surrounded by great pine
trees,
right near the trout pond they were developing. It is still a beautiful
place, and well worth visiting, although all of the Wolfe family have
gone
to their rest long ago. The little white schoolhouse had been built,
and
the Davis home was about half way between our house and the
schoolhouse.
The distance to the schoolhouse seemed a long way then, but I imagine
it
was only about a mile; and about the same distance north of the
schoolhouse
was the home of Louis DeRosiers, who had built a home near the lake
that
I believe still bears his name, though they too have been gore many
years,
and the place now is a sort of summer resort. I don’t believe
there
were
evermore than a dozen children attending that little school at one
time,
and many times less than that number. At one time there were only
Goodwin
and DeRosier children. At a later date I’m sure the
attendance was
larger,
but at that time it hard to understand why they thought it worth while
to even keep a teacher, but they were faithful, and. so were the
teachers.
Immediately after the schoolhouse was built Aunt Sadie Wolfe,
Hal’s
mother,
organized a Sunday School. We were too small at that time to go through
the woods alone, so the older children would come and. take us to
Sunday
School. Bert thought he was way too big to go to Sunday School, or we
could
have gone with him.
Bert was
one of the first
pupils to enroll in the school, and we thought he was so grownup and
important,
and so did he. One night they had a program, at the school the very
first
one, I’m sure, and everyone went and took the children. And
we were so
surprised, so thrilled and proud when Bert got up in front of all those
people, (there must have been all of fifteen or twenty), went to the
blackboard
and drew a picture of a little pig, all the time saying a poem to
correspond
with the picture he was drawing. We couldn’t wait until the
program was
over so we could show everyone that Bert belonged to us. The homage we
gave him, and did he eat it up! Afterwards he taught us the poem, and
to
this day I remember every word:
“The body of piggy is shaped
like a bean, except when he’s poor and uncommonly lean.
Then a bright little eye
he must have without fail, and at the other end a short, curly tail.
Then give him two ears
and a long handsome snout, for the last is so useful in rooting about.
Then give him four feet
and you have a whole pig, who can run for his food be he little or
big.”
There is also a small cemetery
a few rods south of the schoolhouse, and I’ve wondered many
times if
there
are even any markers to show the place that at one time meant so much
to
quite a few people.
We had known the Wolfe family
since we could remember, and the two families were always very close
friends,
but the boys were all older than we were. I remember when
Hal’s brother
Roy died of diphtheria. Roy was then about thirteen or fourteen years
old.
Poor Aunt Sadie, as everyone called her, was so broken hearted that she
could not let him go, so she and. Uncle Jim, Hal’s Dad, had
him laid to
rest in their back yard under the big pines. I’m sure that
the remains
were later moved to a cemetery when the place was sold. Either of my
brothers
would know more about that than I, for that part happened after I had
left
home. I remember well when Hal and his Myrtle were married. I was
supposed
to play for their wedding, but in some way I had picked up some kind of
poison that completely covered my face, hands and arms, and it
‘was
impossible
for me to go. But I felt very such honored the afternoon of their busy
wedding when they came to my home to see how I was feeling.
Hal was a really handsome
boy, and a wonderful singer. Many times I have accompanied him on the
organ
or piano when he sang for church or some special program. Everyone
liked
him, but he was sort of a rascal. Not a bad boy, but he was always in
the
middle of everything, always cutting up in some way and keeping things
mixed up in general, many times misunderstood, too.
My brother Jack was born
in January 1896, in the same old house at Frog Creek, It was just about
this time that the Blackburn murder was committed. I had really
forgotten
about it until I was reminded by reading Hal’s memoirs. I was
still a
very
small child, but I remembered it well after it was recalled to my mind.
I also remember that Dad’s name was linked to it, and also
Uncle Jim
Wolfe’s.
I remember hearing Dad telling Mother about it, and Uncle Jim coming
over
to talk it over with Dad. They vowed to find the ones who had taken
their
accounts, for they felt sure it had been done deliberately to throw
suspicion
on them. I had known Mr. Blackburn, but remember very little about him.
I do know that he was a very kind man. He loved his wife deeply, and
when
she died he had a little house built near his own, large enough so he
could
go and sit with her for a while each day. He buried her there, and left
a place beside her for himself, and when he was killed, they did indeed
lay him beside her. Later though, when the place was sold, the bodies
were
removed to a cemetery near Gordon. Then the little white house was
moved
to Wascott by Ben Kreiner, whose mother and step-father had bought the
Blackburn place. Ben and his wife moved to Minneapolis and there home
at
Wascott burned, but the little white Blackburn house is still there, as
far as I know.
I remember also a poor half-witted,
half-Indian boy named Joe Brown. I cannot remember where he first came
from, if I ever knew, but Mr. Blackburn took him in and gave him a
home,
Joe Brown was a poor, simple, friendly person, ;who loved to play the
violin,
which was a gift from Mr. Blackburn after he learned how much he
wanted,
one. He knew only tunes he had picked up himself, and would visit my
Grandfather
arid they would play their violins together. I’ve wondered
many times
what
became of Joe, He loved Mr. Blackburn with a burning loyalty, and he
loved
my Grandfather, whom he called Uncle Dave, Grandpa felt sorry for him,
and knowing how he loved music he tried to help him however arid
whenever
he could. The majority of the people were very kind to Joe, but some
would
play jokes on him, some of them very cruel. Some of the jokes were also
very humorous, Joe and his violin were at the hotel in Minong one day,
when some one asked him if he wanted to know the name of the latest
tune.
Of course Joe said yes, and they said, “Spittoon!”
Joe thought that was
a wonderful joke, and said he would have to tell it to Uncle Dave. The
next time he saw Grandpa he had the slyest look on his face as he asked
him the same question, if he had heard the name of the latest tune.
Grandpa
said no, what was it, and Joe said “Spitbox,” and
then wondered why
Grandpa
didn’t get the joke.
Getting back to Chittamo,
when we were real small he would have us sit on the floor in front of
him,
and he would tell us stories of his younger days, about battles he had
fought, different things he had done, and all the experiences he had
gone
through. Some of them were really gruesome for a bunch of little kids
like
us to hear, but he seemed to think it was good for us, and I guess it
didn’t
hurt us any. He told us one terrible story about when he was a very
young
man. He had picked out a favorite plot of land to build a real house on
for the beautiful Indian girl who had promised to be his wife. Then a
white
man came and showed him a paper that he said was from the Great White
Father
in Washington. He said the paper proved that the land belonged to him,
and Chittamo would have to find another spot. Chittamo tried to reason
with him, but the white man wouldn’t listen, and called him
all kinds
of
mean names, and a dirty dog of an Indian, so he had to kill him in
order
to keep the land he felt was rightfully his.
He told us this story as
casually as though it had been the story of the Three Bears and looking
back now it seems that we took it just as casually. He told us also of
marrying his beautiful Indian sweetheart, but they had only been
married
a short time, when she died. This, he said, took all of
Manitou’s
sunshine
from his life for many long months, or moons. Then to take away some of
the loneliness he married again, but she was no good so he
“trowed it
away.”
So his present wife was his third wife. She was a good, wonderful
woman,
but she knew his heart was buried with his first love, as was hers with
the brave young husband who had fallen to an enemy’s arrow
many years
before.
I wish I could remember all the stories he told us. There were
beautiful
ones and happy ones, as well as sad and scary ones. I believe the
Indians
are the most romantic people on earth, and the kindest. If you are his
friend he will share his last drop of water and his last crust of bread
with you. We grew up with them, and we know, of course there are
rascals
in any way, shape or manner, but aren’t there the same sort
of people
in
every race? And if it was boiled down to fine the proportion I
wouldn’t
he surprised if some of the other races would suffer in comparison.
Poor Mr. and Mrs. Chittamo
were not happy with their little foster son for very long, for the poor
little thing only lived a few weeks. Whether it had been neglected at
birth
or whether it had not been fed right, whether poor Mrs. Chittamo did
not
understand how to care for babies, or whether it had some ailment no
one
seemed to know, but I do know it was not for lack of love and care.
They
were broken hearted at it’s death, and they too buried their
treasure
in
their front yard, only a few feet from their door. They built a little
house over his tiny grave, and painted it white, and put a tiny white
picket
fence, about six inches high around the house. When it rained she would
cover the little house with a deer hide, and in the winter she would
put
blankets over it, and sometimes leave a lighted lantern at the door.
Time went by. My mother
and father had troubles and misunderstandings, and eventually parted.
We
left our dear home by little old Frog Creek, and moved to a place over
near the Totogatic River, and our happy, carefree sheltered childhood
was
over. Our wonderful Grandma Goodwin died, and Dad and Bert went to
Canada.
Uncle Dan and Uncle Ed both married and lived in Minong for awhile, but
eventually Dan followed Dad to Canada, although he worked in the States
for many years after that. One happy event came about soon after we
moved,
and that was the arrival of Mothers’ youngest sister and her
family,
Aunt
Laura Sawyer. We became very close to the cousins in this family, but
here
it happened again. All that were near my own age were boys, and that
didn’t
help Mother’s concern over my tom-boyishness. But as we began
to get
older,
we became more quiet and a little more sensible, and at last we were
all
like normal young people. I went away to school and when I returned my
first try at teaching was in a small school near Gilmore Lake, west of
Minong. Incidentally, Earl and Ernest Link, father and Uncle of the
Minong
Link Brothers, were among my pupils. That Christmas of 1906 I came to
Cloquet,
Minnesota, to visit a friend during vacation, and fell into a wonderful
bookkeeping position at the Brooke Scanlon Lumber Company department
store.
I resigned my position as teacher, and stayed here. That spring of
1907,
dear old Grandpa Goodwin left us, and that fall, in December, 1907, I
married,
and have lived here ever since. My oldest brother Percy lives in
Helena,
Montana and is engaged in some kind of mining business. My brother
Clinton
has a home in Spooner, Wisconsin and a summer cottage at Wascott, He is
a retired railroad man, as is my brother Jack, who lives in a beautiful
home on the eastern edge of Minong, I will relate a coincidence
concerning
this home. It wasn’t such a beautiful place when he bought
the big
rambling
house, but he and his wife worked hard, and have turned it into a
really
beautiful home. Then they decided to look over the abstract of the
acres
there, and away, back on the list, back in the past somewhere, they
found
our father’s name. It had been in the Goodwin family years
ago, had
been
sold and resold, and once again was in the Goodwin family.
Mother passed away at Wascott
in 1936, and she sleeps in the beautiful little cemetery west of there,
beside so many of her friends she had known and loved for years. Ed had
died a few years before, and he lies beside Grandpa and Grandma Goodwin
in the old cemetery at Minong. Bert was killed in a hunting accident in
Canada in the early l940’s. Dad passed away in the fall of
l953, also
in
Canada, and Dan followed him only a week later. Uncle Sam lived until a
year or so ago, then he died in Seattle, Washington, the last one of
either
family to leave us.
A few years ago we heard
they had found the remains of an old Wagon near Hayward. We were
thrilled,
for we thought surely it must be the remains of one of Dad’s
Wagons. He
had one on Frog Creek, another one on one of the other rivers where he
had his log drives, we weren’t sure where, and as far as we
knew he was
the only one in that part of the country who had used them. The report
said that the old wagon must have floated there in high water, and then
been stranded when the water went down. They were trying to save it and
repair it for there annual Woodmen’s show at Hayward. We
couldn’t wait
until we got there to see what we were sure must be one of
Dad’s old
wagons,
hoping against hope there would be some sign, even some old board with
a name on, so we could be sure. When we got there they told us that
when
they had tried to move the wagon it had fallen all apart. They had
saved
the floor and built on it, but it was no more like a wagon than my
kitchen
table. It had been so many years in the past, and of course none of
them
had ever seen a real wagon, and really knew nothing of how they should
look. They had destroyed the old boards, or perhaps they too bad been
so
old and soft they fell apart, so we could not know if there was a name,
or anything we might have recognized. We were terribly disappointed.
I have been back a few times
but the face of the country has changed completely. There is a railroad
across the Chittamo place, but there is a station they call Chittamo,
and
it must he not far from the spot where there home once stood. Across
the
creek where Grandpa’s sugar bush was, a house is standing.
Where once
our
beautiful pine forests stood are broad open fields. Gone are the cool,
leafy birch and maple groves. A wide road runs over the little path up
the creek where we went with Grandma to dig for ground cherries. Our
old
house is gone, the home where we spent so many happy hours, arid the
site
where it stood is almost in the center of a field, with nothing to
commemorate
the pulsing life that at one time filled that beautiful spot. Only a
few
miles north of where our old home stood was Totogatic Falls, a
beautiful,
breath taking, thundering cataract, held in on each side by huge piles
of rocks. On top of one of the rocks was the perfect imprint of a
moccasin
foot, as though someone had stepped deeply into the stone while it was
still soft. People came for miles to visit the falls and to see arid
marvel
at the footprint. The thunder of those beautiful falls has been
silenced,
the footprint crashed onto limbo with a blast of dynamite, and a dam
has
been built over the river at that point.
We have eaten picnic lunches
at Pattison’s Park on the Manitou River, over looking the
dancing,
rainbow
Manitou Falls, before there was even a thought of having a park there.
It is a beautiful spot now, but cannot compare with the wild beauty
that
was there before the hand of man took over.
My brothers and I sometimes
go and visit the old places, we find DeRosiers Lake and the place where
the little old school house stood. The schoolhouse is gone with a
larger,
more modern school building across the road, but strangely enough, the
old yard looks almost the same. We go eastward a little way and find
Grandpa’
s corn field, that was long enough to have a garden at one end, and
room
at one side where the kids could play ball. We find the little creek,
that
is even smaller and narrower than we remember. We find where our old
home
stood, where Grandpa and Grandma lived, and we find where
Grandpa’s
little
path ran up the creek, and we come away with an empty, homesick feeling
that nothing or nobody can ever change.
You can’t
hold back progress.
You can’t bring back the past. And way down deep, I wonder if
there is
anyone who would really want to.
Cloquet,
Minnesota - April
1963