When the Music Played

 

There’s a quote on the wall in the McLeod County History Museum.  It reads “No power on earth has the ability to move people like the spirit of music”.  This quote was written by Vern and Alyce Steffel, donors of the west wing of the museum, and though they were not from McLeod County, their quote speaks loudly of the county’s history.

Music is everywhere.  It plays in our cars, in our homes, in our workplaces, and for many of us it’s always playing in our hearts.  When if comes to McLeod County, however, music seems to hold a special place.

The history of music in McLeod County began in 1855 when three brothers of the famed Hutchinson singers decided to lay their roots in McLeod County.  Their first night in the county was spent in Glencoe, and as you may guess, they gave a free concert to the townspeople.  The following day they set out for what would become Hutchinson where they no doubt literally sang praise to the land around them.

The Hutchinson brothers may have been famous for their music, but they were by no means the only musicians in the county.  Music is something of a gift given to human beings, and those humble, yet sturdy, pioneers who came to this area surely brought their own styles of music with them.

Life in the early settlements could be tough and often monotonous.  The settlers had no electricity.  Idle time, of which there may not have always been much, could not be spent in front of a television, looking at an iPhone, or even listening to a radio.  For those early settlers, music was a common way to pass the time.  With no means to listen to recorded music, however, people during this time had to make it on their own.

Musical instruments on the frontier were basic.  Nearly every settler reached their prospective homes by way of ox cart and the instruments they carried had to be small enough and light enough to fit on the cart.  As a result, most instruments on the frontier consisted of items such as harmonicas, small guitars, “fiddles”, and of course the squeeze box.

The “squeeze box” is typically a small, push button concertina/accordion.  Unlike it’s larger cousins, the small concertinas on the frontier typically were/are only capable of playing in two keys.  These styles of concertinas became widely popular for sailors and settlers moving west as they were small, mobile, and easy to play.  In addition, the reason the small concertina was gaining popularity is it was a key instrument in a style of music that was gaining popularity in the mid-1800s—polka music.

Polka music is said to have originated in Europe, namely Czechoslovakia where the term “pulka” was coined.  According to legend, polka, or “pulka” is meant to “dance in half”, referring to the half tempo and half step of dancing to the music.  The style of music, and dance that goes with it, quickly spread through the continent, each country adding their own elements of folk music, dance style, and dress that defines polka music.

Back in the United States, as more and more settlers from Europe began filtering in, their brand of polka music began to gain popularity in America.  In Wisconsin, Minnesota, and the Dakotas, where German, Bavarian, and Czech immigrants began arriving in droves, polka fast became a mainstream genre of music.

In Minnesota, by 1900 the land was settled and changing fast.  Over the next couple of decades, dance halls, began popping up across the state.  These dance halls, of course, would need musicians and musical groups to perform and the birth of the “modern” polka band began.

The bands ranged from three people to 12 or more.    Groups typically consisted of drums, horns such as trumpet, trombone, tuba, woodwinds such as clarinets and saxophones, and of course the mainstay of polka music, the accordion or concertina.  Music typically ranged from polkas, waltzes, and schottisches—each played with unique timing.

By the 1920s and 1930’s, with the growing popularity of home radios, locally grown Minnesota bands began to be broadcast in thousands of homes across the state.  Bands like Whoopee John and the Six Fat Dutchmen became household names, their music not only broadcast on radio, but giving live performances in the many dance halls and auditoriums across the state.

It was at this same time that McLeod County began seeing its own rise of homegrown bands.  A popular musician at the time was Jerry Dostal who formed an 8 piece band in the early 1930s.

The group did frequent radio broadcasts all over Minnesota in the 30s and even played in the Dakotas and Iowa.  Other popular groups, such as the Littfin Bros. Orchestra of Winsted, began gaining popularity at the time, playing in and around the county.

The rise of musicians in McLeod County couldn’t have been made possible without the many dance halls that catered to their music.  The Lake Marion Ballroom, the Pla-Mor ballroom, the Archway Club, Stewart’s Community Hall, and many more venues big and small were well patronized by the dance crowd.

Nationwide, polka music began to lose popularity with the younger crowd in the 1950s and 60s as rock’n’roll took over the mainstream music stations, yet in McLeod County and other parts of the state, polka or “old time” music still held its popularity as more and more bands formed and local musicians were born.  Local musicians like Jerry Kadlec did their part to entertain crowds in the original Whoopee John Band, and future stars like Wally Pikel “jumped” into the music scene.

One popular McLeod County musician of the time was Brownton native, Lester Schuft, who took his love for polka music all over Minnesota.  An original member of “Eddie’s Dance Band”, Schuft would go on to play in front of Hubert H. Humphrey, New Ulm Polka Days, the Big Joe Polka Show, and even performed in front of the Metrodome prior to a Twins game.

Another man with the same last name, Jerry Schuft, began playing in polka bands in the 1950s and carried his love of music with him for many years afterward.  A Brownton native, Jerry played in several bands and was lucky enough to tour the ballroom circuit of Minneapolis/St. Paul as well as other regions of Minnesota.

McLeod County musicians certainly did their part to entertain folks in and around Minnesota.  One musician, Wally Pikal, would go on to entertain America with his unique skill of playing two trumpets at one time while bouncing on a pogo stick.  Wally began his “Wally and the Dill Pickles Orchestra” in 1950 and entertained crowds for years afterward.  His act eventually received national attention and Pikal was booked on The Tonight Show, the Mike Douglas Show, Bozo the Clown, and the Al Harrington Show.  Pikal eventually brought the act to the international stage and performed in Czechoslovakia where he played three trumpets while jumping on a pogo stick to the tune of “Roll Out the Barrel”.

Polka music has faded some through the years, but there is no doubt that it has cemented itself into the very core of McLeod County heritage.  Today, musicians like Chuck Thiel, whose Jolly Ramblers have over a century’s worth of history, continue to entertain crowds with the style of music that is, and always will be, part of the folk culture of Minnesota and McLeod County.

*There are far too many musicians from McLeod County to name them all.  You are encouraged to stop at the MCHS to learn more about the men and women who have played great music in McLeod County.

 

 

 

 

 

Digging Up History 6-2-22

On Thursday Jun 2, @5pm, the MCHS will be hosting some metal detecting hobbyists who will share their love of the hobby as well as some of their interesting finds!  As always, admission is free.

D-Day Round Table 6-6-22

It’s time for another round table event at the MCHS.  On Monday,  June 6 at 10:30am, MCHS will be hosting a round table discussion on D-Day.  As always, admission is free and there will be coffee and donuts as our treat to you!

 

The Story of Alburn Newcomb

Alburn Newcomb, like so many other early settlers, wanted little more than a peaceful existence in the Minnesota wilderness.  Fate, however, had other plans.  Born in 1836 in Pennsylvania, Ablurn began eyeing the west at the age of 21 years.  His initial motivation for migrating was to better his condition, presumably a health ailment as many others came west for the same reason.  In 1856 he rode the rails to Galena Illinois, as far west as the railroad went at the time.  From there, he procured a team and drove north to Platteville, Wisconsin.  For a time he operated a ferry boat.  In 1858 he again found himself on the move, this time hitching a ride with a family moving to McLeod County, Minnesota.

Minnesota was a mecca for westward migration in the late 1850s – land was cheap, easy to find, and small communities such as Glencoe and Hutchinson were sprouting up across the region.  Alburn made a claim in Sumter township and began living the simple life as a frontiersman trapping furs for the Hudson Bay Company.

By 1861, Alburn Newcomb had established himself as a tried-and-true trapper.  He’d lived in the region for three years and was likely well acquainted with the rivers, streams, trails, and “backcountry” of the area.  Like many men at the time, however, his life became interrupted.  Civil war broke out in the United States and a call went out for all able-bodied men to enlist in the Union army.  Of those dutiful men, Alburn Newcomb was one of the first who sought to enlist.  He was rejected, likely due to his condition, and resumed his life as a frontiersman.  His chance to fight for his home would come soon, however, as in 1862 a large faction of Dakota/Sioux began waging war on white settlers in Minnesota.

Newcomb did not aid in the war effort as a citizen soldier, but instead played the role as a teamster that transported troops across the region to the westerly outposts at Fort Ridgely, Fort Abercrombie, and the numerous outposts that were scattered throughout the settlements in Minnesota.  It was a job that was fraught with danger.  Oftentimes the bulk of the soldiers would go ahead into the most dangerous areas in search of the enemy, leaving the teamsters and a small guard duty alone and at the mercy of an ambush.  In fact, the life expectancy of a teamster was short, and many felt their demise at the hands of a war party was a foregone conclusion.  Dangerous or not, Alburn continued to transport troops across the wilderness until the war ended.

With the war over, Alburn returned to his home in Sumter Township hoping to resume his simplistic life, yet found that the home he left was no more.  As was the case with most farms and settlements in the affected areas of the war, Alburn’s home was destroyed.  Disgusted, he left Minnesota for Iowa where his brother lived.  The stay was short lived, however, and a year later he moved to Glencoe where he attempted to resume the life he had left the year prior.  Far too much change had taken place, however.  The fur trade had declined greatly and Alburn found it nearly impossible to make a living as a frontiersman.  He instead began transporting people as a stage driver, making regular trips between Blakely and Hutchinson.

In 1881, 22 years after he came to McLeod County, Alburn Newcomb began the simple life he sought back in 1858.  He located a farm in Sumter Township and spent his remaining years working the land until his death in 1908.

 

Holiday Cheer in a Troubling Time

2020 has been a rather detestable year to say the least, so much that I don’t feel I need to go great lengths to describe the situation. If future generations read this and wonder what worldwide ailments I speak of, I instruct you to google, or whatever means of searching reference you have in the future, 2020 and you will likely find out all you need to know. At any rate, there is one bright spot in 2020, aside from it being nearly over, and that is the fact that Christmas is near.

In spite of forces that might militate against it, there’s a certain sense of Christmas spirit this year that I haven’t felt for a while, evident of the seemingly uptick in Christmas lights that shine from front lawns this year. Oddly, or perhaps not so, it’s a similar situation today, as it was in December of 1931.

It was a tough time for Americans. The nation was amid an economic privation so merciless that history acknowledges it as “The Great Depression”. There were those who prospered during the depression, yet most suffered in some way, shape, or form. For some, it was just another day of destitution, for others, however, the Christmas season was a bright, shining star that glowed bright in the dark world around it.

In an uplifting article from the Glencoe Enterprise, dated in December of 1931, Author Win. V. Working wrote a reflection piece on the struggles of the time and the hope that the Christmas season brought to a struggling world. When people could not afford gifts, McLeod County merchants greatly reduced their prices to make their goods affordable for everyone. He wrote “It has been said that a corporation has no soul. Certainly, the large outside firms are lacking the human qualities that we find in our local merchants. It has been demonstrated to us this year that they are our real friends and the ones on whom we may rely in time of stress. As a result of this, the Christmas spirit really seems to be more in evidence this year than in former years. Adversity brings us closer together, and while the present situation is of little import when compared to a real disaster, the pinch has been sufficient to bring out the facts cited”.

In a troubling time, Working also noted that though things were tough, the situation was not so bad as it was for the early settlers in McLeod County, especially those who struggled through the financial panic of the late 1850s. During the panic, money was nonexistent in Minnesota and most communities operated on a system of barter. To make matters worse, spring crops were at the mercy of Rocky Mountain Grasshoppers that could devour a field, coupled with a string of late frosts, those living on the frontier at the time faced the reality of starvation as well as poverty. Working cited a quote from an unnamed pioneer who, in December of 1857, wrote “Times are hard and there will be much suffering this winter if prospects do not become brighter toward spring. I do not know what many of the people here will do as they have no money and little chance to earn enough to provide for the families”.

It’s odd how we, as humans, tend to look to the past for comfort in the present. Today, we look back at the Spanish Flu Pandemic, or the Great Depression as if to say, “at least it isn’t that bad”, and for Win V. Working and those of his time, they looked back to the generations before they in order to say the same. Perhaps looking to the past for comfort is merely a part of human nature.

To close, I’ll offer the words of our cited author, “It is a good thing for us to have a little hard luck one in a while, if only to cause us to more fully appreciate life’s values. The men and women of the early years knew more of life than we. They were in direct and constant contact with its realities. Their pleasures were few and simple but were enhanced by the contrast to their workaday lives. We might all be happier if we could go back to the plain living and the modest objectives of the pioneer days. Still, with a proper appreciation of these facts, we may better enjoy our present circumstances.”

Book Available!

The long awaited book of McLeod County History short stories, written by Brian Haines, and illustrated by David Wegscheid is now available at MCHS.  Books can be purchased on site, or can be ordered by calling 320-587-2109 and a copy will be reserved and/or sent to you (shipping rates apply).

A Budding Rivalry

It was the late 1850s. Though the exact date is not recorded, one can presume the event happened during a warm weather month, and on a pleasant day (you’ll see what I mean). For the sake of a good story, and bearing in mind that I’m at the end of my rope in regards to winter, we’ll place this narrative in the spring of the year – on a lovely day with plenty of sunshine, songbirds singing, budding flowers on the prairie, and a temperature of no more or no less than 73 degrees. It was on such a splendid morning that A. P. Fitch found himself driving his wagon toward Hutchinson.

Hutchinson was, at the time, a town on the rise. Its dirt streets were lined with several homes and budding businesses attractive to settlers looking for a place to lay down their roots. Its founders were of New England stock, steadfast in their desire to promote the ideals of nineteenth century progressivism. They, along with several of the town’s co-founders and leading citizens, fervently worked toward securing a prosperous future for their community.

A.P. Fitch did not live in Hutchinson, but on this day was compelled to take a ride into the town for the sake of attending a church service. In those days, few frontier settlements had buildings designated as churches. Most towns, as did Hutchinson, employed a circuit preacher who would travel from settlement to settlement and perform service in one of the larger community homes. Oftentimes, guests were invited to a place at the hosts dinner table when the service concluded.
Mr. Fitch was a relative newcomer to the area, and a first-time visitor to Hutchinson. It just so happened, that on that day, the service was held in the home of Asa Hutchinson, one of the town’s founders and most prominent citizens. Mr. Fitch was graciously welcomed by Asa, who with the utmost passion, promoted his community to the newcomer. Asa did his best to elevate the town’s points of interest, applaud its potential, and even confided in Mr. Fitch the plans he and others had for advancing the town’s interests.

The conversation continued at Asa’s dinner table, where Asa revealed to Mr. Fitch, that he and a group of committed town leaders had been meeting in private to hatch a plan that would wrestle the county seat away from Glencoe, McLeod County’s largest community. Mr. Fitch listened closely, and with great interest as Asa revealed the details of their plan.
With the dinner concluded, Mr. Fitch said his goodbyes and bid his gracious host farewell. He began his ride back home, pondering the events of the day – the service, the meal, and the news of Hutchinson becoming the new seat of McLeod County. Ordinarily, a guest in someone’s home would not divulge a private conversation with the host, but Mr. Fitch had other plans. It’s likely that his return was made with a bit of haste. Unlike the morning journey, A.P. Fitch did not take time to take in the soft springtime afternoon. Instead, his mind raced. He had to get home and share the news with everyone he knew, because after all, everyone he knew lived in Glencoe.

The Duck Cabin

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. I’ve always felt that there’s more to the phrase, however, in that those thousand words are probably different for each person. Some see a painting for what it is – a capture of an event or of people. Others see a story unfolding on canvas. I guess I’m of the latter. I like to think that an artist is telling a story with the stroke of a brush. I suppose in some ways the artist is as much a storyteller as a writer, or even the outdoorsman who stretches the truth of his/her stories. For myself, being a writer and outdoorsman, a thousand words are never enough.

There’s a painting by Les Kouba that I’m rather fond of. It’s titled, “The End of a Classic Era”. Les Kouba admirers probably know that the artist had a flair for telling a story in his paintings. It’s as if the images that came from his brush were a live event unfolding before the viewers eyes. For an outdoorsman and storyteller such as myself, I can’t help but get lost in the event that unfolds on the painting.

It was the late 20s, a golden era of waterfowl hunting. September passed, pleasant with cool autumn mornings and warm summer afternoons. It was weather that stuck into October, an agreeable climate for long walks and watching the leaves change color. As satisfactory as it was, however. it was doomed to change. On the last week of the month a cold snap swept through the region. From the north came a strong wind, chilly to even the heartiest of souls. The leaves fell, the trees went bare, and the air grew cold. For the normal folks in the world, the weather was depressing. For two men, however, it was just what they’d been waiting for.

They were duck hunters, and the cold beckoned them “up north” where a cabin awaited them on the banks of a small and secluded lake in the middle of the Minnesota’s north woods. It was a “ducky lake” – shallow with a sandy bottom and plenty of reeds that grew in clusters. Surrounding the lake was a seemingly endless stretch of vast forest, broken only by narrow logging roads that zigzagged through the woods. For some, it was a cold and dreary place to be, for the two hunters, however, it was heaven.

They left work on a Friday afternoon to headed up for the weekend. The trip was made in a 1925 Model T Ford, a slow moving vehicle that made for a long, and dusty drive, but one passed by with stories of yesteryears’ hunts and hopes for one to put in the books. Anticipation was high as they turned off the highway onto an old logging road. The road was rough going. It had been abandoned for a decade by the logging crew that cut it, yet it was still hard packed and could handle the little vehicle.

The sky was beginning to darken when the lake and the cabin came in sight. It was a rustic cabin, one that looked as natural to the landscape as the trees and lake next to it – it was the kind of place that made you feel like a part of the outdoors. It was a one room shack, built with discounted boards and a blueprint drawn on scratch paper. It was built earlier that summer, but was already beginning to show age from the sun. The roof had yet to be finished, and in places there were gaps covered with an old Coca Cola sign and two pieces of lefse. Like the old Scandinavian song goes, “You can even patch a roof with lefse”. In the years to come it would begin to sag a bit in the middle, and inside would smell of wood smoke and damp boards, in this day, however, it was new, a “Taj-Mahal” of Northwoods hunting shacks.

The hunters excitedly transferred their gear, and food from the little Ford to the cabin. One of the first tasks was to start a fire in the cast iron woodstove that sat in the corner – a big blaze that would take the chill out of the cabin and make for cozy confines as night drew near. Supper that night was beans from a can, thick, smoky bacon, fresh bread, and hot coffee. After a nightcap, the two climbed in their bunks and readied themselves for a cold morning.

Saturday morning began before sunup, while the moon and stars still shone brightly in the dark sky. The hunters dressed in wool sweaters, canvas pants, and tin-cloth hunting coats. It was cold, a crust of ice had formed on shore during the stillness of the night, yet it would soon melt away in the morning sun. In handmade, wooden boats the hunters set out with cork decoys and hopes of a good hunt.

The weather didnt look good for hunting ducks. The breeze stood still, and few clouds floated in the sky. Sunrise, however, was gorgeous, and as the sun crested the eastern horizon, it cast a red glow into the sky. The hunters saw it as a good omen. “Red in the morning is a sailor’s warning”, one said to the other. How right he was. As the morning wore on, the wind came whipping up and the sky filled with gray, low hanging clouds. The air, too, grew cold and damp – as though any moment it might rain big, cold, and wet raindrops.

The hunt was successful, yet one of the men had a mishap when he fell into the cold water. Luckily, he made it back into the boat. With a limit of birds in hand they arrived back at the cabin. The wet hunter changed clothes, put wood in the stove and set to hang his wet clothes on a rope tied to the cabin and a half dead poplar tree. The dry hunter brought the boats up on shore and hung the ducks on the side of the Model T. The wet hunter reached into the stock of beer out on the porch. As Kouba said about the man, he was “getting dry on the outside and wet on the inside”. Meanwhile, his partner brought in the last of the ducks from the boat. With a smoking pipe in his mouth, he looked above the cabin’s roof where the wind blew the smoke straight to the west and saw thirteen plump, late season mallards heading out onto the lake. Though it was thirteen, he took it as a lucky omen, meaning a storm was coming, and would bring ducks with it. Tomorrow morning’s hunt would be one to remember.

The Grasshopper Scourge

It was June of 1873 – a time of year, and a season that was likely similar to today. One could imagine that it was a pleasant day, warm, with plenty of soft sunshine – the kind of day where a warm breeze gently rolled atop the tall prairie grass and made it dance in harmony like waves on the ocean. On the frontier, June not only meant a time of pleasant weather, but a time of optimism. Gardens and farm fields that had been planted earlier were starting to sprout upward and climb toward the sky – their success having great impact on the year to come and they were monitored carefully.

By afternoon, it appeared as though a change in weather was coming. Those to recall the day would lament on what appeared to be a storm cloud on the horizon, some describing it akin to what looked like a snowstorm. Indeed, a storm was coming, yet it was not one of the meteorological brand; rather, the storm on that June day was a colossal swarm of locusts – one so large and so thick it was seen with biblical proportions. It was the start of the great grasshopper plague of 1873.

They were called Rocky Mountain Locusts, a species of grasshoppers now extinct. They were green, large, and devoured every piece of vegetation they could find. Those who lived through the incident recalled that after a swarm swept through, they left a patch of land that resembled late autumn rather than summer. All across central and southwestern Minnesota, the swarms destroyed vegetation – trees became bare and fields yielded no crops.

There seemed to be no stopping them. Of the first swarm in 1873, they left larva everywhere they went that hatched the following spring, creating more swarms across the prairie. It seemed as though no method, not even prayer, would rid the region of the locusts. One man, John E. Beach, whose grandfather owned land near Buffalo Creek, recalled, “Grandfather’s land lay with Lake Addie to the east and Buffalo Creek to the northwest. These were partial barriers to the locally hatched hoppers. Enlisting half of the neighbors who were fully exposed on the open prairie, they plowed barriers across the southwest flank and by using tar, burned old hay and straw spread in long windrows, adding eternal vigilance. They saved enough crops to make flour for the families involved…using every resource and ingenuity, the folks were able to stick it out, but scars could never be erased from memory”.

Those who were unable to devise methods to relieve themselves from the locusts chose other means to rid themselves of the grasshoppers. McLeod County resident, Carlos Avery remarked “When the grasshoppers came, the exodus was almost as marked as the Indian Outbreak of 1862. Our family was one to leave the farm to the hoppers and move east until the scourge was over”.
It wasn’t until 1877 that the grasshoppers finally left. That spring, a late snowstorm passed through much of the state and killed most of the freshly hatched larva. It was followed by good rains (which would put a damper on grasshopper hatching) and pleasant weather that allowed the crops to grow fast. Later that summer a drought hit, and a new swarm of grasshoppers emerged as years before. This time, however, the swarms did something unexplained – they took wing and left the area. By the end of summer, 1877, few of the locusts could be seen. It marked the end of the great Minnesota grasshopper plague.

A Real Pioneer

Bradbury Richardson was a young man of 26 years when he came to Minnesota. It was the height of the initial rush of pioneers to the state. For centuries, the land was largely populated by Native Americans, and a sparse number of French fur traders. By 1857, however, the Natives had moved onto the reservation, and white settlers began filtering into the countryside in search of new beginnings.

The land that Bradbury Richardson came to was desolate, yet not empty. The woods south of Glencoe, where the young man built his log cabin, teemed with wildlife. The shaggy buffalo, wolves, and black bear were beginning to disappear from the countryside, but deer, fowl, and upland birds still abounded in the land. In addition, though the Natives were living on the reservation, it was not uncommon to see large groups of Dakota Indians pass through the region. This was the world that Bradbury entered in 1857. He came to the area with his brother, Marquis, a man referred to as Cpt. Reed, and Bradbury’s young wife, Huldah.

They were of old New England stock, had come from Maine, and were accustomed to the comforts of the old New England communities. Though unaccustomed to the hardships and privations of frontier life, Bradbury was full of youth, and determined to make his life on the desolate countryside of Minnesota – he and his young bride would not falter, nor be discouraged.

Obstacles in their path were evident from early on. Upon approaching their future homesite, Bradbury and Huldah came to a large marshy area that had to be crossed. Being the eastern gentleman, Bradbury removed his shoes and socks, rolled up his pants, and carried Huldah across the swampy threshold and to their new home – a tiny log shanty in the heart of the woods.
It was a lonely life for the Richardsons. During the first month, the only people they encountered were members of the party with whom they traveled to Minnesota. They had no neighbors, and supplies were limited – they had no salt for seasoning and were forced to live on the land that surrounded them. At one point, Huldah thought she heard a rooster crowing. She proceeded to climb the tallest tree to discover if the sound was real and meant that others had moved to the area, or if she had only imagined it.

The young couple’s six weeks of solitude finally came to an end when a group of Dakota Indians came calling. They were friendly enough, but clear that they were of an entirely different culture. The Indians had no qualms about walking into the home without announcing their presence, and often surprised the Richardsons by spying through the windows. Huldah quickly learned her first words of Dakota, and would shout “packachee”, which loosely translates to “nothing doing” – and would result in the Dakota leaving the home.

On one occasion, Bradbury was striding alongside his oxen when a large band of Dakota came running by. As each man passed, he would slap Bradbury on the back, a customary way to say hello. So many came running by that Bradbury’s shoulder was lame for several days after.

Several years later, when the Dakota declared war on the white settlers, the Richardson family packed up and headed to Carver. By this time, they had children, and with Huldah, they headed to Rochester for safety. Bradbury, however, returned to Glencoe to aid the town in defense of any attack that might come their way. At one point he volunteered to act as a messenger and ride to Fort Ridgely, but since he was a husband and father, was told he could not go. The man who did go, Eliphalet Richardson, was killed a few miles from the fort.

After the fighting ceased, Bradbury and his family went back east, but later returned to McLeod County in 1873. Here they lived until old age. Bradbury died in 1907, and Huldah in 1912. They were true Minnesota pioneers, and an important part of McLeod County history.