(Continued)
Back on the gravel going north the road swings west and Dad talks of a small-unnamed community that existed there. The road turns back north and crosses a stream. “There was a grist mill here,” he says. Farmers from as far away as Mt. Pleasant would sometimes bring there grain here.
At the next corner we follow the road left. We could go straight but it is dirt. It’s the Trabert Place. I have written about this spot before. We go west to the blacktop past Eagle School (a one room school long ago boarded up) and then take the first right about a mile down the road.
On the left, out in the field is a lone dilapidated windmill and nothing else. “I was born there.” Dad says it’s where his Grandfather, Christian Egli, lived. He talks about what a kind man he was and I am sure he greatly influenced my father. He talks, too, of “buckets” of arrowheads that he used to see sitting around the farm. He wonders what happened to all of them.
On the right side of the road is Harold Hinkle’s farm. He is our cousin and we almost always stop and talk with him for a while. Harold’s wife, Helen, is a teacher in the Fairfield district. We talk education while Dad and Harold swap stories. Their son Dwain joins in the discussion now and then. After awhile we excuse ourselves and head on down the gravel.
We cross the creek and on the left is one of Dad’s cherished arrowhead hunting spots. Harold doesn’t let anyone else hunt it. There, a drainage ditch has bisected a large mound in the center of the field. It’s a rich spot. The soil on the mound has a different color and texture. Dad speculates that it is because people occupied the site for hundreds of years. I think we have walked every inch of that field many times. Dad says this is where many of the arrowheads that he saw at his Grandfather Christian house came from. Dad has many in his collection from here, too.
The deep plowing and freezing and thawing of the ground forced the stones and artifacts to the surface. It was occupied so long that it is littered with hundreds of campfire stones and chips and artifacts of the former residents. Dad and I spent countless hours walking over every inch of this field after every big rain or anytime the ground had been worked. We spent long hours, too, during these hunts, just talking about everything under the sun. They were special times with my Dad. I miss those long discussions.
From this spot we head up over the hill and then down past “The Real Thing.” It is a youth church of some kind out in the middle of nowhere. The road winds around through the Skunk River bottom. This whole area floods a lot in the spring when the river gets out of its banks. We come to an intersection. We turn right and head across the Merrimac bridge.
(To be Continued)
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Rides II
(Continued from Rides I)
Then up the hill on the other side. The Indian mounds that were up there were destroyed when they built the highway. A right turn would take you to Jennings’s Dairy and Cholera Hill. Victims of the Cholera epidemic in the 1800s are buried there. Straight ahead down the hill we see the Skunk River across the bottom. Scott’s farm is on the right. The house was flooded so many times that they moved it to higher ground.
Crossing the Skunk River prompts stories of buried gold to the north (I’ll get to that story later) and south, a story about Uncle Lew and the time he met an old Indian while building fence. The Indian, on a horse, told him his people came from that area and were now in Kansas. He wanted to come back to this place before he died.
Rome is next on the right. It was always known for tough guys and taverns. There may still be one or two of both there? The Rome stories occupy us almost all the way to Lockridge. Then we talk about our cousins, the Eglis and stop in the local café for breakfast. Amazingly, Dad seems to know everyone in the place.
From the café on old Highway 34 we head past the cemetery where a lot of my relatives rest and then north. “Coalport,” Dad says as we pass under the railroad. You can see the outcropping of coal in the ditch on the west side of the road. We go north to Four Corners. Only a tavern and a house remain there. Dad talks about what a rough place that is and that I should stay out of there. We did go in once together for a soda. It was the middle of the day and we were the only ones in the place besides the bartender.
We head north again now on gravel. The missing gold comes up again as we go forward. He tells of the Indians receiving a government allotment and the money never showing up in circulation. Camp Golden Valley got its name for that reason. I will chronicle that story in more detail another time. The gold could still be out there.
Next, at a curve in the gravel road he talks about the evidence found that indicated Spanish explorers were in the area 400 hundred years ago. Artifacts, crosses, and the foundation of a fortification have been found as well as references in Spanish documents. Looking out the car window you can only imagine what fascinating things have transpired here.
At the corner that leads to McCoon’s Landing there is what remains of an old steam engine in the corner of a field. Dad tells of the sawmill and how someone had poured water into what must have been a dry boiler. It exploded and killed both of the men who were working there. The large barrel portion of the engine with a gaping hole remains as a solemn reminder. Down the hill to the east is the campground and what used to be a ford in the river. Across from that spot is a farmstead where Dad spent much of his childhood.
(To Be Continued)
Then up the hill on the other side. The Indian mounds that were up there were destroyed when they built the highway. A right turn would take you to Jennings’s Dairy and Cholera Hill. Victims of the Cholera epidemic in the 1800s are buried there. Straight ahead down the hill we see the Skunk River across the bottom. Scott’s farm is on the right. The house was flooded so many times that they moved it to higher ground.
Crossing the Skunk River prompts stories of buried gold to the north (I’ll get to that story later) and south, a story about Uncle Lew and the time he met an old Indian while building fence. The Indian, on a horse, told him his people came from that area and were now in Kansas. He wanted to come back to this place before he died.
Rome is next on the right. It was always known for tough guys and taverns. There may still be one or two of both there? The Rome stories occupy us almost all the way to Lockridge. Then we talk about our cousins, the Eglis and stop in the local café for breakfast. Amazingly, Dad seems to know everyone in the place.
From the café on old Highway 34 we head past the cemetery where a lot of my relatives rest and then north. “Coalport,” Dad says as we pass under the railroad. You can see the outcropping of coal in the ditch on the west side of the road. We go north to Four Corners. Only a tavern and a house remain there. Dad talks about what a rough place that is and that I should stay out of there. We did go in once together for a soda. It was the middle of the day and we were the only ones in the place besides the bartender.
We head north again now on gravel. The missing gold comes up again as we go forward. He tells of the Indians receiving a government allotment and the money never showing up in circulation. Camp Golden Valley got its name for that reason. I will chronicle that story in more detail another time. The gold could still be out there.
Next, at a curve in the gravel road he talks about the evidence found that indicated Spanish explorers were in the area 400 hundred years ago. Artifacts, crosses, and the foundation of a fortification have been found as well as references in Spanish documents. Looking out the car window you can only imagine what fascinating things have transpired here.
At the corner that leads to McCoon’s Landing there is what remains of an old steam engine in the corner of a field. Dad tells of the sawmill and how someone had poured water into what must have been a dry boiler. It exploded and killed both of the men who were working there. The large barrel portion of the engine with a gaping hole remains as a solemn reminder. Down the hill to the east is the campground and what used to be a ford in the river. Across from that spot is a farmstead where Dad spent much of his childhood.
(To Be Continued)
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Rides I
I grew up going on rides with my family. It continued when I married and had my own family. We went on rides all the time. It was a simpler time, I think, and gas was much cheaper so it was actually a form of entertainment in those days. I continued to go on rides with my father, too.
My Dad was like a tour guide when we went for a ride. He gave an ongoing narrative as we moved along. He got so good at it that he gave tours for the County Historical Society and for school groups. They had three distinct tours in the county. One trip was to the Northwest, one to the Southwest and one to the East. They would load up a school bus and take kids or adults on one of the routes. It took most of the day. Along the way he pointed out spots of historical significance and told stories of human interest.
The trips with the family were just the same. A spot along the road would prompt him and he would start in. He even did it on our jaunts to hunt arrowheads. If we headed west on Highway 34 he would talk about how the railroad was built by crews and one of their camps was west of town and he would point off to the northwest. The landowner had taken him out there once and there was still evidence of the camp after over a hundred years. You could see where the sod houses were and some of the cave like holes they had dug into the side of hills.
Cresting the hill on Highway 34, Westwood is on the left. When I was in high school an ancient bundle burial was found when they were digging the sewage lagoon for the community. They called Dad and he called the State Archeologist’s Office. They came to see it and Terry and I went out that day with them. I remember Terry found a perfect spear point there that day.
Four or five native Americans were buried in one spot there. It was called a bundle burial because they were all piled up together. It was conjectured that they were a hunting party or a war party and were all killed far from their home. You can read about it if you go to the State Archeologist’s Office.
North of the highway and almost right across from the Westwood, high on a rise are three large Indian mounds. You can’t see them from the road. Dad and I visited them a couple times, measured and photographed them, and sent the information to the State Archeologist’s Office. There is another mound about a mile southwest across the Skunk. You can see the bluff from these mounds.
Still going west we drop into Jennings’s bottom. Usually it was too wet and silted in for arrowhead hunting. It flooded many times in the spring. Nancy did find a hematite celt where they cut a drainage ditch on the west side. We never found much else there.
(To Be Continued)
My Dad was like a tour guide when we went for a ride. He gave an ongoing narrative as we moved along. He got so good at it that he gave tours for the County Historical Society and for school groups. They had three distinct tours in the county. One trip was to the Northwest, one to the Southwest and one to the East. They would load up a school bus and take kids or adults on one of the routes. It took most of the day. Along the way he pointed out spots of historical significance and told stories of human interest.
The trips with the family were just the same. A spot along the road would prompt him and he would start in. He even did it on our jaunts to hunt arrowheads. If we headed west on Highway 34 he would talk about how the railroad was built by crews and one of their camps was west of town and he would point off to the northwest. The landowner had taken him out there once and there was still evidence of the camp after over a hundred years. You could see where the sod houses were and some of the cave like holes they had dug into the side of hills.
Cresting the hill on Highway 34, Westwood is on the left. When I was in high school an ancient bundle burial was found when they were digging the sewage lagoon for the community. They called Dad and he called the State Archeologist’s Office. They came to see it and Terry and I went out that day with them. I remember Terry found a perfect spear point there that day.
Four or five native Americans were buried in one spot there. It was called a bundle burial because they were all piled up together. It was conjectured that they were a hunting party or a war party and were all killed far from their home. You can read about it if you go to the State Archeologist’s Office.
North of the highway and almost right across from the Westwood, high on a rise are three large Indian mounds. You can’t see them from the road. Dad and I visited them a couple times, measured and photographed them, and sent the information to the State Archeologist’s Office. There is another mound about a mile southwest across the Skunk. You can see the bluff from these mounds.
Still going west we drop into Jennings’s bottom. Usually it was too wet and silted in for arrowhead hunting. It flooded many times in the spring. Nancy did find a hematite celt where they cut a drainage ditch on the west side. We never found much else there.
(To Be Continued)
Sunday, January 06, 2008
Becoming a Teacher X
The Southeast Iowa Writing Project (SIWP) class started on July 30, 1979. It met each day from 8:00 to 4:00 in the basement of the library at Iowa Wesleyan College. The air-conditioner went out for a few days of the three-week course and we moved to the basement of Henry County Savings Bank until it was repaired. I liked the campus setting much better.
The mornings were devoted to reading research and professional opinions about effective instruction in general and writing specifically. There was a large collection of articles and books to read. We also spent a lot of time talking about our own teaching and discussing the reading material both in large and small groups. It was an incredible learning opportunity. Talking about your professional practice and reading and hearing about that of others was rich experience.
In the afternoons we wrote and shared our own writing. Suddenly, we were all in the position we placed our students in all the time. That was very intimidating! Sharing something as personal as your writing is risk taking. It made many of us all very nervous. Some very brave ones did it right away and that made it harder for everyone concerned because the pieces were very good and I remember thinking that I was way out of my league with this group.
There were rules. We followed a response process that was called PQP. The first P was for Praise. The second letter was for Question and the last for Polish. We were to first tell the writer what we liked about their piece, then ask any questions we had about the piece and last, make any suggestions we might have.
Writers could choose to have their writing only seen by the instructors, shared anonymously or identified in the small or large group. Each afternoon we learned a new way to share and respond to writing using the writing generated by the group. Up to that time most knew of only one way to respond to student writing. Write corrections and suggestions with a red pen on the paper and hand it back.
For most of us this model was revolutionary! We soon realized its power! The response to our writing was always very positive. We were motivated to write a lot more and could see that overtime we were getting better at doing it. The principle was very simple. If you want to be a good writer, write a lot. The teacher’s role was to make that happen with the student. We began to ponder about how this would work in our own classrooms.
By responding positively to student writing the student is motivated to write more. Slowly the writer learns the complex skills of writing. Most of us came from classroom where grammar and punctuation were drilled into students day in and day out and they seldom got to do any writing. With this approach the skill instruction came using the actual student writing. That method, of course, ran contrary to traditionalists and the publishers of textbooks and workbooks.
The mornings were devoted to reading research and professional opinions about effective instruction in general and writing specifically. There was a large collection of articles and books to read. We also spent a lot of time talking about our own teaching and discussing the reading material both in large and small groups. It was an incredible learning opportunity. Talking about your professional practice and reading and hearing about that of others was rich experience.
In the afternoons we wrote and shared our own writing. Suddenly, we were all in the position we placed our students in all the time. That was very intimidating! Sharing something as personal as your writing is risk taking. It made many of us all very nervous. Some very brave ones did it right away and that made it harder for everyone concerned because the pieces were very good and I remember thinking that I was way out of my league with this group.
There were rules. We followed a response process that was called PQP. The first P was for Praise. The second letter was for Question and the last for Polish. We were to first tell the writer what we liked about their piece, then ask any questions we had about the piece and last, make any suggestions we might have.
Writers could choose to have their writing only seen by the instructors, shared anonymously or identified in the small or large group. Each afternoon we learned a new way to share and respond to writing using the writing generated by the group. Up to that time most knew of only one way to respond to student writing. Write corrections and suggestions with a red pen on the paper and hand it back.
For most of us this model was revolutionary! We soon realized its power! The response to our writing was always very positive. We were motivated to write a lot more and could see that overtime we were getting better at doing it. The principle was very simple. If you want to be a good writer, write a lot. The teacher’s role was to make that happen with the student. We began to ponder about how this would work in our own classrooms.
By responding positively to student writing the student is motivated to write more. Slowly the writer learns the complex skills of writing. Most of us came from classroom where grammar and punctuation were drilled into students day in and day out and they seldom got to do any writing. With this approach the skill instruction came using the actual student writing. That method, of course, ran contrary to traditionalists and the publishers of textbooks and workbooks.
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