Unfinished Business
A Once in a Generation Blizzard? The Blizzard of the Century? Or, Blizzard of the Month?
Now we are survivors of a "Once in a Generation" storm! According to the National Weather Service, 90 to 100 million Americans in 37 states, as far south as the Texas/Mexico border, were in the bull's-eye of this blizzard and its brutal wind chills. It grounded flights, barricaded Interstates, cancelled Christmas Eve services, created power outages, and caused at least 70 fatalities.
Our family stayed safe and warm (relatively) throughout this powerful storm. But it raised the specter of other memorable blizzards endured by Iowa's rugged early settlers. Historical records confirm that the winter of 1856-57 was an Iowa winter of epic proportions. My great-great uncle, Wallace Adams, wrote a personal reminiscence of his family's experience as settlers near Smithland, Iowa, in Woodbury County. To avoid accusations of exaggerating the severity of this winter, Adams cited the authority of the Rev. Landon Taylor, a presiding elder of the Methodist church in Northwest, Iowa.
A three-day blizzard, beginning on December 1, followed by weeks of intermittent snow and relentless wind, accumulated snow cover to a depth of four feet. Combined with sub-zero temperatures, it produced a crust “hard enough to bear a man,” Taylor wrote. No one could leave for supplies for weeks. Wallace's father, Elijah, his sons, and hired help had harvested 150 ton of prairie meadow hay to sustain 100 head of cattle through winter. However, a rapidly-moving fire set by a settler one mile to the south had destroyed 2/3 of the hay harvest. By May 1, Wallace Adams wrote that the heavy snows and frigid weather, combined with a lack of forage, resulted in a loss of 50 head of their cattle.
In 1918, Thomas Teakle, an historian and educator, and author of the first scholarly book, The Spirit Lake Massacre, described the winter of 1856-57 in this way: “Although the white settlers suffered considerably from self-imposed denial of food and from unsuitable houses in which to shelter themselves, their privations could not compare with those of the Indians.”
If you're a history buff, you can read more about it in my article, "The Muddied Waters of the Spirit Lake Massacre " in the January/February 2023 Iowa History Journal. I describe the winter of 1856-57, recount my ancestors' peaceful interactions during Inkpaduta's encampment, and document the often-overlooked role of Smithland in events leading up to the Spirit Lake conflict.
Wartburg University history professor Kevin Anthony Mason also contributes his perspective. “As historians have toiled to better meet indigenous peoples on their own terms, Spirit Lake endures as an event characterized by images of unprovoked blood-thirsty savages attacking unsuspecting and peaceful agrarian settlers," he told me. "In reality, the Wahpekute under Inkpaduta acted within their traditional cultural constructs to persist in the face of pressures pushed forward by the frontier-line and overwhelming environmental distress during the winter of 1856-57.”
Photo of marker at Smithland, Iowa
Another blizzard is chronicled in the book, Buggies, Babies & Blizzards, published by Iowa State University Press in 1971. Authored by Cora Frear Hawkins, it tells the story of her father, Edwin, a small-town doctor for 30+ years. The opening chapter begins on January 19, 1888.
Frear's wife, Sue, was dozing in a rocker by the kitchen stove while a fierce wind whistled around the chimney. Waking, she went to the window, but could see no light in the midst of the raging snowstorm. Although she lived in the small town of Sloan, in Monona County, her thoughts were focused on a farmhouse 10 miles away, nestled in the Loess Hills. Somewhere on the bleak prairie that lay between, Edwin was navigating his way through the stinging cold, snow, and wind in the darkness.
A young man on horseback had arrived earlier, just as they had finished supper. "Lige Adams sent me," he said. "His wife's having a baby and they need help." A neighbor woman was there, he said "but this one ain't comin' right. Breech case . . . For God's sake, hurry, Doc!"
It was the third day of the blizzard, and the roads-- and even the fenceposts were completely covered. But Dr. Frear began to prepare for the trip. Sue, who was within six weeks of giving birth, pulled bricks from the back of the stove, made a fresh pot of coffee, and spread the heavy wolfskin coat and fur robe over the chair to warm it in front of the oven. She spent the night praying for her husband's safety, finally dozing off. She awakened at dawn to hear sleigh bells. "Tell me, were you in time?" she asked her husband. "I made it in time, with God's help," he replied. "They have a baby boy and everyone's fine."
Lige Adams, my great-grandfather, was 3 years old in the winter of 1856-57. The baby boy delivered by Dr. Frear was his son, and my grandmother's brother, True Elijah.
Channeling our Pioneer Spirit
My husband and I, the last generation of our agrarian family tree, stayed close to our farm last week, heeding the warning of life-threatening wind chills and deteriorating visibility. Stan left the house twice daily to feed and water and check on our cattle. Each time, I spent anxious moments watching the clock until he made it back into the house safely. I was relieved at the end of the second day of the blizzard, December 23: the next day's forecast promised slight improvement, with winds subsiding from 45--50 m.p.h. to 25 --30 m.p.h.
I went into our home office at about 11:15 p.m. to make a note on the computer when I heard a rattling of glass at our east porch door. Or was it the relentless wind? I raised the window shade just enough to see headlights on the two-lane blacktop just north of our driveway. I called to Stan, who hurried out of the shower, and turned on the porch light. There stood a young man. "I'm stuck in that snowdrift," he said, motioning behind him to a crusted-over drift. "I need some assistance--so sorry for the inconvenience," he said. Stan didn't hesitate. "OK, I'll be out," he said, closing the door.
As he bundled up in multiple layers of chore clothes, Stan said he hoped he could pull him out with the pickup truck. But a few minutes after he took a close look at the stranded vehicle, I saw him head to the machine shed. After several anxious minutes of watching for him, I saw him drive his tractor onto the road. Time elapsed as he attached the chains, and steadily pulled the vehicle with the young man and his wife out of the drift. They told him they had been headed home from a family Christmas about 7 miles north, and only had a couple more miles to reach home.
It's hardly the first time my farmer-husband has come to the rescue of strangers stranded on the road or in the ditch during blizzards. In 1997, I wrote in my column in Successful Farming, "It was another one of those winters. The kind that makes you question where you live and what you do for a livelihood: bitterly cold temperatures across the Great Plains; whiteouts in the Dakotas; budget-busting snow removal bills in Minnesota. Didn't we all receive holiday cards from friends or relatives enjoying warm climates and easier lifestyles? Yet here we are coping with broken pipes, needy livestock and engines that don't run. I watch as my husband goes out in conditions unfit for man or beast . . ."
About 16 years ago, the fire phone rang during a March blizzard. Both fire trucks had become stuck in drifts a few blocks away from a house fire in Pilot Mound. Stan, a volunteer firefighter, drove his loader tractor 1.5 miles to town to dig out the trucks. (Sadly, it was too late to save the house, but there was no loss of life.)
Stan even helped to rescue me once--indirectly. In 1996, I was stranded during what was called "The Blizzard of the Century," halfway home from work in Des Moines, just north of the burg of Luther. When I called Stan on my cumbersome 2G "car phone," he knew he couldn't risk making the 35-mile trip; our two children were at home with him. He called a childhood friend who lived in Luther, and Jim Riker revved up his snowmobile and drove 1.5 miles north on Highway 17, to rescue me. I stayed the night with him, his wife and two children.
I was one of hundreds who spent that night with strangers. I certainly gained a greater respect for Mother Nature. In a world where many people fail to recognize the common bonds between our personal well-being and that of others, that storm was a stark reminder of how much we need one other.
We're only beginning to hear and read about stories of courage and generosity during this latest wintry blast, including the Buffalo Blizzard 2022 Facebook page that's bringing together a community of 70,000 active volunteers to provide groceries, baby formula, diapers and medication to the most vulnerable. We are all in this together, aren't we? If only we could sustain this spirit throughout 2023.
Much health and happiness to you and yours in the new year ahead!
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Tar Macias: Hola Iowa, Iowa
Kurt Meyer, Showing Up, St. Ansgar
Pat Kinney: View from Cedar Valley, Waterloo
Fern Kupfer: Fern and Joe, Ames
Robert Leonard: Deep Midwest: Politics and Culture, Bussey
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Chuck Offenburger: Iowa Boy Chuck Offenburger, Jefferson and Des Moines
Barry Piatt: Piatt on Politic Behind the Curtain, Washington, D.C.
Mary Swander: Mary Swander’s Buggy Land, Kalona
Mary Swander: Mary Swander’s Emerging Voices, Kalona
Cheryl Tevis: Unfinished Business, Boone County
Ed Tibbetts: Along the Mississippi, Davenport
Teresa Zilk: Talking Good, Des Moines
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Nice read Cheryl! I’m in Norway, winter land of snow but have vivid memories of IA blizzards.
Enjoyed this! I remember that '96 storm. February, if I recall correctly. Workers downtown all tried to leave an hour or two early and all got stuck on nearly impassable roads that afternoon.