This column begins with a continuation from last week’s article written in the 1940s by Edith Thompson (1873-1950) of Looney Valley, published posthumously in 1977 in the Houston Gazette and Country Journal. The column concludes with another water well, which is well worth remembering.
Our second well was dug out round and lined with brick. A trough for watering horses was made by splitting a great cottonwood tree and hollowing out the straight side for holding water. Here we children loaded our squirt guns (Did you ever make one?) with water for surprise shots at crowing roosters, cats and dogs.
Here, a bull, named John Phelps – we had bought him from John Phelps of Sheldon attacked Delo Vier who had led him out to water. Delo had managed to get his fingers into the nose ring, and his brother Joe came running with a pitchfork, so the bull was subdued but not until some of Delo’s ribs had been broken.
Before my brother was of school age, his great hobby was running away, and Mother always came to the well first to look for him while the little sisters cried and carried on. We also found it a good place for stirring up echoes – even better than “hollering down a rain barrel.” My oldest sister, who was the brave one in the family, once rode down the well standing on a bucket and holding to the rope. She said she could see stars in the daytime from the dark depths. I never dared try it.
When the time finally came, as it comes to all reluctant farmers, for retiring from the heat of the day, Father declared firmly, there would be no retreat to town. So, a house was built down at “the corner” (across the road from the Arthur Witt home). This location is not far from the edge of the tableland that raises the valley above the river bottom. Welsh and McMillan were then digging flowing wells in town. We decided to try for one at the foot of the house hill on the edge of the marsh. It was supposed to send its water up and into the house by using what they called a ram for power. Then we found that water would only rise to the top of the hill, quite a distance from the house, and the stream was slow and warm. Then a well with a pump was drilled just outside the kitchen door. The old flowing well at the foot of the hill took care of the needs of the cattle for many years.
Up at the barns, where the renters lived, another well was dug, and a windmill raised over it to do the pumping. And about this time, windmills began to blossom out all up and down the valley. Their airy wheels whirred in the wind as they lifted water out of the earth.
The Looney Valley farmers had succeeded in harnessing the power of nature; wind was pumping, water was sawing lumber, grinding flour, making molasses; later, the gas engine, the combustion engine, electricity followed with light and power. George Kelly who pumps grinds, milks, saws, etc., with electricity says it is the cheapest hired man he can get.
Also, who washes, irons, lights, cooks, freezes, air conditions with it, is still more enthusiastic. Just wait until we set the atom bomb to work for us!
Parade to the Pump
There has always been plenty of boating water as the Mississippi River flowed past Brownsville, Minnesota. But at one time, drinking water was another matter. Sometime in the 1890s, George Palmer dug a well at his house with shovels and spades. Although the well was only 22 feet deep, it provided good clear water. Not every household in the village had a well. And among those that did, the Palmer well was an exception. Many wells brought up rusty water. The water from the village well was not satisfactory either.
Fortunately, the Palmer family was willing to share. Soon, Brownsville residents were making daily walks to the well with every size of bucket. Mike and Irma Bissen (pronounced BEE-ssen) purchased the Palmer property in 1927 and continued the long-established tradition of sharing water with whomever wandered up to the well near the kitchen door. Irma, a widow at age 81 in early 1981, told a reporter that she remembered 27 families using the well on a regular basis.
Some visitors had more than two legs. Many families kept a cow or two in those days, and some cows were taken to drink from the galvanized tank at the well. During dry spells, farmers might drive in to fill tanks or cream cans. Water was carried to Germania Hall, a block away, for dances and other social gatherings.
With the school just across the street, the earthenware jar for drinking water was filled from this well. Students had to supply their own drinking cups. And even when school was not in session, there was activity on the playground, and youngsters knew where to quench their thirst.
Wells were not the only source for water. Almost every house had a cistern for rainwater that was collected when it ran off the roof. This soft water was actually preferred for doing the laundry, but not many folks liked to drink it.
When interviewed in 1981, Irma said most folks were no longer visiting her well. Everyone had their own well or connection to a neighbor’s well with electric motors bringing it indoors. But she was keeping tradition alive. About every two years, Irma had applied a fresh coat of paint to the pump. The wooden platform over the well eventually needed to be replaced, which was accomplished with concrete. However, keeping the pump functioning was more challenging. When leather and other parts for the pump wore out, they had become difficult to find.
As long as Irma could manage it, the pump was an enduring symbol of sharing. Irma died two months before her 96th birthday in 1995.
Sources: “Well’s history one of sharing,” by Fern Heiller, La Crosse Tribune, Jan. 25, 1981. “Springs and Wells,” by Edith Thompson, Houston Gazette and Country Journal, Jan. 6, 13, 20, 1977.
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