From There to There - l 930s

    In June 1932, after two years of how-to­teach courses at the Montana State Normal College in Dillon, I was presented with a diploma which stated that I was qualified to teach grades one through eight.

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     The following summer was a period of apprehension. There were 194 members of the class, most of them urgently needing jobs. There was also a surplus of teachers in the field and competition would be intense for available positions. The economic depression was becoming more oppressive, and many families were destitute. It was imperative that their young ones get out and start earning money.

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At my ranch home seven miles west of Armstead, I pondered my plight.  My father and three brothers needled me to get on the road and apply for a teaching job in some of the many country schools in Beaverhead County.

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     I didn't want to start my teaching career that close to home. I would be intimidated by the scrutiny of family and adult friends who were disinclined to let kids grow up and assume adult roles.  I had written a letter to the college placement bureau asking them to send my qualifications and recommendations to the Huff Teacher's Agency in Great Falls. I also wrote to the Agency advising them about the forthcoming references, and I specified a preference: grades one through six.

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     I chose not to try for seventh or eighth grades. I never wanted to teach a kid I couldn't lick, or perhaps more accurately, I never wanted to be confined in a classroom with a kid who could lick me.

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     One quiet summer day, near the end of July, the telephone rang, one long and one short. The operator in the Lemhi Telephone Company office in Armstead informed me that the telegraph office in the Oregon Short Line depot had asked her to deliver a telegram to me by telephone:

"ELECTED FOURTH AND BAND OUTLOOK 100 DOLLARS WIRE ACCEPTANCE IMMEDIATELY." The telegram was from J.B. Alexander, Supt. Outlook MT.

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     This message didn't require cogitation.  I didn't ask anyone's permission but "wired acceptance immediately."

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     This action was followed by the receipt of two copies of a contract, one lo be signed m1d returned.  The teacher's agency fee was $45, 5% of the first year's salary.

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     After sending the wire, I consulted a map of Montana to determine exactly where I was going. I was staggered when I found Outlook lo be seven miles from the Canadian border and 35 miles from the North Dakota Line.  I would be traveling from the southwestern corner to the northeastern comer of the third largest state in the union! (Alaska gained statehood years later.)

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     I said goodbye to my family at the Oregon Short Line depot in Armstead and rode the Union Pacific Railroad to Butte. I stepped off the U. P. and walked to the Northern Pacific depot, where I boarded and rode the N.P. to Helena. I changed trains again and rode a branch line of the Great Northern from Helena to Havre.

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     My father had bought me a first-class ticket, so I was privileged to ride in the parlor car on each of those runs. The parlor car was at the end of the train and the massive, upholstered chairs were arranged as in a parlor, rather than in rows as in a coach. My fascination with that luxury and observing and visiting with the more sophisticated passengers did much to dispel the apprehension that was building in my mind.  However, the clickety-clack of the iron wheels beneath me was a constant reminder that I was getting farther away from the safety of familiar surroundings and heading toward an unknown future.

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     The change at Havre was to "The Empire Builder," the crack train of the Great Northern.  A crack train was one which offered the ultimate in luxury and speed.  What I didn't know was that the Empire Builder made no stops at small towns. stopping only at major cities.

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     My first-class ticket entitled me to sleep in a berth, upper 15, in the Pullman car. George Pullman had conceived and designed the sleeping car, an ingenious system by which the upper half of the walls sloping toward the center of the ceiling could be pulled down lo form shelves, each containing a mattress and bedding. The lower, daytime seats also converted to beds. All berths were enclosed in heavy curtain material. Luxurious dressing rooms were at the ends of each car.

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     George Pullman also designed the dining cars with appointments rivalling the finest hotels.  These included white damask tablecloths and napkins, heavy, ornate silverware, sugar bowl, creamer and stemmed salt and pepper shakers.  The menu offered a variety of gourmet entrees and desserts.  At the end of the meal, a finger bowl was provided. I learned the proper use of a finger bowl by observing the experienced travelers:  Gracefully dip the fingertips into the silver bowl, one hand at a time, and dry by unobtrusively pressing the fingers in the folded napkin. Nothing to it!

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    I was awakened the next morning by the Pullman porter who announced that we would arrive in Williston in an hour.

     Williston?

     North Dakota?

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     Later the conductor explained that I would have to board a milk train and ride back as far as Bainville MT and there transfer to a branch line running northward to Plentywood. A milk train was so-called because it stopped al every town and station to unload cmp1y milk cans and load full ones.

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     Back to Bainville over the same railroad tracks, this train was not darting like a Pierce Arrow.  It was swaying and creaking. The mountains were gone. There was so much sky and so little earth.

Was this the Great Plains I had read about in geography? There was no landscape. An ominous feeling enveloped my whole body. How did I ever get myself into this intractable situation? Terror consumed me. Insecurity dominated my every thought.  My knuckles were turning white from gripping the arm of the seat.

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     "Plentywood," the conductor called. I was aroused from the depths of despair and gathered my possessions: a purse and a suitcase.

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     At Plentywood, I was instructed to ride the stage (a touring car) to a little town called Raymond, where I would board another train to ride nine more miles to my final destination. That railroad was the Soo Line, originating in Minneapolis, crossing North Dakota, and ending in Whitetail, fifty miles into Montana.

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     I had been traveling two days and a night. l had changed trains eight times. Anxiety was increasing with each mile. I looked out the window. In every direction, the earth was flat. The horizon appeared to be three to five miles distant. I lay my head back on the dusty red velvet and closed my eyes. I counted. In just a few seconds, the train would spill over that edge, and I would be free of that gnawing uncertainty.

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But it didn't.

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     Instead, the train stopped, and I stepped off the last train to an out-reaching hand and a welcome smile from Superintendent J. B. Alexander, my new boss.

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Outlook:

     Mr. Alexander drove me to three homes to look at rooms to rent.  I chose one where l would be the only roomer.  I had not yet freed myself of the timidity with which I grew up and I knew there would be times that I would want an escape.

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     He drove downtown and introduced me to the only eating place; a cafe operated by a widow, Nellie Deck, and her two children. Her children were high school students and would be members of the new band, which would be organized and directed by "Miss Hansen."

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     During my ride on the Empire Builder, I was concerned about my appearance. I was nineteen and looked more like a high school kid than a teacher.  In the dressing room, I combed my hair straight back and pinned it in a bun at the neckline. The reflection in the mirror was acceptable.  I assured myself that this puritan would add some maturity.  I wore this austere hairdo all of my first year in Outlook.

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No Money in the County Treasury

     The wheat farmers in Sheridan County produced a bumper crop in 1928 and prosperity reigned. The farmers bought big cars and new farm machinery (sounds like the late 1970s and early l980s). When I arrived there in 1932, the cars were sitting cold and quiet. Few people had money to buy gasoline. Most of the school buses were horse-drawn sleighs with a box-like compartment for passengers. Some of them had a wood-burning stove inside.  I rode in these cozy contrivances many times to attend barn dances in the storage lofts of huge barns.

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Having been raised on Horse Prairie, I thought I knew all about snow and cold weather, but what I experienced that first year in northeastern Montana was incredible. Winter lasted from early fall until late spring. Deep snow, subzero temperatures, snow drifts and blinding blizzards were the rule. Everyone wore a snowsuit, overshoes, coats with fur collars, stocking caps. wool scarves and big, thick mittens. When the first warrants were issued at the end of September, the teachers were told that there was no money in the treasury, located in Plentywood, the county seat. The school board had four separate warrants for the purpose of paying board, room and purchases at the general store. Creditors had agreed to accept registered warrants as payment. The warrants were numbered, drew interest, and would be called in as money became available.

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     No money came into the treasury all that school year.

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     The owner of the Outlook Bank (in whose home I was rooming) offered to cash my December warrant for 10% discount.  He knew that I needed cash for train fare and spending money for Christmas. My net salary was $99. $1 was withheld each month by the State of Montana for a teacher's retirement fund. A teacher eligible for retirement at that time could receive $30 a month.

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     I was so ecstatic over the prospects of going home for Christmas that I scooped up my $89 and ran.

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     My choice of rooming at the banker's home was later regretted.  I nearly froze to death.  For three months, my window was covered with a quarter inch of white frost. The furnace fire was not brought to life until after I had to be on my way downtown for breakfast.  Grooming and getting dressed was torture.  My body was blue and rigid before I could pile on all that necessary winter clothing.

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I changed rooming places the second year. The furnace man in the house shook the sleeping lignite into action at 4:30 a.m.

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Homesick:

     Within the first two weeks of my arrival in Outlook, I had written several letters to my father and to sister Alice, describing the train trip. the town, the school, the teachers, and my progress in organizing the band of ten players.

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     About three weeks had passed when I received a letter from Alice in which there was concern and urgency showing between the lines. She wrote that two of my classmates who had accepted teaching jobs somewhere in northern Montana had given up their positions and came back to Dillon because of homesickness.

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     She wrote, "Don't come home. If it gets that bad, I will come up there."

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Well, I had not considered going home.  I had been accepted and was regarded by the community as an adult professional, and I liked it. I had made new friends. The teachers in the grade school were most generous about helping with classroom procedure and school policy.  My mind was occupied with geography, history, and band. There were no discipline problems. Everything was going well.

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     I would stay.

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     The autumn months were eventful, with something to do every Saturday night: a barn dance or a social gathering or dinner at someone's home.

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     All of the churches periodically put-on fund-raising suppers at a cost of 25 cents.  Everybody came. for both socializing and good food.

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     Before the end of the school term in May, a bachelor farmer, Ray Goltz, who boarded at the cafe, offered to buy my unused warrants, at face value.  This was a most welcome offer, as it provided me with cash for train fare home and spending money for the summer.  I had been fearful that I might have to go to the bank and give Scrooge 10% of my worldly assets.  However, by August, I was broke and my father was compelled to buy my train fare for my second year in Outlook.

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The second year, there were seventeen players signed up for band.  We ordered uniforms: royal blue jerseys and berets with white lyre emblems on the jerseys and "O" on the berets.

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     The third year, the band numbered 24.  Each school year, we played for all the home basketball games, held a spring concert in the town hall and, when weather and daylight permitted, played outdoor concerts from an elevated bandstand, built many years earlier by an Outlook Town Band.

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Father's Significant Gesture:

     In late Aug 1934, my father offered to drive me to Outlook by car.  This gesture was significant.  I felt complimented that he would drive 724 miles to meet the people who had both helped me and let me succeed on my own.  In addition, he wanted to see the farming country, which I had so often described.

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     We drove the southern route by way of Miles City and Sidney. Just north of Sidney, we crossed the Yellowstone River on an iron bridge that was used both by auto traffic and trains. When a train came, gates were lowered to stop highway traffic at both entrances and then raised again after the train had crossed.

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     At the Missouri River, we crossed on a new iron bridge. three miles south of Culbertson. At that time. I believe this was the only highway crossing east of Great Falls.

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     During his stay in Outlook, we spent a day driving around the country, visiting farm families.

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     Guess what he did? He bought a pig! The transaction was completed at the farm that very day.  Arrangements were made that on a certain date, the pig was to be crated and shipped by rail to Armstead, MT.  This half-grown Yorkshire boar was destined to become sire of a swine herd on Horse Prairie.

Travel-Wise:

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     There was a gravel road running from Outlook to Culbertson, which is located on the main east-west highway and rail route. I learned a stratagem that would simplify my travel. The station agent in Culbertson could stop the Empire Builder momentarily (about one second) for a passenger to board.

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     At Christmas vacation time, a friend offered to drive me to Culbertson, thus eliminating that distressing trip I had endured between Bainville and Outlook.

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     The Culbertson station agent positioned me and my bag in a certain place by the railroad track, and he flagged the train. The engineer was adept as the train stopped in precisely the right place. The conductor was waiting on the steps. Simultaneously, the agent tossed my bag up onto the inside platform while the conductor gripped my outreaching hand and pulled me aboard.  Swish!  The train was on its way, like a rocket out of a tube. reaching its normal speed again in a surprising few seconds.

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     The same maneuver was repeated in reverse on my return trip. After boarding the Empire Builder in Havre, I sweet­talked the conductor and induced him to stop the train and drop me off in Culbertson.  I then advised the Pullman porter to wake me in time for the Culbertson stop.

 

     As we approached the station, the conductor and I were standing on the bottom step. The moment the train stopped, he held my arm as I stepped off and then set my bag beside me on the platform. Swish! The train was gone.

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     This finesse worked for me for six years: four trips each school year, as I taught school three years in Outlook and three years in Culbertson. It pays to be travel-wise.

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     I never returned to northeastern Montana, but it remains in my memory.  That is where I made the most significant transition in my life. That is where I became an adult.

--Edith Hansen Palmer, 1992

Beaverhead County Superintendent of Schools Office Records, Compiled by Josephine D. Eudaily former Beaverhead County Superintendent of Schools, 1970-1978, Beaverhead County School Districts. Pages 1002-1005