Story Under a Stone: Frank Shaw

 Many of those interred in the Sheldon cemetery have gone to rest with a skimpily written record while leaving their parents’ life looking more significant. Only a few readers of this article will remember a man named Frank E. Shaw. I remember him as a portly figure with a shock of white hair as he hurried along the street, usually between the post office and his office. Frank lived a life of community importance as a lawyer and a board member of the Ransom County Immigration Association. 

But let’s step back and consider the life of his father, Alex P. Shaw, who fought and survived in many Civil War battles, most notably the Battle of Gettysburg. The casualties in this battle numbered over 50,000. We know the elder Shaw was in the thick of it. While attending a reunion of Gettysburg’s 50th anniversary he walked around the battlefield and found a little wall of stones still standing that he had hastily piled to provide protection from the bullets flying around. His life must have been charmed because after participating in 22 battles he never received a wound.  

Although the 140th New York was successful in assisting the defense of the Little Round Top, it cost the regiment 133 total casualties. On two different occasions I’ve walked on the summit of this hill where mature trees stood and dropped acorns. I picked up three to bring home and wrote a poem about them thinking they’s been nourished by the blood shed there. (More about that at another time). The encounter with Confederate forces interested me, and when I returned home I read about it.   

Now after seeing whom Frank descended from, we can turn attention to him. He sat as a board member on the Ransom County Immigration Association that was established in the latter 1890s at Sheldon. Its initial purpose was the promotion of immigration and the development of lands in the immediate locality of Sheldon. The Association succeeded in bringing over 200 families into the state from southern Minnesota and Iowa, and located them on lands in Ransom, Sargent and southern Cass and Barnes counties. A fire in 1921 destroyed their building. It was rebuilt looking much like it did originally.

Pictures include the following: Frank Shaw’s gravestone; three acorns picked from Little Round Top; a long shot from the old days of Sheldon’s main street; two buildings lifted from that picture as they appeared about 125 years ago (Note the wording “Ransom County Immigration Association” can be read.); and a recent shot of the two buildings still standing.

Ithaka

 Many years ago I ran across the poem “Ithaca” and have returned to it many times since. I found myself within those lines. Now the movie “Odysseus” brings it to mind again.

Ithaka

BY C. P. CAVAFY

As you set out for Ithaka

hope your road is a long one,

full of adventure, full of discovery.

Laistrygonians, Cyclops,

angry Poseidon—don’t be afraid of them:

you’ll never find things like that on your way

as long as you keep your thoughts raised high,

as long as a rare excitement

stirs your spirit and your body.

Laistrygonians, Cyclops,

wild Poseidon—you won’t encounter them

unless you bring them along inside your soul,

unless your soul sets them up in front of you.

Hope your road is a long one.

May there be many summer mornings when,

with what pleasure, what joy,

you enter harbors you’re seeing for the first time;

may you stop at Phoenician trading stations

to buy fine things,

mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,

sensual perfume of every kind—

as many sensual perfumes as you can;

and may you visit many Egyptian cities

to learn and go on learning from their scholars.

Keep Ithaka always in your mind.

Arriving there is what you’re destined for.

But don’t hurry the journey at all.

Better if it lasts for years,

so you’re old by the time you reach the island,

wealthy with all you’ve gained on the way,

not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.

Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey.

Without her you wouldn't have set out.

She has nothing left to give you now.

And if you find her poor, Ithaka won’t have fooled you.

Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,

you’ll have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.

A Story Under a Stone: Olde Sheldon

 Note: I was at a Germans from Russia convention last week. While at the convention it became an even stronger belief that we must record our personal family histories. If not, memories of relatives will disappear after a couple of generations, and it will be as though they never lived. We’ve personally accumulated quite a trove of information and wish we had more. If anybody has a good story about your relatives or acquaintances, and they have a stone in the Sheldon cemetery, I’d be willing to see it gets posted here. I won’t be able to continue very long without some input.

…   …   …

Olde Sheldon

By Lynn Bueling

I wanted to know about the earliest days of Sheldon and discovered that it wasn’t located where you may think it is. My learning of it came when reading about early days in Ransom County and some of the prominent people who established it. One of those people was A. H. Laughlin whose name one can find sprinkled about here and there in county history. He spoke about his difficult arrival at a Sheldon Old Settlers Picnic held 119 years ago, July 27, 1907. We’ll let him talk for awhile with a few light edits and omissions.

“On the 26th day of January, 1882 I first saw North Dakota, arriving in Kindred that morning via Wahpeton, with H. A. Palmer. We unloaded a carload of Van Brunt seeders and started the next morning on foot for Lisbon forty miles away, as there were no teams going through. It was a bright beautiful morning. They told us to take the old government road, and that there were three hotels or places where travelers were kept, French’s, Porter’s, and Manning’s. About 10 o’clock a dark cloud appeared in the northwest and we were soon in the middle of a genuine blizzard.

“At French’s they could not keep us, so we tramped on to Porter’s, facing the blizzard nine miles. Mrs. Porter could not give us even a cup of tea, as they were entirely out of provisions. I asked her if  she could spare a little heat from her stove. We rested awhile, when fortunately a four horse sleigh drove up loaded with merchandise for Joseph Goodman’s store at Sheldon. It was driven by Charlie Smart and Richard Jackson; we got permission to hang on to their sleigh. There was only room on one small box of goods for one to sit on, and as Mr. Palmer had been sick I gave him that privilege. A bundle of brooms stood upright in one corner, and by clinging to a broomstick I could keep my head in the shelter of the brooms and stand on the rear end of the runner.

“Once we were lost on the prairie and headed for the sandhills southeast, but Charlie took to the snow ahead of the lead horses and found the trail by intuition. He wore a wolf skin coat and cap, which may have helped him. Arriving in Sheldon about five o’clock the boys stopped in front of the hotel kept by Robert Grieve. It was new and had two blocks of square timber for steps. I got one foot up one step and could not induce the other one to follow, and fell down, unconscious with cold and exhaustion. They carried me in and seated me near a good hard coal fire. Then followed a couple of hours of severe pains, like the toothache in every nerve. The last sensation was one of quiet restful sleep. The storm was so fierce we could not see the lights in the store twenty rods away.

“The next morning the snow was an inch deep all over the bed. Our hands were so badly frozen that the landlord had to assist us in dressing. It was forty-four degrees below zero.”

Laughlin survived and went on to establish residence and business in Lisbon. Luckily he preserved some of the early history in written form. The store run by Goodman and Greene was the destination for the sleigh full of goods. The location of this interested me. One of the Sheldon history books (1981) lists it as the Southeast corner 26 Greene while the history (2006)  states Southeast corner 23 Greene. Here I will apply my reasoning to believe the 1981 location is the correct one. Why? 

I was raised to adulthood on the Northwest corner of 26 Greene. Deep impressions of wagon tracks had been worn in the prairie and given their direction would have run through our meadow. They point to the Southeast corner of 26 Greene. It makes sense to me that people drove their wagons over that trail to do some trading in that store. As a teenager I liked to pick up an old single shot .22 rifle on a wintry day and go hiking over that ground which we called the Wieg quarter since it was owned by A. C. Wieg. Of course, I never had a clue I had trod over historic ground. 

Slight discrepancies appear in dates and locations when they are compared, but the dates Laughlin reported to the Old Settlers satisfy me. The future of the town hinged on the determined route of the railroad and when it reached present day Sheldon, its future was set. No longer would lumber and building supplies depend on freight hauled by ox and horse wagons.

Laughlin’s final resting is not in Sheldon for our Story Under a Stone. He is buried in Lisbon. No photos of him have come to light. Instead, an old fashioned line drawn portrait appears. We can add that his interest and connection to Sheldon continued. A news item published in 1909 reported he and his son motored to town but the car broke down. Forced to stay overnight, he visited at length with the editor and gave him “an addition to his stock of historical knowledge.”

 We include here with Laughlin’s stone A. C. Wieg’s stone plus a Greene Township map.While writing this I am missing  my old classmates, Susan Mougey and Janet Newton, because I know they both possessed informative memories and materials. We can only do what we can do. The memories start to dim after a couple of generations pass.

Story Under a Stone: The Old Gas Station

 Since 1931, a venerable old gas station has stood at the Y junction of a street heading to downtown Sheldon and a highway passing by. Across from where the school once stood it remains as one of the few remaining landmarks of an older town. Its sets there now as “Black’s Three,” but its original designation was Culver’s Filling Station. The Frank Culver family established and ran the business.  Besides Culver, others listed in the Sheldon history book ran  it through the years: Frank McGurk, Gene and Ed Suchla, Maynerd Strand, Louis Larson, Pat Anderson, Jim Fey, Rick Black.

A headline in the April 2, 1931 Sheldon Progress stated “Culver Buys Land For Filling Station.” The article said in part, “It is the intention of Mr. Culver to put up a frame structure, stucco the exterior and make it a nifty looking place. His son, Guy, will be in charge of the establishment. Just what brand of gasoline and oils will be handled is undecided.”  Frank purchased the land from Mrs. Belle Rife.

But it just wasn’t petroleum products the business handled. Skipping ahead to 1939 we learn of another product the station advertised: “Don’t get your note book covers until you see the new ones at Culver’s Service Station, Complete School Supplies.”

Frank C. Culver, the station’s founder, died a few days short of his 80th birthday on November 18, 1941, and was buried in the Sheldon Cemetery. Familiar names served as pallbearers - Al Kinney, R. E. Kratt, E. E. Good, Olie Larson, Wm. Cuthill, and Louis Howell.

The Culvers chose an interesting design for their business when they built it with steep pitched roof lines. It’s unfortunate there weren’t any hills nearby because it could have served as a ski chalet. It is probably because of that steep pitch that the building has not deteriorated more than it has. Even poor shingles will shed rain and snow much faster and longer than conventional pitches. The building is 95 years old.

A large house once stood across the street where the Culver family lived. Memories of two families living there come to mind. Loyal and Trudy Good raised their family there. I remember well Curtiss, Darold, Dennis, Karen, and Marlyn. They’ve since relocated to the state of Oregon. More recently the Gene and Marion Thompson and their family lived in it. Friends will all remember “Doc”, Donna, Dennis, Doyle, and David.

At one time many buildings lined both sides of main street and defined the Sheldon that provided services to the public, but almost all have disappeared. Two adjoining brick buildings still stand on main street. It would leave a noticeable absence if this old service station building should disappear. 

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Story Under a Stone: Sheldon Shafer, 1884-1909

 Story Under a Stone: Sheldon Shafer, 1884-1909

New settlements on the Dakota Territory frontier all had their “firsts.” Sheldon’s first train reached town on November 4, 1882. The first issue of a newspaper was printed on February 25, 1885.  The distinction of being the first baby born here goes to Sheldon Shafer on August 31, 1884. While we don’t know much about the life of the young Shafer, we can build a picture from what is recorded.

His parents were among the first settlers in this vicinity. His mother, daughter of Jay Rudd, and her father Jay who was popularly known as Uncle Jay came from Michigan in 1882 and purchased several pieces of land. Sheldon’s father, Alfred C. “Fred” arrived one year later. The map of Sheldon shows a portion of the village known as Rudd & Sheldon Addition.  Apparently more than one Rudd lived here at the time because it was a K. E. Rudd that sat on the first city council. Chances are K. E. Rudd is the one listed on the city map.

Sheldon spent his boyhood on the family farm about one mile west of town and attended the Sheldon school. He did not have time to establish any type of career except for a brief time clerking some in local stores and running a livery stable. That’s about it for persona

l information except we’re led to believe he must have been popular. A line in his obituary stated, “Numerous handsome floral offerings betokened the esteem in which the departed was held by his fellow townsmen.” His obituary stated that at the age of 25 he died from consumption which is another term for tuberculosis. The obituary headline stated “Sheldon Shafer’s Sufferings Over,” and later stated he had suffered for two years after being diagnosed with the disease.

It would be fun to be a time traveler and visit the town in its infancy. One man passing through on the train made this journal entry on June 5,1883.  “The only station on the road of any account is Sheldon where there are about 25 buildings large and small including a good R.R. station and elevator.” Train travel became popular, especially eastward to and from Fargo. Growing pains became an issue. In March, 1885, the editor of the one month old newspaper watched two women trying to cross the muddy street from the livery stable to the depot.  He printed a scold that a crossway should be built between the two locations.  I doubt that got done.

When entering the cemetery on the west side you can soon spot the large Shafer family headstone with Sheldon’s marker nearby.

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Story Under a Stone: George Newton, Blacksmith

 At one time blacksmiths played a crucial role in the life of a community, but in today’s

“throwaway” society those people have become almost obsolete. George Newton is the blacksmith I remember working his trade in Sheldon in the shop that people identified as “Newtonville.” I’ve written the following poem about him.

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Story Under a Stone: George Newton, Blacksmith

Dad’d take his breaks to the local blacksmith

where I’d always beg to go along with.

He hung nicknames on the two of us, Dad was Spike,

Shinglenails for me, I was short in height.

You could say his shop was kind of a shack

with piles of junk thrown out to the back,

plow lays and more littered the floor 

but the farmers kept on’a bringing in more.

He could hammer and pound and drum so loud

like the god Thor who lived in thunderhead clouds

and then make his anvil ring

sweet as a bow drawn across a string.

When he lowered his helmet, it amused me each time

I’d hear the muffled curses he’d utter inside.

While grinding a weld he’d make a shower of sparks,

then turn and start talking with manly remarks.

  

One Saturday afternoon while in town

men in the bar sat drinking their rounds,

but soon they all came tumbling out

when someone had run in to shout,

“The blacksmith shop’s on fire!”

Excitement couldn’t grow much higher.

They all high-tailed it over there,

but all they could do was stand and stare

No one could make the old fire truck go,

so they just stood watching flames glow and grow.

That old shop fell in a heap of smoldering debris

Onlookers shook their heads and could see

the town had lost its blacksmith shop.

But wait, why can’t we build it back up?

They opened their wallets, volunteered labor,

a perfect example of neighbor helping neighbor.

Soon a new building rose in its place.

When they gave him the keys, you should’ve seen his face.

Sadly no one remained in town to stoke his forge

when after a few years he moved on to meet his Lord.

But he’s in a heavenly place where his anvil rings

sweet as a bow drawn across a string.