Real Life ‘Pokemon’ Hunting

The only way you haven’t heard of the new “Pokemon Go” mobile game is if you’ve been managing to completely avoid any sort of media for the last handful of weeks (and I guess I wouldn’t blame you, the news has been pretty grim lately).

In case you don’t know, this latest fad has countless masses wandering their towns and neighborhoods using their smart phones to desperately search for rare digital monsters. (Seriously, people are spending more time playing Pokemon Go than on Twitter and Facebook).

Even weeks after it’s launch – you can still find plenty of aspiring Poke-Masters hunting around Stillwater.

…well, back in 1868, folks were a bit less excited to see critters in unexpected places.

Local News – Stillwater Republican – July 26, 1868

On Wednesday last Mrs. A. M. Dodd, while going down the cellar stairs of her residence on Third street, near Pine, discovered an unwelcome guest in the shape of a rattlesnake taking his afternoon nap in the cellar window. Not relishing the idea of admitting into her family a member to whom she could not give a cordial welcome she called her husband who was working in his garden nearby and related to him the situation. He at once repaired to the aforesaid window and disturbed the quiet slumber of his-snakeship by dealing him a well directed blow with a hoe, which caused an immediate death. He measures 44 inches in length and has seven rattles. His corpse is preserved and is on exhibition in the window of Mesars. Carli & Kauffman’s drug store.

Editors Note: After some diligent research, I may have uncovered a photograph of said rattlesnake.

Memories of Hay Lake School

by Mildred Swing Zillgitt

Shouts and laughter of eager children have long been silenced. The once dry and trampled playgrounds have succumbed to hay and stubble. Wind and rain against the windowpanes fall on deaf ears, for no one is there to listen. Thus it has been with country schools all over the land. School architecture was generally the same: a door at one end, windows on opposing sides, two cloakrooms, and a belfry…not to forget those all important country johns. Prosaic? Perhaps. But to anyone who attended such an institution, there’s a world of feeling akin to reverence.

Throughout the 1960s and 70s, Mildred Swing Zillgitt watched many schoolhouses fall to wrecking crews and felt little or no ill will towards the aggressor. However, upon learning that Hay Lake School had been abandoned for a better place of learning, she held her breath…anticipating the worst. As if to compensate, she said to herself, “Abandon if you must! Rip down those venerable walls! Decry them if you wish! But you can never silence those echoes of yesteryear nor destroy the dreams of childhood, for memory lives on forever.”

But as you know, the Hay Lake school would not be destined for a landfill. In 1978, the Washington County Historical Society purchased the site. When Mildred heard this news, she was “thrilled beyond words.” As her alma mater, Hay Lake held a special place in her heart.

“Though some things have grown misty with forgetting, things I didn’t understand in the past have become meaningful to me now. It is good to unleash childhood memories of those formative years. What I hope to do, if you’ll bear with me, is to recall some of those early sensations…joys, fears, and sharing.

For sentimental reasons, it is customary to preface a recounting of the past with ‘The Good Old Days”. However, those days weren’t all good, believe me. The world I once knew was not altogether carefree nor filled with magic and imagination. Often, fears and apprehensions stalked my pathway. But whoever said that growing up was easy? The recollections of my last years at Hay Lake are blended with mixed emotions. Although school was never better, I would be remiss in saying that jaunty days and happiness abounded, since right about then a transition was taking place in the land. A most significant and unforgettable period in history was in the making – we were hovering in the shadows of a World War. Young and old alike felt the impact of its vicious sting. But memory has a strange and beautiful arithmetic; it can subtract the bad and add only the good things.

The classroom I once knew had streaks of sunshine streaming through the east windows upon rows and rows desks and seats. There was a huge heating stove with a galvanized jacket at the rear of the room. Separate cloakrooms were provided for boys and girls where wraps were hung on hooks along the wall. Beneath the array of clothing was a semicircle of lunch pails. The clothing cubicles were dark and cold. I remember that in winter we’d bring our lunch pails inside and line them up beneath the windows to keep our sandwiches and fruit from freezing solid.

I have recollections of an extravagant display of blackboards on the walls and a modest library in one corner. One space was of particular interests, for it boasted a set of encyclopedia. Plus a huge unabridged dictionary. Close by stood a revolving world globe. A case containing a map of every country in the world was suspended on the wall back of the teacher’s desk. This paraphernalia was the extent of the equipment a teacher had in those days with which to operate a school.

A captain’s chair and desk of yellow oak signified the center of authority, for in that era it was the teacher who governed the classroom. She had an unwritten set of rules we all respected and at least tried to observe. To wit: Not to leave our seat without permission; no talking out loud and no whispering and no scuffling of feet. Two fingers in the air meant, ‘I want to leave the room, please!’ These rigid rules were necessary for eight grades in one room to function properly.

The seating arrangement was always the same in that the seventh and eighth graders occupied the back seats while the small fry sat close to the front. There were grades one through eight, and some years, as many as 36 children were in attendance. I shudder now when I think of the workload projected on one teacher. The assignments alone must have been astronomical.

Each grade recited either seated on long benches or standing in a semicircle, beginning with the first grade, until each had performed in one way or another. You can imagine the activity going on up front at all times. While some kids hovered over their own lessons, completely oblivious to what was going on elsewhere in the room, most of us got our learning from ‘up front’. This very often added to our woes when we came to class unprepared with our own assignments.

Contrary to rules, I was more interested in everyone else’s lessons than my own. History was the most tortuous subject inflicted upon me. I recall one day when my wide-open book lay unattended on my desk. I just couldn’t concentrate on such mundane things as the Lewis and Clark expedition with all those goodies going on up front. Fractions and square root flashing like magic and that fine velvety sound of the long white chalk gliding over the blackboard fascinated me.

Suddenly, it was time for my class to recite. Then came the turning point in my life! While I was standing there in that semicircle, questions bounced back and forth until I was called upon…the whole world stood still, for I knew not a word. Unfortunately, for me at least, the teacher had eyes in the back of her head and had, no doubt, been observing my preoccupation earlier. She was prepared for this and was not about to let me off the hook.

‘Open your book,’ she blazed. ‘Now read that paragraph.’ I did just that. ‘Now close your book and tell me what you read.’ I was so flustered that I froze to the floor. That wasn’t all, for this ordeal was repeated three times over. I glanced around at my classmates whose eyes were hard upon me. Irving glared at me with that look: ‘Gosh, you’re dumb.’ He always knew the answers, both large and small. For some possible escape, I looked down at the floor, where all I could see was an assortment of scuffed shoes.

All that I didn’t forget, but the paragraph I read three times over still hadn’t caught up with me. That was a most terrifying experience when my little world stood still.

A muffled snicker issued from the group as class was dismissed. My ears and faced tinged with embarrassment. What might have seemed, at the time, to be wasted energy proved productive in the long run. After that, I learned to chart routes and journeys of early explorers with the aid of maps. And, in due time, history became my favorite subject, which bears out the fact that the teacher proved her point after all.

My recollections of weather conditions during my school days are blended in a combination of snow, rain, gusty winds and blistering heat, with a smattering of blue skies and gentle breezes. Martha and Dora, who lived but a hop-skip-and-jump from school, never felt the really harsh blasts of winter. But the rest of us all had a mile or more to walk, which was a hardship in itself, especially when roads drifted in for weeks on end. I vividly recall one blizzardy March day, the events of could well have proved catastrophic had it not been for our concerned parents. The telling of this tale could fill a book itself.

Aside from our regular curriculum, we crammed in a course in penmanship, which was known as the Palmer Method. Though a bit ridiculous, it was a blessed relief from our usual humdrum studies. The exercise demanded that we sit up straight with both feet flat on the floor. ‘Hold your pen firmly, but not too rigid,’ the teacher intoned, as she paced up and down the aisles, placing her hand on our backs to be sure our spines were absolutely perpendicular. However ludicrous, it was not a complete loss, I for it was good, sound discipline.

To this day, I cringe when I see clerks and waitresses clutching their pens in a cramped, squeezing position. But then, they never heard of the Method.

Numerous other activities, such as spelldowns, took place in the evenings. I recall and can say with pride that whenever Hay Lake was pitted against other schools, we proved to have some pretty good champions in the art. Then there were those basket and pie socials, which would set the entire community in a flurry. This fostered togetherness and was a means of relaxation during those long winter months before the advent of radio and television.

Seasons came and passed in rapid succession; the grandeur and unspeakable beauty of autumn, the stern glory of winter, then March winds that knew no bounds, and ultimately, summer vacation. Finally, came the day when it was my turn to occupy one of those coveted back seats earmarked for eighth graders only. Yes, I’d earned the distinction now of ‘Upper Classman’. That last year at Hay Lake was, indeed, a memorable one.

While new horizons beckoned to me, I experienced isolated moments of forebodings. Did I really want to be liberated from country school and parental care to face the world with all its perplexities? Where should I go? What would I do? Human nature is a complex thing at best, but to a fifteen year old with growing pains it can be downright devastating. Especially for someone who didn’t know which way she was going. Somehow, though, I managed to make my exodus to new and less carefree frontiers.

For those of us who are growing old, there’s a certain magic in remembering our youth – like fresh winds of Galilee blowing in to recharge and energize our souls. In my reminiscing, I have renewed many fond memories which have lain dormant for many years. And I find that I can still draw from the endless resources of those Golden Years at Hay Lake, where discipline and learning went hand in hand.