Lost Without the River

by Barbara Hoffbeck Scoblic

  LOST WITHOUT THE RIVER

  Copyright © Barbara Hoffbeck Scoblic

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

  Published 2019

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN: 978-1-63152-531-5

  ISBN: 978-1-63152-532-2

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018957239

  For information, address:

  She Writes Press

  1569 Solano Ave #546

  Berkeley, CA 94707

  Interior design by Tabitha Lahr

  She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

  All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.

  Excerpt from “Found Them Locked Together, Frozen and Other Stories” by W. P. Arndt in All Hell Broke Loose, edited by William H. Hull, copyright © 1985 (Edina, MN: Stanton Publication Services). Reprinted with permission of Pauline Conn, Judy Lindberg, and Thunder Bay Press.

  Photograph of the Upper Minnesota River Basin by Dennis Skadsen of the Northeast Glacial Lakes Watershed Project. Used with permission of Dennis Skadsen.

  Excerpt by Hisham Matar from The Return: Fathers, Sons and the Land in Between (New York: Random House, 2016), page 4.

  Names and identifying characteristics have been changed to protect the privacy of certain individuals.

  To my sons, Peter and Stephen

  And in loving memory of my husband, Joseph M. Scoblic,

  and my parents, Myrtle and Roy Hoffbeck

  The past is never dead. It’s not even past.

  —William Faulkner

  CONTENTS

  PART I. PORTRAIT OF A FARM

  A Family Photograph

  The Farm at the Bottom of the Hill

  In the Beginning

  Always a Struggle

  PART II. BRIDGE, BARN, AND SILO

  The Biggest Snapper Ever

  Lightening the Load

  Working Together

  An Eye on the River

  The River

  The Next Morning

  Same Chore Day After Day

  Always There

  A Summer Afternoon

  Falling Down

  PART III. FAITH AND PUNISHMENT

  Opera in the Kitchen

  The Spare Room

  Seen and Not Heard

  Never Meant to Be a Farmer

  Other Bridges

  Calling the Cows Home

  Looking for Color

  A Matter of Faith

  Returning to Church

  A Wider World

  Trying to Fit In

  PART IV. MOTHER’S TURN

  Men Told the Stories

  First Drive Out

  Three Days in June

  A Cup of Tea

  Midnight Companions

  The Empty Crib

  The White Dress

  PART V. WE BEGIN TO LEAVE

  One by One

  Packing Up

  Up the Whetstone River, Slowly

  The Social Worker

  The Night the Barn Burned

  An Unforeseen Pleasure

  Dirt

  PART VI. RETURNING AGAIN AND AGAIN

  The Mourning Dove

  Another Goodbye

  The Final Flood

  The Gate

  Wild Plum Cobbler

  Lost

  Annual Pilgrimage

  Carting Gooseberries and Chandeliers

  Final Details

  Traveling with Bob

  Thinking About Beans

  An Early Resolve

  PART VII. FINALE

  Foreigner

  Cribbage

  Roots and Leaves

  Mass of the Angels

  No Record

  Dirt, Revisited

  Returning Home

  MAP OF SOUTH DAKOTA

  Roy Hoffbeck met Myrtle Chaussee in Brookings, South Dakota. They were married in Pierre, traveled to the Black Hills for their honeymoon, and immediately moved to a farm south of Big Stone City.

  MAP OF THE FARM

  Northeast South Dakota Glacial Lakes Watershed

  The South Dakota portion of the Upper Minnesota River Basin includes three river systems, one of which is the Whetstone River, which flows through our farm. Photo © Dennis Skadsen.

  I. PORTRAIT OF A FARM

  A FAMILY PHOTOGRAPH

  There is no photograph of all of us together.

  There is one of Helen, Patt, John, and Bill, one of those old photographs that make black and gray richer and more real than any modern photograph. The girls are standing. Their hair is in curls, their dresses tied with beautiful, plump bows. The boys are seated in front, wearing white shirts, their feet placed carefully. Helen is looking at the camera cautiously. Patt, not smiling, seems to be daring the camera to tell us who she really is. John and Bill wait obediently for the ordeal to be over.

  There is no photograph of Bob and me with the others. None was ever taken. Someone told me that my grandfather had arranged and paid for the portrait of the four oldest children. Had he grown uninterested by the time Bob and I, numbers six and seven, came along? I wish there were such a photograph of all of us, not just the children, but of the adults as well—one taken, perhaps, when we were all still at home. Before Helen had left for the Twin Cities. Before Patt had begun her frantic attempt to work her way through college in three years, trying to jump-start life.

  What time would I pick for such a photo? What day?

  Perhaps my First Communion day—that would have been in late May 1945, when I was about to turn seven. If you ever come to these gently rolling hills in northeastern South Dakota with the farmlands nestled near two clear lakes, decorated with the twisting of the Whetstone River, late May would be the time to make the trip. After a very long, very cold winter, spring erupts in a few days. The aromas of damp earth compete and mingle with the scents of lilac, apple, and peony blossoms. In the evening after a rain, if you breathe deeply, you’ll become light-headed, maybe even intoxicated. Such is the sweetness of the night air.

  The place for the photograph? The dining room in our farmhouse. Not a large room, and on this day, the day the photograph was not taken, almost all table. Bob and I would have stretched the table, splitting it in its middle, so we could add all the extra leaves, lining the little pegs up with the little holes, fitting them together just so, a gigantic jigsaw puzzle. Then we would have placed the protective pads on top, making sure the green felt was down, resting next to the gleaming walnut. When Bob and I finished, Mother would have dressed the table with her largest white damask linen cloth.

  My grandfather Bert, the last of my grandparents and the only one I really knew, would be there, speaking with a heavy Danish accent. He died when I was thirteen, and for years I could still hear his voice in my head. When I couldn’t hear it anymore, I knew I had truly lost him. My dear Aunt Marian would be there, too. She made the long drive from Pierre for every important family occasion—sometimes with a blizzard hard at the bumper of her trusty 1939 Studebaker.

  So, let the photographer pull back with his camera now.

  There at the head of the table is my father. To his left are John, the oldest son, then Bill and Bob. Aunt Marian is next. At the other end, opposite my
father, is my grandfather. On the other side, at the corner nearest the kitchen, is my mother, looking as though she’s ready to spring up, having forgotten something in the refrigerator, perhaps the long relish dish, divided in three parts, with its array of her tempting homemade pickles: sliced chartreuse bread-and-butters with a few celery seeds clinging to them; deep green, sweet chunks; and (even now, as I write this, my mouth waters) her specialty, long, pale green icicles. On my mother’s left are Helen and Patt. There on my father’s right I sit, still wearing my white dress and white stockings, not worried today about the possibility of my father criticizing my eating habits and table manners. Not today, with company.

  My shoes are already off. The only thing Mother ever nagged me about was walking around the house without shoes. She had to work and work to get my cotton stockings clean. But I could not stand wearing shoes in the house. In I’d come, off they’d go. And today, my day, I wanted my shoes off more than ever. I wanted to be white, white, white, white! Veil, dress, stockings, shoes. Not white, white, white, brown. Patt’s First Communion shoes were nowhere to be found (there are nine years between us), and Mother said we just could not buy white shoes for only one day or, at the most, one season. So I wore my school shoes. Under the table, no one could see that those shoes were off, my stocking feet curled comfortably around the rungs of my chair.

  Okay, this is a good time to take the photograph. I see all of us, suspended. We’re waiting for my father. He is about to ask someone to say grace. My brothers, sisters, and I know who he is pleased with on any particular day, at any particular meal, who is in his good graces, so to speak, by who he chooses. Today I’m sure it will be me. Our heads are not yet bowed. We’re looking at him, waiting for his word. Here we are, all of us together. Waiting.

  His voice is low, soft, actually.

  “Barbara,” he says. A one-word blessing.

  But even my imaginary photo wouldn’t be complete. One of us was already missing on that day. The crib was already gone from its place in the corner.

  THE FARM AT THE BOTTOM OF THE HILL

  With a map of the United States, the state lines delineated, I can always point to the exact spot where I grew up. It’s a small place, but it’s very easy to locate.

  Many years after moving away, as I watch CNN’s national weather report, my eye automatically tracks to that place on the map. Middle of the United States, one block down from Canada, there’s South Dakota. The state is located pretty much in the center of the North American continent—equidistant between the Atlantic and the Pacific, halfway between the North Pole and the equator. At its northeastern corner, there’s a small quarter-moon curve cut out. At the bottom of that is Big Stone City. If you turn south on a dirt road at the edge of that little town and follow it for a mile, there’s a lone cottonwood tree. Bear right, and you’ve arrived at our farm.

  When I moved to Manhattan, no one seemed to know where South Dakota was. They had a vague sense it was located somewhere west of Ohio and east of California. I was an oddity. “I’ve never met anyone from South Dakota before” was a new acquaintance’s usual response.

  Even now. Just the other day, as I was working on this manuscript in my favorite coffee shop, a man stopped and asked what I was working on. When the conversation continued, I shouldn’t have been—but was—surprised when he said, “Oh, I’ve never known anyone from South Dakota.”

  It was on one of those occasions when I’d again been trying to describe this location to a friend that she said, “It seems to me that you grew up in the middle of nowhere.”

  After the movie Dances with Wolves, filmed for the most part in South Dakota, was released in 1990, my colleagues and friends believed they now knew what my home area was like: endless miles of flat prairie with only an occasional tree. If there were time I’d correct them by describing the geographical differences between the area where the movie was filmed, west of the Missouri River, and where I grew up. The river flows down through the middle of the state, dividing it into two distinct districts, geologically and botanically. When Dakota Territory was deemed too large to govern as one entity, officials made a mistake, I’d explain. They should have split it into East Dakota and West Dakota.

  The western edge of the massive glacier that covered the north-central portion of what is now the United States during the Pleistocene Age ended midway through the state. The Missouri River was its western edge, and therefore the landscape to the west was not impacted, but the eastern half was transformed. Glacial activity continued. As the final glacier began receding some twenty thousand years ago, a slow process that would take about ten thousand years to complete, the ice mass ground down boulders into rocks, then into till. It leveled off hills and filled in valleys. Present-day rivers occupy channels originally cut by melting glaciers. After eons, decomposing tall grasses growing in the glacial till changed into rich black topsoil—a step vital for my grandfather and our family.

  Early French explorers named the Lateral Moraine, an accumulation of the glacial deposits left behind by that later glacier, Coteau des Prairies (Hills of the Prairie). George Catlin, pioneering author and artist, famed for his portraits of Native Americans, wrote in 1835 that the huge embankment “was the noblest of its kind in the world,” and that it offered “the most unbounded and sublime views of—nothing at all—save the blue and boundless ocean of prairies that lie beneath and all around him, vanishing into azure in the distance, without a speck or spot to break their softness.”

  We simply called it “the hills.” On a clear day in Big Stone City, it could be seen as a thin blue line.

  Elevation rises slowly, deceptively, from our farm 1,200 feet up to Summit, a small town thirty miles west of us in those hills. The water from melting snow and ice from the eastern escapement of the hills flows into spring-fed streams, which make up the headwaters. All of that water drains into our river, the Whetstone.

  That northeast corner of the state where I grew up was left with minimal slope and limited drainage. Masses of ice were left buried in some areas, and when the ice melted, marshes, ponds, and lakes were created, including the two lakes, Traverse and Big Stone, the shapes of which give the state that curved indentation on the map. The surface of Big Stone Lake, 966 feet above sea level, is the lowest point of elevation in South Dakota.

  The continental divide runs horizontally between the lakes. Of course, this is just an inflection of the earth’s sphere, and, as such, undetectable to the eye. The northern one, Lake Traverse, flows into the Bois de Sioux River, then into the Red River of the North, and eventually on into the Hudson Bay. But drop a piece of wood into the Whetstone River, which feeds into Big Stone Lake and runs just yards (in flood years, only feet) from our house, and, with more luck than our family ever had, it will float down the Minnesota River, then into the Mississippi, and on into the Gulf of Mexico.

  Ours was probably the first wood-framed house in the Big Stone City area. It dates to 1873. In that year, there were sod shanties and log cabins in the settlement that was to be our hometown. W. R. Movius, a pioneer who would become the first postmaster and owner of a general supply store in town, laid a foundation, hammered the boards, and raised the roof on the one-room structure.

  That building, the origin of our home, became a gathering spot, a place of comfort for pioneer families who met there to pray for endurance, to plan, and to offer solace during difficult times. And those were difficult times. Tragically, that first family lost three young children.

  Later, a second building was moved from another location and attached to the existing structure. (The original house would become our dining room, the second, our kitchen.)

  Our farm was later owned by the Black family and then by the Sahrs. Those owners remodeled by adding woodwork, a downstairs bedroom, the living room, and a second story. That was the configuration my grandfather purchased in 1913, planning ahead so that his eldest, my father, would be able to walk to the high school in town.

  It’s easy
to understand why Mr. Movius chose that location to build a house for his family. With no bridges, pioneers situated homes in places that were easy to cross. One perfect location was down a gentle decline south of our house where, with no banks, the water of the river widens and flattens out—ideal for fording from the west bank to the east. It’s the same place where as children we waded across the river to pick gooseberries.

  Several miles upstream, another important building, a post office, was built in a spot with similar terrain. The low stone-and-wood structure, with its cubby holes for mail, still stands.

  By the time my newly married parents moved in, the farmhouse consisted of a kitchen, dining and living rooms, two bedrooms on the first floor, and three more on the second. There was no central heating (only a wood-and coal-burning stove in the dining room), no running water, no indoor plumbing. The kitchen had a wood-burning stove with an oven and a tank on the side, which we filled with runoff water. We used that water to clean the house and wash our clothes, thus saving precious well water for drinking. When my mother baked, no additional wood was needed to heat the water. We called the efficient receptacle “the reservoir.”

  All of the rooms were small; the dining room, the largest, was perhaps twelve by fourteen feet. That room, the living room, and my parents’ bedroom downstairs were wallpapered. The kitchen floor was covered with a flat sheet of linoleum; “rugs” of the same material, with floral borders, were laid on the floors of the living and dining rooms.

  When my parents moved to the farm after their honeymoon, the white barn dominated the small area between our woods and the hills. It wasn’t long, but it was high—thirty-five feet to the top of the roof. So, even though its location tamed strong gusts, it creaked on very windy days.

  Regardless of the woodland setting, it was a prairie-style barn of two stories, but with one major difference: it was built into the hill so that wagons could be driven up to a door at the north side, making it easy to load grain, feed for the winter months, into the top level. On the west side, a large drop door on that same second floor allowed half a wagonload of hay, encompassed by a sling and lifted and guided on a rail, to be deposited into that open space in one efficient maneuver. During the first years, the wagons would have been horse-drawn; later, tractors replaced the hardworking animals.