All our todays are tomorrow's yesterdays.
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.
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.
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. 🙂
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.
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.