Tom Isern

There is this group of people that gathers now and then in a converted gas station in Rapid City for what they call the Morning Fill Up. The agenda is to have a conversation with some interesting thinker with ideas about life in rural America, to have a “national conversation” within the context of the Great Plains. Now and then the contributions are gathered into a book and published by North Dakota State University Press. So now we have Rethinking Rural, Volume 2, with the subtitle, Reflections on Changing Communities.

Christmas Eve, 2015, on the Montana Hi-Line, somewhere near Glasgow, in a one-room school called Willow Bend. Miss Miller had prepared her pupils well, and the local correspondent declared their program “a success.” Then there was the ringer: a quartet of bachelor homesteaders, the Willow Creek Quartette, comprising Will Lloyd, bass; Raymond Sullivan, baritone; James Lloyd, tenor; and L. O. Carter. Lorenzo Otis Carter, that is. The absence of a part-designation with his listing indicates he was the lead singer.

Early in his new memoir from North Dakota State University Press, Tough but Fair: Reformation of a Prison, Memoir of a Warden, Winston Satran recounts a great escape. Ten prisoners broke out of the North Dakota Penitentiary in 1973. They overpowered officers in recreation areas, scaled the walls, stole a car, and lit out east on Highway 10. The ten-day manhunt required to return them to captivity was a shock to the public, and to prison administrators.

If you are familiar with the face or name of Henry R. Martinson, it is likely because of the classic documentary film of 1978, Northern Lights, about the early days of the Nonpartisan League in North Dakota. In which, the aged Martinson plays himself, his words and persona framing the narrative.

Exploring the sandhills countryside in search of something, I stepped into a white frame Lutheran church along the road and found, on a table in the entryway, for reason unknown, an old, slender booklet, unrelated to church business: Songs of Charlie and Cedric was the title. Never heard of them, but I took notes.

In Dakota Territory, the outbreak of spelling bees in the late 1880s was commonly referred to as a “craze.” Since publication of The Hoosier Schoolmaster in 1871 the craze, epidemic, or infatuation with spelling bees, as it was variously called by cultural commentators, had constituted a conscious revival of old custom. When announcing a spelling bee on the prairies, organizers almost always referred to the event as “an old-fashioned” or “old-time spelling bee.”

“The spelling bee at the Baptist church Tuesday evening was quite a lively entertainment,” so says a press report from Jamestown in April 1885. “Rev. S. N. Griffith acted as umpire, Professor Clemmer conductor and Professor Culver and C. T. Hills captains. Between thirty and forty participated in the exercises. Professor Culver and Miss Flagler were the last contestants for the honors, and finally the former staggered at the word ‘millionaire,’ and the latter was declared the best speller.”

In a lovely book of 2008, America Eats, author Pat Willard puts fish fries into her subtitle, but hardly mentions them in her book-length discussion of food events in American culture. Examining the custom in our own region, I have figured out why. Willard relies heavily on WPA interview transcripts from the 1930s. And fish fries, it turns out, are a more recently evolved custom than that. I mean fish fries as a come-all, public event for profit or charity, as a community institution.

In Bottineau during the late 1880s, there emerged an association of men “on the ragged edge of civilization,” as one of them said, in a boom town on the Manitoba Railroad. They determined to have some fun poking fun at the booster spirit and the fraternal lodges that dominated the social scene. They gathered and wrote a constitution for the Ancient Order of Sit Stills and declared themselves the Knights of Leisure. They resolved “to take things easy and never to stand when it is possible to sit.”

After spending a couple of days reading the Pioneer Mother narratives written by members of the Gardar Homemakers Club, all descendants of Icelandic immigrants, their stories preserved in the collections of the Institute for Regional Studies, NDSU, I am left with questions.