Nancy McClure: My Early Life

Chapter One

 

I’ve always wanted to see pieces of my story collected since I never wanted a life that no one cares to remember.  I lived in turbulent times, and the fact we survived is significant itself.  One period in my life culminated in watching thirty-eight men hanged in unison on a large gallows built for that purpose.  But let me come back to that.

Through my veins runs an equal mix of Dakota Indian and Irish blood, the product of my father Lt. James McClure and my mother Winona.  My Indian name is also Winona which among the Sioux means the first-born female child and is as common a name among the Indians as Mary is among the white people.

After my father left us, Mother married again and like all Dakota mothers taught me traditional ways which I acquired hand in hand with many of the white women’s domestic skills from the mission schools I attended. Unfortunately, she died when I was just fourteen years old, and since I was too young to be on my own I went to live with my grandmother.  I had matured fast and probably became a little vain because people said I was good looking.  Maybe they were right since I seemed to attract plenty of male attention.  

Then David Faribault entered my life and, too soon, wanted me to marry him.  I didn’t want to jump into marriage, something my relatives agreed with.  A powerful man, however, came to David’s side and acted as a matchmaker.  General Sibley took me aside saying David came from a good family and always made enough money to support a wife and family.  Yes, I guess you could say I had connections, but it was through David, since he and Sibley knew each other well from their business dealings.  This is the same General Sibley who led the huge march of soldiers into Dakota Territory on a “punitive expedition” after the uprising of which I shall soon tell you about. 

I’ll have to guess this sketch of me represents my appearance quite well.  A man name Mr. Mayer drew it on the day I was married and in his diary said this about me: “On a mattress covered by a neat quilt sat Winona, the most beautiful of the Indian women I have yet seen.  She possesses Indian features softened into the more delicate contour of the Caucasian & her figure is tall, slender & gracefully girlish.  Her eyes are dark & deep, a sweet smile of innocence plays on her ruby lips, & silky hair of glossy blackness falls to her drooping shoulders.”  I said before that I’m a bit vain, but that quote embarrasses me.

Our wedding ceremony drew quite an assembly, I’m proud to say.  But again, it was because of my new husband’s acquaintanceship with them.  Most notable were Governor Ramsey and General Sibley, plus several army officers and head chiefs of the Sioux nation.  At the reception, many toasts were made with champagne and wine glasses held high, but I didn’t drink in response.  I am a devout Presbyterian and a teetotaler who refuses alcohol for any reason.

Most of you have heard of the Minnesota Uprising of 1862, well, I can tell you, I experienced it from the inside out.  The next chapter of my life will paint the picture of a very unpleasant time. 

Nancy McClure

My name is Nancy McClure and I have a story to tell.  Perhaps you’ve never heard of me since my life has lain hidden away on dusty bookshelves for years. But if you’re interested and want to hear more, relax and walk with me into the world where I lived.  It’s not far away, in fact you walk on its ground every day.

The reason I speak now through the mind of one who imagines my life and times is that he gives me a voice.  I never wanted to be unregarded.  I lived in two different worlds, that of the Dakota and that of white people. I learned to unravel the differences between the two and got along well in either.

In the weeks to come, I’ll tell you my story in chapters, but for now you might like to read a brief overview of this life I want to share.  I was born in Mendota, Minnesota in 1836 to a white father, Lieutenant James McClure and a Dakota mother, Winona.  When the army sent my father to serve in Florida, he abandoned me and my mother, only to die shortly thereafter.  Poetic justice?  My mother’s new husband moved us to Lac qui Parle where I learned the ways of the Dakota and attended a mission school.  Mother died in 1850 and David Faribault entered my life whom I married a year later.

The circumstances of our marriage placed us right in the middle of the Minnesota Uprising of 1862, a struggle where we faced constant danger. My husband and I did not support the violent ways of the insurgents, even though their grievances did beg attention.  For instance, one storekeeper would not extend credit to the Dakota and said something like, “They can eat grass.”  Well, when they found his mutilated body, they also discovered his mouth stuffed with grass.  I saw much of this killing and brutality while we lived there, and it still pains me to think back on it, but I will steel myself enough to include it in my story.

The government began building forts for protection of the crews who were constructing the railroad as well protection for the growing westward flow of settlers.  A scout brigade made up of Dakota men who did not participate in the uprising was established for a two-fold purpose: to act as outriders to spot trouble and to reward those Dakota men with paying jobs.   My husband David was hired for one of these scouting jobs at the newly built Fort Ransom, and that is where we made our home for awhile.  We lived in the scout camp located about a mile from the fort.  It was there that my eyes witnessed more death and heartache when a prairie fire swept through the camp of mixed-blood Metis who had stopped to trade with the sutler.

Fort Ransom obtained its goods and supplies from Fort Abercrombie, and the arrival of those long wagon trains carrying freight was an exciting time with lots of activity.  Those rough cut teamsters really livened things up.  While I wasn’t there for those three long days when an empty train returning to Fort Abercrombie stalled in a blizzard, I’ve heard enough first person stories of it to pass some along.  

We didn’t stay long at Fort Ransom since we had the chance to operate an overnight inn on the Sheyenne River between the two forts.  I couldn’t escape life threatening troubles with Dakota raiders here either and once found myself fleeing with neighbors to safety.  I loved the beauty of the area with all its wildlife, but it was here I endured the breakup of our marriage and a consequent move to Flandreau with my new husband.

Everyone in our community talked with pride about my daughter’s brother-in-law, Dr. Charles Eastman, one of the first Indian doctors in the country.  He was there at Wounded Knee when the U. S. army began firing on the Indians who had gathered there and offered medical aid to the wounded and the dying.

In my new home, I lived quietly and safely while the years passed, but later I was asked to do one more thing.  One of the battle chiefs during the uprising wanted to tell his story to a St. Paul newspaper, but he spoke no English and nobody at the paper could speak Dakota.  My daughter’s husband, the Rev. John Eastman, and I were asked to translate.

So you see, I have all these stories and others to share and will begin, chapter by chapter, next week.

Change

Plenty of things change in our lives, at least they have done so for me.  My preference in reading material is a good case in point.  I experienced a change in attitude about books and authors a few years ago.  One of the reasons came about through the good graces of my old high school math teacher, Miss Hanson, from about 55 years ago, a teacher with whom I’d become reacquainted in Bismarck.  She had stayed in contact through the many years with her old colleagues, Mrs. Vitus, my English teacher and Mr. Vitus, my social studies teacher/superintendent.

Miss Hanson called one day saying the couple was in town, that she was meeting them for breakfast, and would we like to join them?  Well, certainly, all three of these people had a lot to do with my educational formation, especially Mrs. Vitus.  Because of her demanding classroom methods, I learned much about language and literature and went on to earn my own college major in English.  

Our visit ranged over several topics that morning, including the reading material that we enjoy in our leisure time.  No, Mrs. V did not expound on the latest critical readings of William Shakespeare or William Blake’s seminal position in the history of poetry or Ralph Waldo Emerson’s lead in the transcendentalist movement in 19th century literature.   She and her husband both said they read and enjoy Louis L’Amour’s books.

I found that a bit surprising, especially when they added  they’d even visited some of the areas featured in L’Amour’s stories.  He said, “If L’Amour said a rock stood in a certain place, it was there.”  The couple spent a good deal of their time traveling around the country in one of several Dodge vans they had owned which he’d converted into campers.

The point of all this is that was another step in setting aside any snobbish ideas I may have had about his books and spend more time reading his stories. While my taste in reading covers a wide range, I definitely add plenty of the West in it.  So much so that I’ve become a book reviewer for the Western Writers of America from whom I receive books from my editor in Santa Fe to look at and make comments on. 

Presently, several books wait for my review, none being novels.  A lady sheep shearer wrote one called Raw Material: Working Wool in the West which reminds me of the sheep we raised and sheared on our farm.  I look forward to reminiscing about it in the pages of this book.  Another, Black and Kiddo: A True Story of Dust, Determination, and Cowboy Dreams promises some good reading about difficulties working on the land, as does another, My Ranch, Too: A Wyoming Memoir.  The fourth book represents a good deal of research, Wild Migrations: Atlas of Wyoming’s Ungulates. It tells a detailed story of  the migration of elk and other hoofed mammals in that region.

A one-time musician named Frank Zappa is quoted as saying, “So many books, so little time.”  Fortunately, I’ve lived longer than Zappa who was only 52 years old when prostate cancer took his life and I hope to read a few more.  The author of The Game of Thrones, George R. R. Martin says it well, “A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies … The man who never reads lives only one.”

What am I reading presently?  A paperback by Louis L’Amour, The Sky-Liners has caught my interest, as has a long involved one by Dan Brown, Origin.  Add to them several magazine subscriptions that arrive regularly, plus some internet material.  Reading is a great way to fill time as well as the space between my ears.

Those Twin Engines Were Roaring

On Sundays I often tune in the Thomas Jefferson Hour on public radio.  A creation of Clay Jenkinson, he assumes the character of Jefferson about whom he knows a great deal from his lifelong study of the man and his period of US history.  In the second half of the show he sheds the Jefferson persona and steps back into present day reality to banter about a variety of topics with his co-host.

A recent program caught my attention when he talked of his experiences in Kansas on his then father-in-law’s farm. Jenkinson admitted that as a farmhand things didn’t go well for him with his assigned jobs.  When he discussed the irrigation set-up on the farm, I knew full well what he meant.  He rode along with his father-in-law to the head of the irrigation system where even today he expressed amazement at the memory of it.  There, pumping water from deep in the Ogallala Aquifer sat two large engines running at high revolutions per minute while emitting a thunderous noise.

My own erstwhile experience in the irrigation business came to mind.  Some years back I took a job with a dealer selling irrigation equipment because I wished for a change of occupations.  While that never panned out, I remember one time when I accompanied the company’s irrigation specialist to a site he had designed and was very proud of.  As we drove along he related how he applied formulas from the field of physics to design the system, especially those of hydraulics.  When we arrived at the head, I saw the same thing Jenkinson saw: two large stationary engines sat side by side running full throttle while emitting an ear-rending thunderous roar that wailed from the power they generated.  The very ground around them vibrated. The designer considered many factors: distance for water to be drawn, circumference of pipe, acreage to be irrigated, amount of horsepower needed, and more.  It was an impressive layout.

Readers of this article might wonder how a transition can be made from irrigation power in the present day to a description of a World War II demolition raid, but there is a dam and water and a designer involved, so we’ll go for it.  A recent Time magazine article made me aware of the life of a Norwegian commando Joachim Ronneberg who died recently at the age of 99.  Unquestionably, he was a man who fits the mold of a true hero.  History turned on the action he and his men took in World War II.

The Allies feared a Nazi development program might provide them with a weapon of enormous power for which they had no match - the atom bomb.  An ingredient necessary to the manufacture of an atom bomb was a product called “heavy water.”  Spies told the Allies that Nazis had begun to manufacture it at a dam site in occupied Norway.  Because many Norwegian citizens had been conscripted to work there, the decision-makers did not want to endanger their lives by dropping bombs indiscriminately on the dam.

Ronneberg and a small group of commandos were trained in England to parachute into Norway in the dead of winter, plant explosives, and destroy the facility.  A series of strong blizzards paralyzed their movement for several days but they finally reached the target on the night of February 27, 1943.   Luck followed them because they found the cavernous area used as a factory and set their charges.  A quick escape in the dark went unnoticed.  As they ran they could hear the explosions  destroying the facility.  With their head start they eluded capture by the awakened garrison even while being hunted by 2,800 German soldiers.  Skiing, they traveled over 200 miles through forests and across mountains to reach neutral Sweden and safety.

Ronneberg and his men went on to perform other exploits in the war effort and received medals and recognition for their service.  In later years he lectured widely telling of their resistance to the Nazis, especially wanting young people to know about it.  He is quoted as saying, “There is a lot of talk about never again, but this is impossible if we don’t remember what happened back then.”  

Plastic Pumpkins

The world is awash with plastic pumpkins, or for that matter, plastic anything.  What is it about replicating something in the real world with a facsimile of plastic?  We buy a lot of it.  Once past Halloween with its plastic jack-o-lanterns there will be plastic turkeys at Thanksgiving, artificial Christmas trees, and plastic eggs at Easter.  There’s a fake world out there filled with plastic pink flamingos, houseplants, turf, and styrofoam cups.  Why there’s even the time when two fellows stood looking at a beautiful young lady.  One said she got her looks from her father, he’s a plastic surgeon.

Plastic products are made for us to buy and make life easier because we can just toss them out when we’re done with them.  Like college professors do, they’ve come up with the five steps showing how raw materials move through the economy from extraction to production to distribution to consumption to disposal.  All along that line people work and make money.  But a problem has developed: raw materials deplete, factories pollute, landfills overflow, and huge masses of junk accumulate in the ocean.  As one said, “You can’t run a linear system in a finite world indefinitely.”  

People my age lived in a different world at one time.  We carved real pumpkins, bought Christmas trees where the needles dropped off, and drank from china cups.  If our television quit working, it was placed in the car and taken to a tv repair shop.  We needed to leave it there until the repairman got around to ordering the replacement tube.  In the meantime, we lived like we did before by reading, playing games, working around the place, or maybe writing letters by longhand to friends.  Most of the products we owned could be repaired.  When one stopped working, we fixed it.  

The little corner I call my office is spartan; just one photograph hangs on the wall.  It captured the moment when a Buffalo Pitts steam engine pulling a Nichols and Shepard Red River Special threshing machine has entered a fording area across the Sheyenne River just south of Anselm, ND.  They’ve stopped to pose for the photographer.  At the left is a buggy where one man is seated, probably the boss.  In the middle is the steamer belching smoke and steam with its trailing thresher.  Behind it is a filled bundle wagon, and to the right is a water wagon hitched to a mismatched team.

A crew of fourteen men can be counted standing or sitting in various places in this scene dated by the archived newspaper articles of July and August, 1901.  I have it hanging where it’s in full view to remind me of that period of our history where things weren’t thrown out.  They were repaired.  Most of the men in it were probably transients who had stolen rides in boxcars who owned only the clothes on their back.  Pay at the time was $2 per day when they could work, so extravagant spending was unheard of.  

This is not to say that I practice what I preach.  We recently purchased a fireplace for our home, and as might be guessed, it’s an electric model complete with plastic logs and fake flames that don’t give off heat.