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!

June Playlist: Walleye Rocks the River!

Goal in life is to get a Walleye FM t-shirt.

Thank God for Shazam - I don't think I've heard this song in years.

We will take a break from the detailed Dakota diary adventures to do a playlist this morning, the soundtrack to my trip:

Ebony Eyes, Bob Welch - I knew nothing about him and learned entirely too much about the former member of Fleetwood Mac while waiting for my flight at the GRR airport. 

Just Walk on By, Leroy Van Dyke - Dad Bod performed this during their set at Laughing Sun. I don’t think I’ve heard it in the last 40 years.

Walk the Line, Johnny Cash - more Dad Bod, this was the old country portion of their set after the classic rock intro.

You Got Gold, John Prine - last of the Dad Bod songs. This duet was performed with the lead singer’s wife, who was celebrating her birthday.

Proud Mary, Tina Turner - R.I.P., she passed the week of my vacation, so she was on stations for memorial playlists. 

Tommy Suite, The Who - I actually heard the Musak version of this in the hotel lobby, hanging with the Orange Creamsicles. 

Promises, Eric Clapton - overhead in the Goodwill while shopping for my SDSU gear. La la…. lalalalala. 

John Pulaski, Testimony - he released a youtube story of his connection in the church and how his favorite guitar is kind of beat up, and how he relates this to himself: flawed but valued by God. Nice little instrumental, friend. 

Here Comes the Sun, The Beatles - the song I heard on my way to Walnut Grove.

While My Guitar Gently Weeps, The Beatles - the song I heard at the homestead.

Goodnight Tonight, Paul McCartney - it followed me around the Dakotas. 

Wherever I May Roam, Metallica - last song on the Walleye as I was returning my car rental at the airport. 

Little House Travels: Walnut Grove and Tracy

Time to hit the museum in town! I was told there are covered wagon fans that will collect the good pieces and parts of old wagons to build Superwagons to provide authentic, period-accurate pieces for sites like this.

One of Laura's sewing baskets and quilts. 

One of her sets of dishes. Pretty!

A replica of Willie's Noah's Ark playset that visiting children are allowed to enjoy. 

Pa's Big Green Book. 

The sites are just beginning to roll out exhibits celebrating the work of Garth Williams, who illustrated all nine books in the series back in the 40s and the First Four Years in the 70s when the manuscript was discovered.  

With "the wonderful house" long gone, exhibitors took on the task of reconstructing the house for museum purposes, to give us a sense of what the Ingalls' frame farmhouse would have looked like. Here's the bedroom on the first floor... 

...and here's the kitchen on the opposite wall. All that was missing was the step ladder Laura and Mary swung from to get to their attic bedroom.

The one-room schoolhouse is also long-gone, but a replica of the school was built on museum grounds with I believe many of the materials from the actual school. 

I respect the Gordons not rebuilding the dugout on their farm, but was pleased to experience a real dugout home at the museum. It was at least 10 degrees cooler inside, and surprisingly roomier than I thought. Of course, I was one person and not a family of five. 

Schoolhouse site is just someone’s house. Meh.

Pa's bell!

Depot in Tracy, where the family arrived after their first train ride. A look around for what would have passed for the hotel yielded nothing. 

On Laura's highway back to Brookings. 

The museum? It was okay. They had Pa’s Big Green Book, quilts, sewing baskets, china, and a couple pieces of Laura’s wedding silver. There was also a buffalo coat similar to Pa’s from that era, as well as a little fur muff and cape like the one Laura received from Reverend Alden. 

There was an entire room dedicated to artifacts from the TV show. Not my thing.

On the grounds, they had rebuilt a replica of Laura’s schoolhouse, a dugout, and a rebuild of the first floor of the wonderful farmhouse that was on the farm north of town after they moved out of the dugout. I appreciated that!

Going into what they called the “grandma house,” they had a display celebrating the illustrators for the Little House series, Garth Williams and Helen Sewell. Upstairs, they had a children’s playhouse that included the toys the Oleson children had, including Nellie’s china dolls, a tiny kitchen with patty pans, and Willie’s wooden ark. There was also a quiet place to sit and read the complimentary copies of the books.

I bought the usual trinkets at the gift shop - the new biography on Garth Williams, a couple of Christmas ornaments, and the pressed penny machine. I drove around town to find the Little House sites and found the church bell Pa donated his boot money for; it’s now in the Lutheran church. The site of the schoolhouse is just someone’s home. I drove Main Street to find the Oleson Merchantile or Nellie’s Cafe but found neither. It was time to move on. 

Heading west, I stopped at the train depot museum in Tracy, but the crew there was doing lawn work and the museum was closed. I still got my Shores of Silver Lake moment. 

I was done in Minnesota by mid-afternoon and booked it back west to Brookings, following the path Laura took in BTSOSL. She was tired after her day's travel, and I took a late lunch while contemplating what to do in Brookings for the night. Dinner? Shopping? Swim? 

I was dying to rescue a crocheted afghan, and with a return trip to Goodwill, mission accomplished. My ownership of the rainbow-striped beauty was short-lived, as Dave needed a last-minute gift for one of his employees. The mission was for a rescue, after all. 

I was eager to get in a swim and changed into my suit while watching the Braves game on TBS. I promptly fell asleep, missing both pool hours and dinner hours. I ended up eating the peanut butter and jelly sandwich I had saved. 

Next up, De Smet!

Little House Travels: Playing in Plum Creek

Nothing will make you jump out of your skin like being there.

On Route 5, the Gordon Farm was the site of the dugout and the frame farmhouse.

There it is!

About where Pa must have parked the wagon and the family wondered where the house was. 

Close-up of the signage.

On the path to the dugout - Little House hallowed ground.

Tucked violets, dandelions, and phlox behind my ear from the dugout.

I wasn’t the only one enjoying the Plum Creek homestead site.

As best I could figure from her diagrams and descriptions, this was where the footbridge was.

Whoops. The eight-year-old in me was delighted, the adult in me was glad I had the foresight to bring a towel from the hotel. All I could think of was the line in the book when Ma laughed when they came in from playing, wet, muddy, with fists full of flowers. 

So I waded to get clean. I, a Little House fan since the age of eight, played in Plum Creek...

...at the location of the footbridge at the base of the dugout. 

I too loved how mud felt.

The spring where they fetched fresh water and the path to the big rock. 

The path up to Tableland. To a young girl, the description made sense, but as an adult, it was just a ridge. Still, she was right about how steep it was to go from one elevation to another.

The Ingalls farm until those pesky grasshoppers ruined it. 

Monday took me east to the towns of Walnut Grove and Tracy, which covers the entirety of the book On the Banks of Plum Creek and the first half of By the Shores of Silver Lake. 

I thought I would need at least a full day in Walnut Grove and maybe part of another day. The reality of these small towns is there's no Little House amusement park, no crazy-themed restaurants, and no throngs of Laurafans waiting 45 minutes in line for a flume ride down Plum Creek.  The people of these small towns acknowledge your crazy and just ask you to pay on the honor system and pick up your trash when you're done. 

I got to town at 9:30 a.m., and since the museum was not yet open, I decided to drive to the dugout. 

Pa and his trouble with distance - the farm site and dugout weren’t three or 12 miles away, just a mile and a half up Route 5. 

The Gordon farm was neat and tidy, and it was clearly marked how to get to the back of the farm to the dugout site and where to pay, in a mailbox with an iron latch. Just take my money!

I worried the land wouldn’t be as magical or my imagination wouldn’t match reality. Instead, the dugout space felt like hallowed ground. The roof had collapsed a hundred years ago so all that was left was a deep depression in the ground. But THIS was IT. I wanted to see morning glories; instead, I got violets, phlox, dandelions, and other prairie flowers. The path was just as she described it, as was the winding creek. PLUM CREEK! THAT’S PLUM CREEK! 

I looked around for more iconic spaces there. Everything felt small as well as large. I tried to remember at the time she was remembering Plum Creek, she was a tiny girl that was only seven, eight years old. Tableland, which I tried to figure out as a kid, was only a ridge where the land rose up; even then, it was a steep climb for me. The big rock had been moved from the field and was now submerged in the creek. It was big, but not as big as she described. I looked for other iconic places described, like the swimming hole and the waterfall where she fished, but they either no longer exist or are in a private space on the property. 

It’s worth mentioning again my country girl party of one with the vanity cakes (donut holes) and a pint of milk. According to Laura’s maps and descriptions and Garth Williams’ illustrations, I was sitting in the exact spot where the footbridge had been. It was pleasant and sweet to be sitting where she lived and played and to be enjoying treats from her long-ago party. 

And play I did. I may have been attempting to be as dainty as Mary in the water and scampering up the creek banks but Minnesota mud is something entirely different, as I slid in the thick, sticky mass into the water and by some miracle, saved my phone from dropping in the drink. I was, however, covered from hip to foot. Thank God I had grabbed a hotel pool towel to clean up and clean off. My shoes were caked and I changed quickly to flip flops, then barefoot. Instead of fussing, I just had to laugh. 

I moved further downstream, where I waded on the partially submerged rock, saw the spring, and stood still to listen to the birds and smell the wildflowers, which she had described as being so sweet. I called my sister while wading in the water “I’m in PLUM CREEK!” I cried. 

I didn’t want to leave, but I had to get into town to tour the museum. 

P.S.: I was puzzled about the size of the big rock not being so big and chalked it up to tall tales by little girls. Then I read this: it’s a really big rock that 150 years of erosion covered. Sorry about the bird poop.