Little House Travels: De Smet, Part One - A Wonderful Day at the Homestead

 

"It's here, it's happening!"

Laura's in tha house, yo. 

Horses greeted me on my drive to the homestead.

An eagle-eye view. The blog rejects video or else I'd post it.

Homestead selfie. 

Placard charting the distance to all locations in Laura's world. 

The first peek was a claim shanty. I think my bathroom is bigger. 

Another dugout home. This thing stunk to high heaven. 

Prairie flowers.

Oh em gee, they lovingly recreated the Ingalls' farmhouse based on Laura's drafts and land records from the time. 

They staged the house to recreate life using artifacts from the time, including this book in braille that was next to the organ. 

Pa's well - the real well! I was so excited, I missed my chance to actually pump it. Silly me thought it was hands off. 

How about his real barn too? 

And Ma's garden not too far away from the house. 

The school kids getting ready for a trip out to the schoolhouse, but first...

A disclaimer. 

One of the guides shouted a cheerful warning to me to watch out for divebombing barn swallows. 

But I was concentrating on twisting sticks of hay. 

I contently walked a half mile of the farm path to take in the crops and the wildflowers. 

And tripped on a gopher hole. 

On the far corner of Pa's quarter section was a school built after Laura married. They say one of her pupils followed in her footsteps and taught there, maybe from the Willkin's School?

The little schools are getting bigger. 

I had one last stop on the homestead, and that was to visit the corner, where the memorial stone was set and where Pa had planted the family grove of cottonwoods. 

Under the shade of what could only be Pa's tree.  

Memorial stone. 

Majestic.

This a reminder that LauraFans aren't the only source of income in south central SD. 

For some reason, the phrase "and the tales grow taller on down the line" rings a bell on my journey from Brookings to De Smet. Why would I quote a power ballad by REO Speedwagon when talking about Laura Ingalls?

If you read The Long Winter, the distance between the two towns grows from 40 to 60 to 100 miles the longer the blizzard drags on. Now that I think of it, Pa drags the miles out in BTSOSL too, when he says Brookings and the next man alive on the prairie is 30, 50, 60 miles away. Was this a narrative device by Laura to create the impression of distance? It seems the colder and more drastic the circumstances, the further away civilizations seem to be. 

Methinks the phrase "a foot is as good as a mile" was created with fellas like Charles Ingalls in mind... 

Anyway, I got to De Smet earlier than expected since I was expecting to go 60 miles and only did about 36. Knowing the museum didn't open until after 10 a.m., I decided to veer south to the homestead site, which was a mile south. 

I was in love. 

The rich, green, open prairie welcomed me as if it had been waiting a long time for me to come. I felt like I was 12 years old in the parking lot, and excitedly turned this way and that in the spring breezes to take it all in. I practically skipped up the stairs to let myself in. 

The woman at the desk smiled quizzically, and asked "School group?"

I explained that I was visiting from Michigan, and had emailed about visiting. She greeted me with a wave and a laugh. I could join one of the tour groups if I wanted, but seems how I was here and ready to go, I could tour the grounds on my own without paying. "Go have fun!" she exclaimed, handing me a self-guided tour map. 

The first thing I did was climb the tower to take the whole homestead in. From there, you could see the memorial rock and cottonwoods, the barns, the farmhouse, the garden, the fields, the slough, and the prairie as far as you could see. I wanted to stay up there longer, but it was breezy, I was wearing a dress, and the fifth graders on the ground were getting impatient for their turn. 

I headed towards the claim shanty and the dugout. 

The claim shanty was not much bigger than our shed. All those tiny house enthusiasts really must have gotten their inspiration for all the darling nooks and crannies from claim shanties, and how you can build storage out of seemingly nothing. But still, a family of FIVE in there? 

The replica dugout was disgusting. I don't know if it was the oil lamps or the mildew or the fact the prairie was starting to steam up in the mid-morning sunshine, but I didn't want to be there long. 

I followed the path toward the clearing, taking in the wildflowers that were blooming everywhere. When I crested the hill, I recognized where I was. 

The well. Pa's well. 

A turn to the right, there was the barn. 

And there was the house! 

Great care had been taken to accurately place the house according to maps and Laura's drawings. Having landmarks that still existed like the barn and the well helped. Again, everything was so SMALL.  

I took a minute to enjoy being there and allowed the school group to do their thing before I walked the four rooms that made up the faithful replication of the Ingalls home from the 1880s. I can't imagine sleeping on those suspended rope beds, no matter how many feather beds were piled on. But you could imagine the pride Ma must have felt making a snug, comfortable home for her family - she was the woman who made a lamp out of a button, a scrap of fabric, and axle grease after all. The curators found antique dishes, silver, a braille book, an organ, and all the Ingalls creature comforts. 

The horse barn was a hoot, its low-slung roof making it cozy along with a flock of chickens that wondered what I was up to. 

It appears Pa's well is still fully operational, but I didn't dare touch it for fear I'd get my hands slapped. I should have known better, these folks loved having people around poking at things, but I didn't want to be that guy. 

My next visit was out to the garage, where they were loading kids into the wagon, braiding rope, twisting hay, and making dolls out of corncobs and bits of fabric. Not wanting to disturb the field trip, I enjoyed reading and observing and found a bobsled, which is the 19th-century equivalent of a snowmobile. That is when I got to play with the hay and was warned about the barn swallows and their tendency to poop and swoop. 

Next, I decided to walk the fields to experience the vastness, the freshness, and the glory of the morning. I snuck a rock into my pocket, picked a wildflower to tuck behind my ear, and went to see what was going on in the far east field. That would be a large swath of razor wire and "do not disturb." Cool. I needed to use the facilities (outhouse!) and decided against the dusty one-mile walk to the one-room schoolhouse. 

I drove down, and having read the placard in the tower, expected the schoolhouse to be the Perry School; instead, it was the Johnson School that was built after Laura had married and moved away. Her influence still touched the home, for one of her pupils from the Willkin's School was one of the first teachers to head the school. It was darling, to be honest. But crammed with little kids getting their Laura lore on, I pressed on. Would the Perry School still be a mile south?

It would not.

Disappointed, I headed back to the gift shop to spend too much money. Did I need more dishtowels, bookmarks, stickers, and books? 

Yes.

Did I need some of that Pa well water to fulfill my desire to drink some Little Town on the Prairie-style lemonade under those trees?

Also yes. 

So I grabbed my water bottle of Pa Water(TM), the squeeze bottle of lemon juice, hopped in the Nissan, and visited the last place on the homestead agenda: the memorial stone and the cottonwoods. 

I felt an amazing sense of peace and just before I was going to shut the car off, While My Guitar Gently Weeps came on the radio. It felt like a sign that one of my favorite songs came on just as I was celebrating being in the space where one of my favorite authors lived. The universe knew that was a moment for me to pause and take it in. The weather was perfect. The moment was perfect. 

I took my lemonade and walked among the trees, patting the massive trunks of the first two; they had to be Ma and Pa's. I walked up the hill, and took in the Big Slough, and turning, tried to imagine where Grace's buffalo hallow fairy ring of violets had once stood. Maybe down the hill where they had built the dugout? Further down to where the campground now is? I wondered how much had changed, wondering if she would recognize her home if she were alive. 

It's funny thinking that I wanted to be there, on that rock, under those trees, and I didn't bother to read the placard on the rock. Again, relishing the moment. Maybe I will now that I have transcribed my thoughts here. 

I didn't want my time at the homestead to end. Now I understand why they recommended a day or half a day roaming the area. What I thought would be an hour did end up being two and a half hours. 

But I had a trip to town next!