Family Reunions - Never a Dull Moment

Family reunions… No two are alike, and large or small, they're always interesting. One branch of our family has small, annual gatherings, while another has a huge, weekend-long event every three years.

The pastor of our church once said, "There's no finer food on earth than at a church potluck." I disagree! A family reunion potluck is every bit as good, perhaps even better! I can still see the three picnic tables put end to end, and covered with casserole dishes, cake pans, salad bowls, drink coolers, etc. The descendants of three brothers, Oluf, Emil, and Adolph Hammer, would gather each year, most living within a couple of hours away, so the potluck was a perfect format. A mouth-watering meal was served, seconds and thirds were had, recipes exchanged, and a happy, satisfied digestion commenced.

There was never a shortage of things to do, regardless of one's age. Young cousins tried to drown each other in the swimming pool, while their dads got a softball game together, and their grandpas played horseshoes. Moms and grandmas tended to the food, and got "caught up" on everything happening with each others' families. There were new cousins to meet, laughing till your belly hurt, and getting tormented by goofy Uncle Jim. There were White Elephant gift exchanges, and howls of laughter as your staunchly democratic cousin gets a sack full of republican paraphernalia, and Aunt Joyce goes home with a giant rubber ducky for her next bath.

But there are deeper, more meaningful aspects of a family reunion. It's here that many of the younger generations will learn about family traditions, and come away with a feeling of deep, strong roots. Family history is discussed and enjoyed and discovered, even by people who didn't think they were interested in it. Adult cousins, circling the campfire late at night, will discover that their most treasured memories are also each other's most treasured memories. It can be a bittersweet time, when, reunion after reunion, you see the older faces being slowly replaced by younger faces. As we grow older ourselves, we know we won't always be here to keep things going, but building a tradition among the younger generation most certainly will.

Who Are You???

What a frustrating enigma! I hold my "mystery photograph" in my hands, and look hard at the face, as if by staring at it a little longer, the lips will move, and the Mystery Woman will give me a hint... It's hard to know the woman in this photograph is a beloved ancestor, and have no idea who, specifically, she is.

I know one thing. It's not Julia, as was labeled on the back by a fellow descendant, who likes to guess at such things, not always accurately. I might have been tempted to make the same assumption, as this woman's photograph was among others from that family, had I not already known what Julia looked like. I have two photographs of Julia, both known to be her, although older in years in both of them. Her straight, white hair, parted down the middle, frames her oval face with its fine features. She's a small woman, with a little bit of a scowl on her face. The woman in the Mystery Photograph is a plump, hardy-looking middle aged woman with short dark hair, curling like scallops around her soft, square face. Her ears lay flat below her round-brimmed hat, while Julia's are quite the opposite. The Mystery Woman, wearing a long, double-breasted coat that appears to be wool, clutches a pair of gloves in her hands, and is standing beside an ornate, very unusual table that no doubt is among the photographer's props. No photographer, nor location, is mentioned.

I recall stories of genealogy researchers, standing in a cemetery, looking for their ancestor's grave, when suddenly they realized they are standing on it... or by some other miraculous occurrence, happen to find what they are looking for against the odds. While waiting for a similar miracle to fall from Heaven regarding my Mystery Woman, I keep trying to make contact with as many other descendants of this family as possible, hoping one of them will have send me a photograph with those familiar-looking eyes. And while they lips won't move, they will surely speak to me about this dear lady's identity, and her place among my ancestors.

Beadle County and the Deadly Blizzard of 1888

     The most brutal blizzard Beadle county, South Dakota, and most of the rest of the Dakotas, Nebraska, and Minnesota has ever seen, raged into the area on Thursday, January 12, 1888. Blizzards are nothing new to the area, but several factors combined to make this one of the most deadly winter storms in history.

     First, there was a temperature increase of nearly 20 degrees between the day before, and the day of, the storm. At 19 degrees above zero, Beadle county residents must have considered the day a balmy one, with the weeks of sub-zero temperatures they had previously endured. However, a brutal drop in temperature was yet to come before the day was over. Adding to the danger, wind speed just before noon was 24 mph; in less than two hours, the wind would increase to a roaring 60 mph, with higher gusts.

     With the warmer weather, more people were out tending to their business, and more children were sent to school. The timing of the storm’s arrival could not have been worse; workers were in the middle of their work day; farmers in the middle of their chores, and school children in the middle of their studies. Had this storm hit in the middle of the night, countless lives would have been spared. In addition, the significantly warmer temperatures of the morning meant that many of these people were not adequately dressed for what was to come.

      The storm roared in with such suddenness that people did not have time to protect themselves, nor to make any preparations in advance. The storm came with such ferocity that one three year old, identified only as Timmy, thought “God’s thrashin’ machine is coming to pieces!” The tiny shards of ice and snow came pelting down with such force that visibility was next to nothing in a very short time. Farmers in their barns were unable to find their way back to their houses. It hit overwhelmingly hard and fast.

     Stories of affected Beadle county residents were not hard to come by -

Emil Gilbertson had come to Dakota Territory from Chicago some five years previous, answering the call of free land. His claim was 11 miles southwest of Altoona, and it was there that he was headed as he left town on Wednesday. He was found Friday, about 2 ½ miles west of town, frozen to death.

      Another Altoona resident, 60 year old Lewis Merriman and his 18 year old son Hallie, came to Dakota Territory from Whiteside county, Illinois. They were just a mile away from home when the rage of the storm hit Beadle county. They knew they were lost, and conditions so bitter that survival was not likely; Mr. Merriman was exhausted and could not continue; his son took off his overcoat and put it on his father, and attempted to find help. Mr. Merriman’s body was found a half mile away, and his son’s body just a short distance from their home.

     Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Gilkeson, who came to Dakota Territory from New York, lived on the Caldwell Dairy Farm, three miles south of Huron. On Thursday, he and Otto Gose headed east of the farm in order to get hay. The storm hit just before they started for home. Once they realized that they were lost, they tied the team of horses to the wagon and started out separately. Gose wandered the rest of the day, but eventually made it to the farm, although badly frozen. Searchers went out early Friday morning, but there was no sign of Gilkeson. It was not until the following Monday, when Frank Miller, who lives 12 miles from Huron, was walking to town, and happened to notice a piece of cloth sticking up from the snow. He found the body of a man, arms folded across the breast to keep his coat tight, and his hat pulled down over his ears. He had nothing on his hands. A piece of the man’s coat was taken to Mrs. Gilkeson, who confirmed it was her husband’s. The body was later taken to the Gilkeson residence. Their daughter came from Wessington, riding on the snow plow.

     Meanwhile, Michael Hand, a farmer, took his cattle to a nearby well for water. The coming of the storm was so sudden that he could not see the barn, and wandered for some time before stumbling over a gang plow. Knowing the plow was only about 10 feet from the house, he started in what he thought to be the right direction, but it was not until he came to a harrow which was a half mile from the house that he knew he was lost. He stumbled about all night; by morning, his eyes were frozen shut. Later that morning, William Morse was out doing chores when he found Hand, and took him to shelter. Hand’s clothes were frozen to the extent that they had to be cut from him. Hand had wandered more than 10 miles before being found.

     Two neighbors, J. A. Scoville and S. W. Campbell, had close calls as well. Scoville had been at Campbell’s before the storm. By the time he started for home, it was too late; he became lost, and was wandering on the prairie for more than three hours, finally finding his farm. He warmed up, and then went to his cattle sheds to tend to his livestock, but as soon as he opened the door, the roof collapsed under nine feet of snow, burying Scoville under the mess. One of the farm hands, who luckily was nearby, began shoveling and finally freed Scoville. Scoville recovered fully from the events of the day. Meanwhile, his neighbor Campbell, was forced to shave off his mustache with a pocket knife, when it became so encrusted with ice and snow that it froze to his face, and made it very difficult for him to breathe.

     The Nierson brothers, Frank, 22, and Willie, 16, left their family in Chicago to come to Dakota Territory to farm. On Thursday morning, Mr. J. F. Wilson came to their place to “doctor” a sick horse. The storm rolled in while Wilson was there, and the boys, fearful of the storm, decided to accompany Wilson back to his farm, just two miles east. Heading in the right direction, the visibility was so poor that they walked past the Wilson farm, coming within 10 rods of the house. Realizing they were lost, the began to look for some sort of shelter from the fierce wind and biting ice raining from the sky. After several hours, Frank fell to the ground, exhausted, and died within minutes. Wilson and Willie Nierson continued their search for shelter, and eventually Willie collapsed and died as well. Wilson rested for a short while in a deep drift in a cornfield, until his knees gave way, and he had to resort to crawling. About 10 o’clock Friday morning he crawled to a house belonging to John Bremerman, having wandered at least 10 miles. The bodies of the Nierson brothers were retrieved and taken to the mortuary to be prepared for shipping to the family in Chicago. While badly frozen, Wilson recovered.

     South of Cavour, Ezra Fuller and his housekeeper, Miss Pearson, were going to Fuller’s house to work, when they were caught in the storm. They wandered all Thursday night; when found, they were nearly buried with snow, several rods apart. Mr. Fuller’s left arm, face and feet were badly frozen, and Miss Pearson’s legs were frozen, as well as her hands and face.

     In a touch of irony, Sergeant Glenn, whose duty it was to predict weather for the Huron office, started for home Thursday, but before reaching his street his eyes were nearly frozen shut with snow and ice. He was confused, and became lost. He wandered for some time before being put on the right road to his house. He arrived exhausted, but unhurt, for the most part.

     One of the saddest stories is that of Robert Chambers and his two young sons, aged 9 and 11, who left their home on Thursday morning, headed to the Rush place a mile away, to water some cattle. When Mr. Chambers saw the storm approaching, he immediately sent the older boy home, as the child was afflicted with rheumatism and could not be out in the cold weather. The boy reached home safely. Mr. Chambers and the younger boy, Johnny, began driving the cattle home, but soon became confused and lost. Johnny, who survived the ordeal told what happened to the local newspaper, as follows:

… when his father saw that they were lost he made a place in the snow for him, and wrapped him up the best he could. They had no over coats, or extra clothing. Johnny says that he was so covered up that he was warm. His father went out and called, and called, and the St. Bernard dog barked, but no answer came. Then father and the dog got into the snow beside him. While he was warm he knew that his father was getting very cold. He urged father to go on and try to find the trees, and then he could make the house. But the father said, "No, I cannot go and leave you here." The boy urged, but the father would do no more than to call for aid within certain reach of the boy's bed of snow. The dog also kept with the boy. Through the long night they had conversations about perishing, but the father kept assuring the boy that they would get through all right if he would only be sure and lie still! The boy knew that father was freezing, but was quite comfortable himself, and finally fell asleep. When he awoke it was evidently near morning. Father was still alive. Discovering that Johnny was awake the father said to him, "Now, Johnny, you pray, and I will pray, and then I know God will take you through all right." They prayed as proposed, and soon after the father was dead. The boy, entirely covered up, except a little breathing place through the snow, laid still. The dog stood sentry, and afforded the cue by which the bodies were found soon after daylight, by a searching party. Johnny thinks his father had not been dead more than an hour when they were found.

     A huge cause for concern once the weather turned bad were the hundreds of school children throughout the county. At the Utah school in Huron, some children insisted on leaving the building, some of whom were retrieved and the building locked for their safety until help arrived. In order to get students to the nearby home of J. W. Campbell, a rope was attached to Mr. Campbell’s fence, and carried to the school building. Students were able to make their way to the house, where Joe Bloodgood, with his horse and sleigh, took children home. Ben King and his hired man did the same, until everyone was safely delivered to their families. At the Illinois school, teachers and students stayed together until each child could be taken home.

     However, it was the rural school teachers, all alone on the frozen prairie, often without enough fuel to last, who had difficult decisions to make. Miss Hattie Grant, teacher of 12 pupils in the Goodell neighborhood six miles west of Huron, saw the storm approaching as the children were getting ready to eat their lunches. She advised them to save a portion for an evening meal, if needed. She continued on with her teaching, and with the help of three older students, got enough coal to last the night. They sat around the fire, told stories, and talked until the small children fell asleep, and again with the help of the older students, kept watch over the fire. They were all rescued safely about 8 o’clock the next morning.

Miss Hacket taught in the Bloodgood addition; aided by others, she was able to get all the children to the residence of A. Bloodgood and Eli Brockman, and notify parents that their children were safe and being cared for overnight.

     There was no shortage of heroes in Beadle county. When it was realized that there were missing school children, a call was made for volunteers to brave the elements and bring the children to safety. A number of railroad boys were the first to answer the call. As written in the Daily Huronite, “They threw on their overcoats, pulled down their sealskin caps and were quickly out in the storm. It was not too severe for them to aid in the search for the little ones. They didn't wait to be asked to go - but went voluntarily. Their eager desire to take part in the search showed the goodness of their hearts, and their promptness in duty as railroad employes. ‘By their works ye shall know them.’”

     Jud Spaulding, Mr. Ritchlag, W. B. Joy, J. B. Coffin and many others also aided in the search for missing people. Mr. Spaulding came up with the idea of sounding the railroad whistle, and many lost and confused people were able to follow the sound back to town, and numerous lives were saved as a result of his clear thinking.

     Reactions of the county residents to the storm were mostly awe and grief, but M. J. Dineen summed up the spirit of the Dakota pioneer: “We survived the big winter. This storm may be a little severe, but we were here first, and are going to stay.”

The Rose Tree

It's every bride's dream to "set up housekeeping" with her husband in a home of their very own. But the year was 1940, and money was still tight; if it weren't for my grandmother's ability to spot an opportunity and take advantage of it, my grandparents may not have even gotten a farm of their own. There was certainly no money to spend decorating, or anything of the other things the woman of the house would desire to do. But a few flowers would certainly dress up the yard a bit...

You had to be tough in the "Dirty Thirties," whether you were a farmer, a farm animal, or a plant trying to put down roots in the blowing sand. "Rose trees" grew wild in the South Dakota ditches, so, armed with a shovel, my grandmother dug up a few of them and re-planted them in her yard. Years went by, times got better, more flowers were added, but the rose trees thrived and multiplied.

Seventeen years and four children later, a bolt of lightning took just about all they had, leaving a charred pile of rubble where their home once stood. And once again, the not-so-new bride started from scratch with a house in town. Of course, rose trees were brought in from the farm, bringing a sense of continuity when everything else had changed. 35 years later, their sweet aroma brought some comfort to her grieving family. For the next 15 years, the house was inhabited by my mother, and the rose trees proliferated throughout the yard. The time came for Mom to make her home with us in another state. As we left the house for the last time, armed with a shovel and some buckets, I dug up three small rose trees from the yard, and moved them 300 miles to their new home. On late spring days, the fragrance is sweetly comforting, reminding me that life continues. Traditions continue. I wonder where the rose trees will be in another 70 years...

Memorial Day

I would like to pay tribute to a couple of the men in our family who gave their lives in defense of their country. Being a student of our family history, I have seen what price their immediate families have paid as a result of their service, and as a result, have a much better appreciation for our military men and women, and their families.

Delbert Dee Graves, 1891 - 1918, died in World War I, in France. He was the only son of Thomas and Nettie Graves. He joined the American Expeditionary Forces (aka "Doughboys") on June 27, 1918, and was assigned to Co. H of the 351st Infantry. After training, he was sent overseas to England on Aug. 28, 1918, and then to France shortly afterward. He worked in difficult circumstances, cold and damp, and his mother would knit him sweaters because he just could not keep warm enough in his surroundings. As a result he contracted an illness which led to scarlet fever, and died in a makeshift military hospital in France. He was buried in France, but a few years later was brought home to a hero's welcome in his small town of Carthage, South Dakota, and buried in Pleasant View Cemetery. The American Legion Post in Carthage was named in honor of him. Delbert was my great-grandmother's younger brother; he had worked as a drayman, carpenter and farmer, in conjunction with his father, and enjoyed raising hounds.



Raymond Christensen, 1914 - 1944, was killed in action in World War II. He interrupted his education at the University of Minnesota to enlist, and enrolled in officers training school in Florida. He was a flight officer in the 417th Night Fighter Squadron. He was one of a crew of two in an English Beau Fighter, and flew some of the most dangerous missions in the war. He was initially listed as Missing in Action, but his status was later changed to Killed in Action over Sicily, on May 13, 1944. He is still remembered for his wit and humor. He sold insurance policies while he put himself through school at the University of Minnesota and the St. Paul Agricultural College. He was a masterful practical joker. He was my grandmother's younger brother, and my grandfather's best friend.

Delbert and Raymond's families bore tremendous pain and long-lasting implications at the loss of their sons/brothers, as do the families of all fallen soldiers. It's so easy to forget that this holiday is more than a three-day weekend, filled with camping, fishing, cookouts, etc. It's a day to remember and honor these men, and their families who paid a huge price for all we enjoy in the U. S. today. Take some time to remember all of them with gratitude.

Happy Birthday!

Happy Birthday, Grandma Lill!

Whenever this day rolls around, it's a little bittersweet for me, but when I start thinking about all the wonderful things Grandma Lill left us with I can't help but smile and realize she was one of the sweetest gifts from God. She is present in every one of my days, despite the fact that I can't hear her voice or see her face - but I can feel her soul.

I don't think I will ever look at a flower without remembering her taking my little five-year-old hand, and walking me around her beautiful yard, showing me every flower and telling me it's name, and taking all the time in the world while I marveled at the shapes and colors.


I don't bake anything without remembering standing up to her kitchen table, rolling out pie crusts on bread wrappers, or taking incredible-smelling cookies out of the oven, and her saying that Grandpa works so hard, we have to take care of him because he takes such good care of us, and that wonderful feeling of value and worth and love that my little heart felt from that simple act of baking cookies.

I can't see a soap operat on TV without, just for a brief second, being transported back to the living room on a warm summer day, when Grandma first started letting me watch soaps with her rather than booting me outside with the little kids; I can almost see her curled up on the couch, barefoot, and me in the chair next to her; and her telling me about Bob Hughes' long, sordid history and all the women on the show he's been married to, with an almost naughty glee in her voice, but then pointing out that that's not the way nice people live!


Sometimes a little wisp of an old song will seem to pop into my head for no apparent reason - "Hang Down Your Head Tom Dooley," or "Little Brown Jug," or "Yellow Rose of Texas"... I know it's not coincidence, it's Grandma singing in my ear, with me sitting next to her at the piano, showing me where to put my fingers on those rich ivory keys, while Grandpa tooted on his saxophone, and I remember the delight I felt when what *I* was doing, what Grandma was doing, and what Grandpa was doing all came together into one unbelievably lovely and unique sound, something special none of us could have created alone.

I remember her spreading out the newspaper on the floor, and tracing around my Barbie to make a pattern for a skirt; the indignant feeling I had when she made me turn the wheel on the sewing machine by hand, and the scary thrill when she let me use the electricity for the first time, as I envisioned stitches made firmly across my finger if I went too fast, just like she'd warned.

I can't see a pimple without thinking about that poor unfortunate school chum of hers - the one who squeezed the pimple on Friday, and was dead on Monday...

I can't say a bad word without tasting those rocks and dirt that were coming out of my mouth...

She's here every time I make baking powder biscuits, every time I say something snotty to my husband ("ta-Ta-ta-Ta-ta-Ta!") and every time I make an ugly face ("It's going to stay that way!"). When she left us, she didn't leave us. She nestled herself firmly in our hearts and souls and personalities.

Have a wonderful birthday, Grandma Lill, whatever you're doing. I hope you're remembering these wonderful times too.

The Adventurous Adams

I've always longed for an adventurous spirit, but have finally come to the conclusion that I just don't have it in me, and probably never will. I come from a long line of hard-working, quiet farmers. They labored diligently, and invested in their families, but you won't find a lot about them in the history books. Researching my husband's Adams line, however, has been an exciting thing; they led bold lives, and have led me to believe that the tendency toward adventure must be genetic!

With each generation of this family, I have uncovered details about individuals that aren't afraid to take chances, and would stand up for their beliefs.

John Quincy Adams was born the sixth child of fifteen, in Vermont. At the tender age of 16, he left his father's home, bound for college. An industrious young man, he worked winters teaching school to earn enough money to support himself and pay his own tuition. After two years, he returned briefly to his father's farm, and then, alone, headed west. He ended up in Stephenson county, Illinois, where he again taught school, and worked as a carpenter to save up enough money to go to California to work the gold mines. Two years later, like many young men anxious to find their fortune, he headed west again. He was there five years, and returned to Illinois with $1,000, and purchased a 240 acre farm near Florence Station, in Stephenson county. He then settled down, got himself a wife, and raised a large family.

John's grandfather, Martin Adams, was a Revolutionary War patriot, who, after serving his time, re-enlisted again. After the war, Martin, along with his parents and siblings, loaded up their belongings in three boats at their home in Springfield, Massachusetts, and set sail, all seven of them, upstream until they got to the present site of St. Johnsbury, Vermont. There, they built the first home, from logs caulked with a mixture of mud and twigs, with pine boughs laid crosswise for a roof. Other settlers moved in during the months to follow.

This sort of behavior must have delighted Martin Adams very much, as he did it again after his marriage. This time, he and his brothers, plus their young wives, set out from St. Johnsbury, making their way through heavy forest with all their earthly possessions, to the Barton river. Here they constructed canoes, and rowed to the present site of Duncansboro (Newport), on Lake Memphremagog, in Vermont. They were impressed by the fact that the frost had not destroyed the vegetation there, while everything growing on the hills had been killed, so here they settled, around 1793. By 1800, there were eleven families who had settled there.

In looking at the photo above, I can see why they made their decision to stay.

As already mentioned, Martin's father, James Callendar Adams, led the family's expedition to St. Johnsbury, with three canoes, seven children, provisions, and everything they owned. Now that's bravery!

Personal information on generations previous to this is hard to come by, so I had wondered if they were as hooked on excitement as these more "recent" generations. And then, I uncovered information on George Adams, the immigrant ancestor of James Callendar Adams, and I was not disappointed.

George Adams and his wife Frances, left their home in England to come to the New World, specifically, Watertown, Massachusetts. Details of their reasons for making such a perilous journey are a little murkey, but many settlers in this area were Puritans from England, looking for religious freedom, and it was not uncommon that these brave souls sold themselves into slavery for 6 years or longer to pay their fares. The family lived in poverty much of the time, but George had ideas for prospering himself. Perhaps out of ignorance for the law, but more likely due to his strong personal constitution, he bought land from the Indians, paying for it with guns and "strong water." Bad idea! The colonial government was less than pleased, and seized his land, and he spent much of the rest of his life fighting to get it back.

Eventually the court realized he had some validity to his claims for the land, but by that time it had been "re-conveyed" to someone else; so in return for his agreement to let the matter drop, they granted him another parcel of land. However, he continued his fight, and eventually the General Court vindicated him, and gave him back his land, plus allowed him to keep the land from the lower court, for his trouble.

Along with way, George fought in King Philip's War, was whipped and imprisoned, struggled for years and years with the Court, and survived an Indian massacre. He had the tenacity of a bulldog. It took a falling rock to stop him at the age of 76, at his home in Massachusetts.

What was his father like? Or his grandfather? I can only guess! And hopefully some day I'll find out. Until then, I will continue to enjoy the adventurous legacy that this family left to their descendants.