Harvest Journal: Memoir of a Minnesota Farmer, Part I: 1846-1903
Sandra K. Wilcoxon, Frederick A. Cummings
Paperback, 6x9 in, 280 pages, Photos
Hats Off Books, December 2000
ISBN:
1587360233
Description
As we begin a new millennium,
it is fascinating to look back at how people faced the turn of
the last century in this country. It was not "a simpler time"
as nostalgia would have us imagine. It was complex, and one needed
tenacity and ingenuity to survive. This book is based on twelve
journals written by a simple Minnesota farmer, Fred Cummings.
Concerns over war, education, and natural disasters are co-mingled
with other universal issues such as the health of family members,
making a living, and the death of friends.
The
first few chapters recount his boyhood memories, with incidents
ranging from a trip on a cholera-infected river boat to settling
in a new frontier; from early schooling to farm chores. Harvest
Journal continues on to recount impressions of the Civil War,
marriage and family life, the weather, politics, and current events
of that time. Issues of mortality, morality, and faith are explored
along with concerns about political corruption, teacher training,
and discipline in school-themes that are still relevant today.
Perhaps
by looking back at the concerns that we share with people at the
turn of the last century and the way they faced progress and adversity,
we will be able to face the new century with more confidence in
our own ability to deal with the challenges of the future. At
the very least, we can learn more about our past and empathize
with the hard-working characters who settled in the Midwest, struggling
to keep family together while dealing with social and technological
changes.
Read more at www.harvestjournal.com.
About the authors
Frederick A. Cummings was born in Vermont in 1846. He moved to Minnesota at an early age, and lived in the same area for nearly 90 years. This is his story, recorded in his own hand in a collection of journals passed down through his family.
Sandra K. Wilcoxon visited her grandparents in Preston, Minnesota, during summers as a child, but was not aware of her great-great-grandfather's journals until she was nearly forty years old. Then began a labor of love resulting in this book and a journey of discovery about herself and her family's history. Sandra lives with her husband near Chicago, Illinois.
Excerpt
Vermont to Minnesota
Imagine a six-year-old boy, the sixth of nine children, learning that his mother had died. These are the circumstances that Fred Cummings found himself in, at a time when fathers were not expected to care for their children on their own. They either remarried, or parceled the children out to relatives who would care for them. Fred’s father sent his children off to different relatives, even splitting up a set of twin girls who were less than one year old. Eventually his father remarried, but the children were never reunited as a family. This “motherless child” feeling resurfaces in Fred’s journals throughout his life and plays a significant role as he looks back to his boyhood days.
About my first recollection worthy of note was the sickness and death of my mother, which means more to me now than I knew of then. Poverty was my inheritance; honesty my only recommendation. With these, at the age of seven, I was sent to the home of my mother’s sister. These memories are fixed on my mind the more rigidly because I was homesick whenever I had to move, and I feared and trembled that every stranger who came by the house was going to carry me off with him. This, however, proved my permanent home and the move from Vermont to Minnesota my last move. In the spring of 1855, with a younger brother and a three-year-old baby sister, I came with Aunt and Uncle Fowler and a few neighbors to “Waukokee,” south of Rochester, Minnesota. Tired—with a week’s journey on rail cars to Galena, Illinois, then steamboat to McGregor, Iowa, and lumber wagon the rest of the way—I remember keeping awake in fear of getting left and lost, until exhausted nature gave way and I became as helpless as may be. When I was taken off the boat at McGregor they carried me to the hotel and put me to bed. I knew what they said to me but I had no power of locomotion whatever.
The story of the first part of our journey might be lengthened out into incident and accident but, when all told, would only be a repetition of the experience of all travelers. However, our ride up the river from Galena, which should have been the most enjoyable part of the journey, was made miserable by the presence of cholera and death on board which the crew tried to deny, but only succeeded in making the passengers distrust. They stopped by an island to bury the dead, not being permitted to carry the disease ashore, then the secret leaked out and gloom and consternation was the result. For myself, I dared not touch a morsel of food or drink water. I remember still the warning of one hypochondriac who was apparently thoroughly frightened, “The less you eat and drink on this boat the better!” A lady passenger entertained us by singing “Lilly Dale” and some other songs that I have forgotten.
In passing through Burr Oak, Iowa, one of our party bought something in a pint bottle that should have been rum, but upon trial he pronounced it “nothing but rot-gut whiskey.” The first time I ever heard the name or saw the article. Rum is the beverage of all well-regulated Vermont tipplers when they have passed the hard cider stage and I had heard the fame thereof. The disgust of the rum-soaked Vermonter at being sold the first thing, impressed me with the thought that whiskey must be a terrible thing and the seller of it a great sinner. Early impressions are lasting and my mind still holds the doctrine. I have kept about as shy of it as I would a mad dog.
We were two days on the road from McGregor. Those days, like the last one on the boat seemed like Sunday. So many Sundays in one week rather mixed dates in regard to our arrival. But my memory of events is that we started from Vermont on April 23rd and ended our journey May 1, 1855.
Waukokee was a wilderness indeed. It contained about eleven families and as many shanties of greater or less pretensions. Uncle Fowler started on a land hunt immediately and settled on a place a mile south claimed by one Mr. Howell, who convinced him that he could transfer his especial right to him, which would enable Uncle Fowler to obtain said land (school land settled by Howell before the government survey) at the same rate of other public land. Uncle Fowler paid him $800 for his claim, but found his mistake when he went to the land office—he had to swear that he was the actual settler. But he stayed right by it and paid $5 per acre for 150 acres. Howell moved out, and we moved in, about a week after we “landed.”
No use describing the shanty except to say it was one of the poorest shacks on the creek—snakes, toads and gophers came in and out at will. Rain dripped through the shake roof in a score of places, and winter was a terror never to be forgotten. This we endured two years. When a saw mill was put to work at Waukokee, we built a frame house, sixteen by twenty-six feet, all of native timber. Shingles were shaved out of oak for the roof and made a nice tight cover, which was much appreciated. Then the sense of destitution and homesickness vanished and I, for one, began to love my home and surroundings.
