Clive Historical Society

All our todays are tomorrow's yesterdays.

Stories

Fourth of July in Clive around 1917

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by: Mildred Swanson

At last, the big event of the summer had arrived and everyone was so excited. It was the Fourth of July, 1917, in the small village of Clive. There were 12 families living on the adjoining farms. This was the first social event of the year.

Most of the families had lived in the neighborhood for several years. While we had a few new families, this was one way to get acquainted. Committees were appointed and had spent lots of work and time planning for the picnic.

A nice place along Walnut Creek had been selected. It was at a beed, selected because the creek made a half circle around this flat area. There were plenty of level spaces for the tables and many large trees providing shade most of the day.

A few days before the picnic, some of the men moved an old cook stove to the area and a good supply of wood was cut and piled near it for cooking. Long tables and benches were made from boards from the surrounding area. Large tarps were hung over the table, just in case it rained; there were also birds in the trees. A tent was set up nearby for the small children to take their naps in. Several swings were hung from the tree limbs and teeter-totters set up for the children.

The morning of the Fourth was clear and warm; the birds filled the air with their cheerful songs as the sun peeked over the horizon.

The men and boys were up early and hustling around doing the chores. The ladies and girls rushed around the kitchen packing dishes and all kinds of savory foods. Soon the picnic boxes were packed and loaded ready to be transported to the site and away we went to celebrate the Fourth of July.

Around ten thirty the folks were arriving at the picnic grounds. Hand shaking and happy greetings were exchanged among the older folks while the children shouted in glee as they played tag or threw rocks into the Creek. Occasionally one fell into the shallow water and had to sit wrapped in a blanket until his clothes were dried out, unless the mother had brought along some extra clothes.

A big fire was burning on the improvised stove, sending out clouds of smoke, which drifted among the tree tops. A big pot of coffee was brewing with that tantalizing aroma.

Each family brought a complete meal, so there were platters of crisp fried chicken, delicious home-cured ham, baked beans, sandwiches and bowls of salads, homemade bread and rolls with fresh butter and jam, gallons of coffee with thick cream for it, and plenty of rich milk for the children. It wouldn’t be a picnic without a big crock of lemonade, with chucks of ice to keep it cold.

Dessert consisted of cakes, pies and cookies, and everyone brought a freezer of ice cream. It was made with cream, milk, eggs, sugar and vanilla. This mixture was put in a container and set in a bucket of crushed ice and rock salt. Someone turned the crank until the cream was frozen stiff, then it was packed in more ice and kept until noon.

When all of the families had arrived and the food was ready, someone called out, “Come and get it,” which brought the folks on the run to find a place at the tables. When all had eaten as much as they could hold, they left the tables and found a shady spot to relax and visit. The men talked about the crops and weather, with some politics mixed in. The small ones were put in the tent on blankets for a nap. The ladies washed the dishes that would be used later on, place the food on one table and covered it with a cloth. They chatted about the children, sewing projects and the gardens.

Games and races were planned so there was plenty of action all afternoon. The sack races and three-legged races brought cheers and boos from the onlookers. There were races, games and balloons for all ages so that everyone had a part in the fun. All of this activity made the folks hungry, so in a few hours they would be back getting snacks. More coffee and lemonade was made for the thirsty contestants.

About four thirty, it was time for a few farmers to leave, so the horses were hitched to the wagons, picnic boxes loaded in, the kids rounded up and the families headed for home, amid shouts of “Good –bye. See you later. Hurry back.”

For most folks, this would have been the end of the celebration, but not for this crowd. While the men hurried through their evening chores, the ladies washed the dishes, made another supply of sandwiches, salad and a fresh freezer of ice cream.

Later in the evening, putting on our dress clothes, away we went to the home of the Day family, one of our neighbors with a large house. The living and dining rooms were cleared of furniture, except for the chairs. Soon as the folks arrived, the dancing started. Our neighbor was a fiddler, so the evening started with a fast stepping square dance. Our host was an excellent caller and soon the young and older folks joined in the fun.

Old time waltzes, two-step and a few polkas continued until midnight; then it was time to eat again and finish the food left over from the picnic. More dancing continued until about four a.m. when everyone was ready to call it a day.

Soon was the dawn of another day, the robins and other birds were singing gaily from the trees, along with the happy lilting song of the meadowlark. The barking dogs greeted the families as they arrived home. The roosters added their loud crowing to the other sounds. Another day was here and time to get up and go to work.

The happy ending to another enjoyable community party.

Robert Anderson Family

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by: Mildred Swanson

Mr. and Mrs. Robert J. Anderson moved into the community between 1900 and 1911. They were one of three minority families living in the area.

Mr. Anderson was a former slave and was very religious. He was about six feet tall and very robust. Mr. Anderson did labor work and farmed his small garden plot as well as was a general handy man. The Anderson home was on Broad Street (Reams Noodle site). He was able to make a comfortable living for those days. This gardening was a family affair. Mrs. Anderson would take her family on Saturday and Wednesday to “peddle” her garden produce in West Des Moines (Valley Junction). This would be an all-day chase.

At that time, the main source of energy was coal and there were several coal mines in the vicinity. There were no trucks in those days to haul the coal from the mines to the consumer and it was all delivered by horse and wagon or shipped by railroad. In the winter when his gardening was slack, Mr. Anderson drove a coal wagon. It was a dirty and cold job, as well as hard work. He put in long hours leaving home early in the morning in order to get in line at the mine and get loaded and get on his way to delivery.

He had a small stable which enabled him to have his own horses. (I can still see the old spring wagon they used in their delivery of vegetables). This was also used as the work shed where they cleaned and prepared their vegetables for delivery.

Mr. and Mrs. Anderson were the parents of two children. Leonard and Maxine. Both children attended Clive School. Leonard attended East High were he is in the Hall of Fame for outstanding sport participation. After graduation he attended Des Moines University where he studied engineering. He graduated around 1920. He moved to Kansas City to teach. He later furthered his education by attending the University of Iowa. After receiving his degree he went back to Kansas to teach in a colored college, where he taught until his death.

He always visited our town each summer. He was treated like one of us.

Maxine was several years younger. She attended Roosevelt High School, later graduating from Drake University. During World War II, she got into Government Welfare work and the Red Cross. She served in the Peace Corps and eventually went overseas. She was married to an Army Officer.

Our homes were close so we children grew up together and were friends for years.

Across the Street

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by: Mildred Swanson

I walked across the street to the overgrown right-of-way that led to the railroad tracks, less enthused than I should have been. I perched on a pile of rusty rails overlooking the right-of-way. I wondered what this would be like in the next sixty years (the closing of our little depot and the abandonment of the track was only three months ago). Already it was making me ill but I knew I would be a fool to postpone this few minutes and journey into the past. Now I could invert my memory to the turn of the century when I was a barefoot “tyke” growing up with a railroad in my front yard.

I was young when we moved to this small town of Clive. As I grew older, I could see a monster with a big black tail roaring toward me. I remember how I would cup my hands over my ears and cringe. I remember it was the first train I had ever seen. The smoke traveled too fast for me to scamper out from under it. If I stood, it would crush me to a pulp, so I ran back to the porch and crouched down behind a barrel. The giant’s shadow disappeared, the ground quit shaking and the noise harried yonder. I was still alive. I emerged from my hiding place in time to see a funny box climb over the hill. I wasn’t afraid anymore!

I learned to love trains and to recognize a caboose. It was fun to wave at the engineers as the trains chugged up the steep grade. They always waved back at me. When I got big, I vowed I would like to ride up there with the engineer. I’d ring those bells and blow me plenty of whistles to echo through the night.

I remember my brother would run alongside a slow moving freight. He would try to catch a ladder but would lose his grip and tumble onto the gravel.

Mother warned him “stay ‘way from those trains! If you slip under the wheels and get smashed, I won’t have my little boy anymore”, but it wasn’t more than a week ‘til he tried again! This time he latched onto a lower bar all right, but couldn’t find anyplace for his feet, so he let go and got shinned on a pile or rock. Mother wouldn’t whip him in that condition. She was too softhearted. Besides, an only son was very special.

He kept working at it until he could snatch toe grab irons and hoist himself up where he could plant his feet. Then he would leap off just before he reached the crossing and land up-right like a cat.

I interrupted my reverie to raise up and look for the spot on the rails where my little dog was killed under a locomotive’s wheels after he decided that he couldn’t chase the train out of town. That was one sight that I wished I had been spared. Mother and I picked up his scattered remains that afternoon and buried them under a large stone near the accident. I looked around for that headstone but it was no place to be found.

Re-entering that narrow realm of yesteryear, tears blurred my eyes. I could not help wanting to break down and have a good cry.

As I turned to trudge back toward the house, I wandered where I had hid those pennies I had flattened on the rails. I thought I heard mother calling, “Mildred! Suppertime!” I was tempted to sprint across the street where I used to stumble in the mud. She would look me over in disgust. “I do declare! You’re a sight for sore eyes. Get that bucket off the back porch and wash up.”

Just then I thought I heard the five thirty out of Des Moines toot. I knew it was old number #729, a fast “passenger.” I could tell most of the engines by their whistles.

I closed my eyes and visualized pulling a gold “retirement watch” from my pocket. Snapping open the cover, I saw that it was time to return to the present.

I started to wade the weeds to cross the new paved street, back to my rose garden.

Wait—I thought I heard the sound of #729 returning down the track. I am sure I remembered the shrill whistle-only on #729. Perhaps I should wait and wave at my old friends.

I look back once more with a heavy heart at the poor simple ways of yesterday. How I wish I could reclaim them.

I am glad I took time to cross the street and find my place on this rusty rail and visit the past. What will another 60 years bring—taller weeds—less trains, deserted tracks, vanished rose garden and faded memories. What will our younger generation have to remember from all this?

What will I see if I should return sixty years from today?

Looking Glass

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by: Mildred Swanson, 1981

My mind to me
Is a looking glass
Into which I can
At my own Pleasure
Reflect upon the Past
As if it were yesterday.
To retrace
The names, faces and Places
Of a yesteryear
Is as refreshing to be today
As it was then – anew.

Thank You, Uncle Ben

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by: Mildred Swanson

You have been gone for a decade now, Uncle Ben, but you are among my earliest memories, and those memories are a bit of lagniappe bequeathed me, the spicy ingredient that has flavored my life.

I was fairly young when you left us, Uncle Ben.  To know what you meant to me — too young, in fact, to realize you wouldn’t always be around.  You loved your “white folks,” as you called us, and we loved you.  I was so young that I thought things would always go on just the same.

Looking back, I see how you and the memories built around you have enriched our lives all the way through.  Do you know this, Uncle Ben?  I want to tell you, and I think you hear me.  I believe hearts in tune never cease to communicate.

You were what the world calls illiterate, for black boys had little opportunity for an education when you were growing up.  You had no book learning, but you possessed an innate wisdom common to your race and time.  It was you who imparted to me the knowledge that many folks fritter away their time and worry about things that don’t mean anything at all.

You gave the lie to the Crow Sibbie that my mother used, to make me be quiet and good.  That Crow Sibbie was a horrible, monstrous, cat-like creature with eyes like fire and a blood-red tongue.  It crept in at night after I was in bed and the lights were out.  It stood on its hind legs and leered at me and threatened to lunge down on me with those terrible long sharp claws.

But the Crow Sibbie stopped coming when I stopped expecting it, and it was you, Uncle Ben, who made me stop believing it it by telling me that Crow Sibbie was just something mother made up by persuading me “that Crow Sibbie ain’t nothing a tall.”

I believed you, Uncle Ben.  How could I do anything but have the utmost confidence in one who showed so much affection and even took time to answer my questions when others shoved my away with, “You’re too young to understand — run along now.”

Your honesty and simplicity were as sparkling as a bubbling spring and as refreshing.

You still live in our hearts, Uncle Ben.  You always will as long as our hearts shall beat.

What is there left to say?

One thing more.   Thank you, Uncle Ben.

Ben Shepherd

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by: Mildred Swanson

Mr. Ben Shepherd was a brother of Mrs. Robert Anderson.  Having settled in Clive in the early 1900s.  The house was located on the northwest corner of Harbach and 86th Street (Barr Bicycle Shop).

This was the showplace of Clive.  The yard was fenced in and solid with flowers.  This was his life and hobby.  I can still see the old well built up about 3 feet with bricks and the old oak bucket which descended into the well.  This was covered with vines and other greenery.

Mr. Shepherd was a bachelor.  He was a slave.  It is not known how the two or three families settled in this small community.  He owned and farmed 10 acres south of the railroad tracks.  (Now Westtown Lumber Co.)  This plot of ground provided him with a comfortable living.  It was planted in a truck garden and cornfield.

Mr. Shepherd was a monument in our community.  He was something special to us as children growing up.  It is a shame some of his memories were not put in writing for future history.

After Mr. Shepherd died in the 1930s, the house was sold many times.  The physical appearance of the house and yard changed.  Only the “old timers” will remember this showplace from the good days.

Editor – Much as also changed since Mildred wrote this article.  Westtown Lumber is gone as are most of the old timers.  🙂

 

A Sledding Experience

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by: Mildred Swanson

An elderly gentleman pause briefly in front of the local store and gazed longingly at an eight-foot bobsled on display leaning against the front of the building.

Addressing the public in general, and no one in particular, the old-timer looked approvingly at the glistening “Flexible Flyer” and advised, “Boy there’s a dandy. I sure would like to take that one for a ride. I used to ride ‘em, you bet.”

Then, wagging his grizzled head sorrowfully, he trudged on down the street, doubtfully with his mind spinning with memories of the good days.

And in those “good days,” sledding in winter was almost an art that has all but been forgotten in an era that sees everyone make intensive effort to remove every vestige of snow as soon as it falls, rather than to welcome it as once was the case.

The fact of the matter is, there was a time in our old farm neighborhood when a grown man used to haul water with horses and sled to dump the water on a favorite hill on top of the snow, so it would freeze into a glare of ice for sledding. It mattered little that the hill happened to be a heavily traveled gravel road, for in that kind of weather no one went anywhere anymore.

The sledding enthusiasts were forever attempting to create a speedier vehicle, and I had an older brother who once created a monster that nearly reduced the neighborhood population by three, so effective was his ingenuity at creating a racer. His inventive led him to take two small coaster sleds of a favorite brand (probably Flexible Flyer) and lock them together with a single-wide plank, making seating space for three or four people (the more weight, the more speed, of course). In his haste to construct the bobsled, he made a near fatal mistake, however, forgetting to attach the front sled on a swivel for steering purposes.

Finally came the great day when the big bobsled was ready for her maiden voyage. My brother enlisted the aid of another youth and the youth’s father — who considered it more of a privilege to go sledding then to shuck corn in a frozen snow-covered field — and they carried the monster sled to the largest and slickest available hill in the neighborhood — Kurtz Hill.

The exact seating positions on the sled have been lost in the dim recesses of the past, but it is believed the father — who should have been old enough to know better — took the lead position, and the trailing rider gave the razor a push and the trio glided away into prosperity – nearly into the railroad track.

Midway down the hill, it became obvious that my brother had exceeded even his fondest ambition of creating a prize-winning racer, for the big bobsled was virtually splitting the wind, bringing tears to the eyes of the riders as the sled kept gaining momentum under its heavy load.

Scennia’s Story

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Reprinted from:
The Des Moines Sunday Register, March 27, 1960

She’s watched Clive grow from only a dozen homes…

Scennia Swanson

The biggest commodities at Clive these days are handsome new homes and dozens of school children. Half a century ago when Mrs. Scennia Swanson, 82, came to Clive from Knoxville, major commodities were cherries, other fruit, vegetables, grain and coal.

There wasn’t a car in town, but both passenger and freight trains clattered by on the Milwaukee railroad tracks at a rate of one every half hour. Now there are perhaps three trains a day.

Fifty years ago, a one-room school house provided ample space for youngsters from the dozen homes located in Clive and for youngsters from the coal mining community down the road near what is now 73rd Street and University Avenue.

Today the school-age population is increasing so rapidly the modern new school building with space for more than 660 children isn’t big enough. School officials are thinking of building the first wing of a new building.

Since 1912, Mrs. Swanson has lived in the same house (NW 86th Street and University Boulevard). Her husband died that year after having typhoid fever.

Mrs. Swanson was left with five small children. Friends and neighbors helped her devise a way to support her family. The solution was a large frame building with a general store downstairs and living quarters upstairs.

She also qualified to operate the town’s post office. During lulls in business, Mrs. Swanson cooked, made all of the youngsters’ clothes and canned fruit and vegetables.

She operated the store & post office for 21 years — until the five children had completed high school (Post Office until 1929). All five graduated from East High School in Des Moines.

When the three oldest children were in school, Roosevelt High hadn’t been built. Closest transportation to East High was the streetcar. It made a turn around at 49th Street and University Avenue. The children walked 3 miles just to get to a street car, unless they were lucky enough to hitch a ride.

After the children graduated from high school and obtain jobs in Des Moines, they persuaded their mother to give up the store and post office.