Hammer Family Story
as told by Matilda Josephine Hammer Johnson
written down by her daughter Ruth Johnson Hedstrom [177695300 ]
edited and typewritten by her grand-nephew Kristen Åkre [51653687]
My father, Ludvig Hammer, was born 13 October 1860 in Trondheim [Stjørdal], Norway. When he was five years old he came to Iowa with his parents, Andreas and Mali Hammer. Andreas homesteaded on rocky Iowa land. It must have been the worst land in the state. They farmed what they referred to as "upstairs fields", because of the rocky hilly terrain. His first three crops were totally lost to what they called a "chance" bug. Grandpa tried to make a living for his family. He was a big, very strong man. He could carry a 135-kg barrel of salt. He ran after a wagon one time carrying a barrel, he really did kill himself doing things like that. He died in his early sixty's. His heart couldn't take the strain he imposed on it by such hard work. One of the original "big Norwegians". Mali lived into her early ninety's.
When my father, Ludvig, was 19, the family decided to "go west". They travelled with a caravan of covered wagons. The wagons were pulled mostly by oxen. Some families hitched up whatever they had though. One horse and one cow; one ox and one horse; and the like. That was quite a story. I don't remember how long they said it took them. They did anything they could to feed themselves - hunted, trapped - whatever they could. Although grandma and grandpa said they didn't eat any gophers, many of the people travelling with them did. The Holen family came with them too. They travelled until they had absolutely nothing left to eat. One of the men found a settler who had some barley to spare. They settled in a small village type fashion and divided the barley amongst the families. In Beltrami, Minnesota, there was a settlement where they grew only barley, so that is on which they lived. They boiled it, husks and all and ate it. The men went out to try and get work in the established settlements. They dug wells beside sloughs. The land was open plains with no trees anywhere. The people in Beltrami had potatoes, so they spaded up little plots and so had potatoes to go with their staple barley. They worked like slaves, of course. Eventually they got a grist mill in Thief River Falls so they could at least grind up their barley.
My father had a helpless arthritic brother (Ole?), and one time Grandma had only one potato left in the house. The uncle of mine who was ill got most of it and the rest was divided evenly amongst the rest of the family. Then they had to survive for a time on only barley again. They hauled the barley from Fertile to Thief River Falls to have it gristed. Gradually, of course, things improved. The settlement was about 11.3 km west of Fertile, Minnesota. The Indians at that time were very savage. They walked in with butcher knives and demanded whatever they wanted from the settlers.
On the trek out to the Fertile they camped overnight in circles for protection. One night they drove until darkness came. When they rose in the morning there was a woman's head on top of a post, and her breasts on other posts. Had they seen what was in their camping grounds, I'm sure they wouldn't have picked that particular spot. The Bergs, Holens, and Hammers all came together.
The railroad eventually came through, which was a tremendous help. Dr. Nelson had build a house in the original settlement, and there was also a post office. These had to be moved to the railroad when it came.
Dad (Ludvig) must have been 20 or 21 when he met mother. Mother was Mari Endeberg. Mother's parents were Ole and Ingeborg Endeberg. Mari came to stay with her sister, Ingeborg Severson. She never again saw her parents whom she had left in Norway. Her parents never did come to America, and she was never able to go home to see them again.
I don't remember when mother and dad were married exactly (Ludvig and Mari were married on 27 February 1885). Ludvig had a homestead of his own by that time. They built a little log cabin. They lost four babies: one son and three daughters. Mother had to work so hard. She stooked (shocked) and did chores and a lot of other things too. Dad had to go out and work so much. Mother was born in Sigdal, Norway, 1 April 1862 and died 10 January 1946.
I (Matilda Josephine) was born in 1889 in Fertile on dad's homestead. That house still stands. Olga was born on 3 November 1892, and Lily on 6 September 1897. Olga was married 16 July 1927 and died 4 March 1971.
When I was two years old I had pneumonia. The doctor of the day said he would either kill me or cure me, and he poured a pail of cold water over me. The next morning I sat up and played. The doctor also told us much later that my sister Olga was so frail she would never see her ninth birthday. I worried so much; I dreaded every morning, expecting to find her dead every day as her ninth birthday approached. She lived until she was 79 years old. I lived in Fertile until my marriage when I was 22 years old.
I went to school until I completed my grade 8. I wanted to be a nurse, so in 1908 my parents sent me to a school of nursing in Chicago, Illinois. This was my first time away from home. It was in the days of white slavery, so we were warned to be very careful. I'm sure a man dressed as a woman followed me all day in St. Paul, Minnesota.
The school of nursing was like a nunnery. It was preached that it would be a sin to marry. All the nurses in those days were forced to think that way. Our teachers were all sisters, headed by Sister Superior. I stayed six months and could no longer stand the rigorous life. I wanted to be a nurse as much as ever, but I was so young, and away from home for the first time, in a city like Chicago it was just too much. The fear and homesickness was unbearable. We had to visit the slums. The school building was huge and housed the staff, but students had to find their own living quarters. My room was on the third floor of a flimsy old building. They had open-flame gas lighting, and we were so afraid of it.
Right beside our building was a saloon, there were no street lights, and we had to climb a winding, rickety outside staircase to our rooms. I know that if my parents had known what I was going through, they would have brought me home even sooner.
Severt Johnson came out to Canada in 1905, and returned to Minnesota until 1907, when he again went to Canada to prove up his homestead. He came out with his partner Ole Westad.
There were only two or three buildings in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, at that time. They camped behind one of these buildings when they first came as young bachelors.
In 1912 he came back to Fertile, and we were married on 12 January of that year. We left home two weeks later on 28 January. When we got to Emerson, the conductor (of the train) had told us to get off on the Canadian side of the border. We should have gotten off on the American side to have our baggage checked. We had to run back 1.25 km in "no-man's-land", it was terribly cold too, I almost lost my hat, and the wind was blowing so hard. I couldn't go into the station either and had to wait in the cold while Severt rechecked our baggage. The train waited for us luckily, or perhaps we would have still be there. If we hadn't gone back, we would have lost all our baggage.
We arrived in Winnipeg, Manitoba, in the morning. We stayed there overnight, because Severt wanted to buy a tractor. I believe it was the first tractor in the area of our homestead. It was shipped by rail to Saskatoon. He hired a man to break 40 hectares with it that first spring. The next year he broke 20 hectares with oxen. We also bought some clothes in Winnipeg. I wasn't used to such cold weather. I remember he made me buy some long underwear - woolen no less. I couldn't start a row in Ealon's store, so I had to agree. He made me wear it too. I was so embarrassed, but I suppose he did the right thing.
We boarded the train again and arrived in Traynor, Saskatchewan, the next evening. Old man Niereson was there with dad's team and sleigh. It was storming like crazy. The stores were open until all hours in the night there, so we bought some groceries. Niereson had been there three days waiting for us. There was no way to let him know exactly when we'd come. We had supper in a boarding house and started out in the storm for the homestead. George Freed, a neighbor, was also at the station to see when we arrived. He had ulterior motives, because they planned a chivaree, if we didn't appear in public the next night.
We got to the homestead at 03:00. Everything was frozen solid. The shack was 3 x 3 meters in size. Severt had put up a heater beside a tin cook-stove. I've never seen a stove like it before or since. I wish we'd have kept it. We brought coal from Traynor also, so Severt lit both stoves, and did they burn! He put too much coal in them, they got so hot the pipes started on fire. Severt said sparks and flames went 1500 meters up in the air. There was no wind luckily, and snow was on the roof, so it burned itself out. The roof was bent in the shape of a loaf of bread. They bent two layers of 1.25-cm lumber the shape they wanted, with one layer of tar paper between. Severt sat up until morning. I went to sleep.
The next day it was clear and bitterly cold. There was a dance that night 8 km away, but we had to go or risk being chivareed. I really suffered with the cold and being so tired. I wore a big shawl around my head, one my grandmother had given me. Everyone teased me about it later when they got to know me.
One woman came to that same dance with a newborn baby. She had only an apple box to sit on in the sleigh box. Everyone went to dances in those days regardless of weather. It was the only thing that broke the isolation and monotony. We danced until broad daylight. We sure foiled their plans for a chivaree.
Chivarees were terrible. They got so carried away, they tore the roof right off one of the shacks. One young pastor got married after the church was built. They didn't even know what chivarees were, but the people had no sympathy. They came yelling for the bride to come out so they could see her. She was too terrified to come out, of course, so the pastor offered them $10 if they would only leave, but that was out of the question. They got a window open and poured a pail of ice-cold water over her in bed. They went absolutely berserk, so we were lucky. No one could be chivareed after they have appeared in public, and George Freed didn't have time to get the people together the night we arrived.
When we got home from the dance there was no hay left for the cattle, so Severt had to go a long way to get hay home. Of course it was frozen down and covered deep in snow. He went and got a neighbor, Oscar Lungrock, to help him. Oscar was a very shy bachelor who had very little to eat and a poorly built shack.
Ricka Niereson helped me scrub and clean our shack that day, and Oscar helped Severt with the hay. Severt invited him in for supper, but the poor fellow was so shy he wouldn't come in, even though he had to go home to a frozen shack with hardly anything in it to eat. He lived on seed wheat, dry and raw, and slept on an old coat beside his stove. His hair was 20 cm long, and of course in those days that was frowned upon, so he rolled it up under his cap and never took the cap off in public.
Life generally was humdrum. Freed had a dance once or twice a week, and we all went. At least we went whenever I was able to wheedle Severt into going. I had fun at those dances.
Then they built a little church in Cando, Saskatchewan. There was no railroad and no stores until later. The church helped. Two years later a man put up a store where we got necessities. Traynor was 37 km away.
We waited three more years for the railroad, a branch line from Biggar to Battleford. We were right between the two, 48 km to each from our place.
Then another man came into Cando with a lot of money. He built a new store and ran the first fellow right out of business. We had everything we needed in this world in the new store. Just like when a new shopping mall opens in a small city nowadays.
We owned two cows, so we always had milk. I made lots of butter and sold it for groceries. The store had no place to keep the butter sweet. Only in the cellar, which was damp, so it went moldy. But it's to their credit that they still kept buying our butter. When we got more cows, we went to Battleford to trade for groceries. We would leave home at 04:00 and would cross the reserve just as the sun came up. There I saw my first Indian. They looked so wild. They had their graveyard beside the trail. They didn't bury their dead; they hung them in boxes in the trees, or set the boxes up against the trees. When we drove by, an Indian suddenly appeared and almost scared our horses to death.
(This is where Ruth and Matilda stopped and did not get back to finishing the stories.)
as told by Matilda Josephine Hammer Johnson
written down by her daughter Ruth Johnson Hedstrom [177695300 ]
edited and typewritten by her grand-nephew Kristen Åkre [51653687]
My father, Ludvig Hammer, was born 13 October 1860 in Trondheim [Stjørdal], Norway. When he was five years old he came to Iowa with his parents, Andreas and Mali Hammer. Andreas homesteaded on rocky Iowa land. It must have been the worst land in the state. They farmed what they referred to as "upstairs fields", because of the rocky hilly terrain. His first three crops were totally lost to what they called a "chance" bug. Grandpa tried to make a living for his family. He was a big, very strong man. He could carry a 135-kg barrel of salt. He ran after a wagon one time carrying a barrel, he really did kill himself doing things like that. He died in his early sixty's. His heart couldn't take the strain he imposed on it by such hard work. One of the original "big Norwegians". Mali lived into her early ninety's.
When my father, Ludvig, was 19, the family decided to "go west". They travelled with a caravan of covered wagons. The wagons were pulled mostly by oxen. Some families hitched up whatever they had though. One horse and one cow; one ox and one horse; and the like. That was quite a story. I don't remember how long they said it took them. They did anything they could to feed themselves - hunted, trapped - whatever they could. Although grandma and grandpa said they didn't eat any gophers, many of the people travelling with them did. The Holen family came with them too. They travelled until they had absolutely nothing left to eat. One of the men found a settler who had some barley to spare. They settled in a small village type fashion and divided the barley amongst the families. In Beltrami, Minnesota, there was a settlement where they grew only barley, so that is on which they lived. They boiled it, husks and all and ate it. The men went out to try and get work in the established settlements. They dug wells beside sloughs. The land was open plains with no trees anywhere. The people in Beltrami had potatoes, so they spaded up little plots and so had potatoes to go with their staple barley. They worked like slaves, of course. Eventually they got a grist mill in Thief River Falls so they could at least grind up their barley.
My father had a helpless arthritic brother (Ole?), and one time Grandma had only one potato left in the house. The uncle of mine who was ill got most of it and the rest was divided evenly amongst the rest of the family. Then they had to survive for a time on only barley again. They hauled the barley from Fertile to Thief River Falls to have it gristed. Gradually, of course, things improved. The settlement was about 11.3 km west of Fertile, Minnesota. The Indians at that time were very savage. They walked in with butcher knives and demanded whatever they wanted from the settlers.
On the trek out to the Fertile they camped overnight in circles for protection. One night they drove until darkness came. When they rose in the morning there was a woman's head on top of a post, and her breasts on other posts. Had they seen what was in their camping grounds, I'm sure they wouldn't have picked that particular spot. The Bergs, Holens, and Hammers all came together.
The railroad eventually came through, which was a tremendous help. Dr. Nelson had build a house in the original settlement, and there was also a post office. These had to be moved to the railroad when it came.
Dad (Ludvig) must have been 20 or 21 when he met mother. Mother was Mari Endeberg. Mother's parents were Ole and Ingeborg Endeberg. Mari came to stay with her sister, Ingeborg Severson. She never again saw her parents whom she had left in Norway. Her parents never did come to America, and she was never able to go home to see them again.
I don't remember when mother and dad were married exactly (Ludvig and Mari were married on 27 February 1885). Ludvig had a homestead of his own by that time. They built a little log cabin. They lost four babies: one son and three daughters. Mother had to work so hard. She stooked (shocked) and did chores and a lot of other things too. Dad had to go out and work so much. Mother was born in Sigdal, Norway, 1 April 1862 and died 10 January 1946.
I (Matilda Josephine) was born in 1889 in Fertile on dad's homestead. That house still stands. Olga was born on 3 November 1892, and Lily on 6 September 1897. Olga was married 16 July 1927 and died 4 March 1971.
When I was two years old I had pneumonia. The doctor of the day said he would either kill me or cure me, and he poured a pail of cold water over me. The next morning I sat up and played. The doctor also told us much later that my sister Olga was so frail she would never see her ninth birthday. I worried so much; I dreaded every morning, expecting to find her dead every day as her ninth birthday approached. She lived until she was 79 years old. I lived in Fertile until my marriage when I was 22 years old.
I went to school until I completed my grade 8. I wanted to be a nurse, so in 1908 my parents sent me to a school of nursing in Chicago, Illinois. This was my first time away from home. It was in the days of white slavery, so we were warned to be very careful. I'm sure a man dressed as a woman followed me all day in St. Paul, Minnesota.
The school of nursing was like a nunnery. It was preached that it would be a sin to marry. All the nurses in those days were forced to think that way. Our teachers were all sisters, headed by Sister Superior. I stayed six months and could no longer stand the rigorous life. I wanted to be a nurse as much as ever, but I was so young, and away from home for the first time, in a city like Chicago it was just too much. The fear and homesickness was unbearable. We had to visit the slums. The school building was huge and housed the staff, but students had to find their own living quarters. My room was on the third floor of a flimsy old building. They had open-flame gas lighting, and we were so afraid of it.
Right beside our building was a saloon, there were no street lights, and we had to climb a winding, rickety outside staircase to our rooms. I know that if my parents had known what I was going through, they would have brought me home even sooner.
Severt Johnson came out to Canada in 1905, and returned to Minnesota until 1907, when he again went to Canada to prove up his homestead. He came out with his partner Ole Westad.
There were only two or three buildings in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, at that time. They camped behind one of these buildings when they first came as young bachelors.
In 1912 he came back to Fertile, and we were married on 12 January of that year. We left home two weeks later on 28 January. When we got to Emerson, the conductor (of the train) had told us to get off on the Canadian side of the border. We should have gotten off on the American side to have our baggage checked. We had to run back 1.25 km in "no-man's-land", it was terribly cold too, I almost lost my hat, and the wind was blowing so hard. I couldn't go into the station either and had to wait in the cold while Severt rechecked our baggage. The train waited for us luckily, or perhaps we would have still be there. If we hadn't gone back, we would have lost all our baggage.
We arrived in Winnipeg, Manitoba, in the morning. We stayed there overnight, because Severt wanted to buy a tractor. I believe it was the first tractor in the area of our homestead. It was shipped by rail to Saskatoon. He hired a man to break 40 hectares with it that first spring. The next year he broke 20 hectares with oxen. We also bought some clothes in Winnipeg. I wasn't used to such cold weather. I remember he made me buy some long underwear - woolen no less. I couldn't start a row in Ealon's store, so I had to agree. He made me wear it too. I was so embarrassed, but I suppose he did the right thing.
We boarded the train again and arrived in Traynor, Saskatchewan, the next evening. Old man Niereson was there with dad's team and sleigh. It was storming like crazy. The stores were open until all hours in the night there, so we bought some groceries. Niereson had been there three days waiting for us. There was no way to let him know exactly when we'd come. We had supper in a boarding house and started out in the storm for the homestead. George Freed, a neighbor, was also at the station to see when we arrived. He had ulterior motives, because they planned a chivaree, if we didn't appear in public the next night.
We got to the homestead at 03:00. Everything was frozen solid. The shack was 3 x 3 meters in size. Severt had put up a heater beside a tin cook-stove. I've never seen a stove like it before or since. I wish we'd have kept it. We brought coal from Traynor also, so Severt lit both stoves, and did they burn! He put too much coal in them, they got so hot the pipes started on fire. Severt said sparks and flames went 1500 meters up in the air. There was no wind luckily, and snow was on the roof, so it burned itself out. The roof was bent in the shape of a loaf of bread. They bent two layers of 1.25-cm lumber the shape they wanted, with one layer of tar paper between. Severt sat up until morning. I went to sleep.
The next day it was clear and bitterly cold. There was a dance that night 8 km away, but we had to go or risk being chivareed. I really suffered with the cold and being so tired. I wore a big shawl around my head, one my grandmother had given me. Everyone teased me about it later when they got to know me.
One woman came to that same dance with a newborn baby. She had only an apple box to sit on in the sleigh box. Everyone went to dances in those days regardless of weather. It was the only thing that broke the isolation and monotony. We danced until broad daylight. We sure foiled their plans for a chivaree.
Chivarees were terrible. They got so carried away, they tore the roof right off one of the shacks. One young pastor got married after the church was built. They didn't even know what chivarees were, but the people had no sympathy. They came yelling for the bride to come out so they could see her. She was too terrified to come out, of course, so the pastor offered them $10 if they would only leave, but that was out of the question. They got a window open and poured a pail of ice-cold water over her in bed. They went absolutely berserk, so we were lucky. No one could be chivareed after they have appeared in public, and George Freed didn't have time to get the people together the night we arrived.
When we got home from the dance there was no hay left for the cattle, so Severt had to go a long way to get hay home. Of course it was frozen down and covered deep in snow. He went and got a neighbor, Oscar Lungrock, to help him. Oscar was a very shy bachelor who had very little to eat and a poorly built shack.
Ricka Niereson helped me scrub and clean our shack that day, and Oscar helped Severt with the hay. Severt invited him in for supper, but the poor fellow was so shy he wouldn't come in, even though he had to go home to a frozen shack with hardly anything in it to eat. He lived on seed wheat, dry and raw, and slept on an old coat beside his stove. His hair was 20 cm long, and of course in those days that was frowned upon, so he rolled it up under his cap and never took the cap off in public.
Life generally was humdrum. Freed had a dance once or twice a week, and we all went. At least we went whenever I was able to wheedle Severt into going. I had fun at those dances.
Then they built a little church in Cando, Saskatchewan. There was no railroad and no stores until later. The church helped. Two years later a man put up a store where we got necessities. Traynor was 37 km away.
We waited three more years for the railroad, a branch line from Biggar to Battleford. We were right between the two, 48 km to each from our place.
Then another man came into Cando with a lot of money. He built a new store and ran the first fellow right out of business. We had everything we needed in this world in the new store. Just like when a new shopping mall opens in a small city nowadays.
We owned two cows, so we always had milk. I made lots of butter and sold it for groceries. The store had no place to keep the butter sweet. Only in the cellar, which was damp, so it went moldy. But it's to their credit that they still kept buying our butter. When we got more cows, we went to Battleford to trade for groceries. We would leave home at 04:00 and would cross the reserve just as the sun came up. There I saw my first Indian. They looked so wild. They had their graveyard beside the trail. They didn't bury their dead; they hung them in boxes in the trees, or set the boxes up against the trees. When we drove by, an Indian suddenly appeared and almost scared our horses to death.
(This is where Ruth and Matilda stopped and did not get back to finishing the stories.)
Hammer Family Story
as told by Matilda Josephine Hammer Johnson
written down by her daughter Ruth Johnson Hedstrom [177695300 ]
edited and typewritten by her grand-nephew Kristen Åkre [51653687]
My father, Ludvig Hammer, was born 13 October 1860 in Trondheim [Stjørdal], Norway. When he was five years old he came to Iowa with his parents, Andreas and Mali Hammer. Andreas homesteaded on rocky Iowa land. It must have been the worst land in the state. They farmed what they referred to as "upstairs fields", because of the rocky hilly terrain. His first three crops were totally lost to what they called a "chance" bug. Grandpa tried to make a living for his family. He was a big, very strong man. He could carry a 135-kg barrel of salt. He ran after a wagon one time carrying a barrel, he really did kill himself doing things like that. He died in his early sixty's. His heart couldn't take the strain he imposed on it by such hard work. One of the original "big Norwegians". Mali lived into her early ninety's.
When my father, Ludvig, was 19, the family decided to "go west". They travelled with a caravan of covered wagons. The wagons were pulled mostly by oxen. Some families hitched up whatever they had though. One horse and one cow; one ox and one horse; and the like. That was quite a story. I don't remember how long they said it took them. They did anything they could to feed themselves - hunted, trapped - whatever they could. Although grandma and grandpa said they didn't eat any gophers, many of the people travelling with them did. The Holen family came with them too. They travelled until they had absolutely nothing left to eat. One of the men found a settler who had some barley to spare. They settled in a small village type fashion and divided the barley amongst the families. In Beltrami, Minnesota, there was a settlement where they grew only barley, so that is on which they lived. They boiled it, husks and all and ate it. The men went out to try and get work in the established settlements. They dug wells beside sloughs. The land was open plains with no trees anywhere. The people in Beltrami had potatoes, so they spaded up little plots and so had potatoes to go with their staple barley. They worked like slaves, of course. Eventually they got a grist mill in Thief River Falls so they could at least grind up their barley.
My father had a helpless arthritic brother (Ole?), and one time Grandma had only one potato left in the house. The uncle of mine who was ill got most of it and the rest was divided evenly amongst the rest of the family. Then they had to survive for a time on only barley again. They hauled the barley from Fertile to Thief River Falls to have it gristed. Gradually, of course, things improved. The settlement was about 11.3 km west of Fertile, Minnesota. The Indians at that time were very savage. They walked in with butcher knives and demanded whatever they wanted from the settlers.
On the trek out to the Fertile they camped overnight in circles for protection. One night they drove until darkness came. When they rose in the morning there was a woman's head on top of a post, and her breasts on other posts. Had they seen what was in their camping grounds, I'm sure they wouldn't have picked that particular spot. The Bergs, Holens, and Hammers all came together.
The railroad eventually came through, which was a tremendous help. Dr. Nelson had build a house in the original settlement, and there was also a post office. These had to be moved to the railroad when it came.
Dad (Ludvig) must have been 20 or 21 when he met mother. Mother was Mari Endeberg. Mother's parents were Ole and Ingeborg Endeberg. Mari came to stay with her sister, Ingeborg Severson. She never again saw her parents whom she had left in Norway. Her parents never did come to America, and she was never able to go home to see them again.
I don't remember when mother and dad were married exactly (Ludvig and Mari were married on 27 February 1885). Ludvig had a homestead of his own by that time. They built a little log cabin. They lost four babies: one son and three daughters. Mother had to work so hard. She stooked (shocked) and did chores and a lot of other things too. Dad had to go out and work so much. Mother was born in Sigdal, Norway, 1 April 1862 and died 10 January 1946.
I (Matilda Josephine) was born in 1889 in Fertile on dad's homestead. That house still stands. Olga was born on 3 November 1892, and Lily on 6 September 1897. Olga was married 16 July 1927 and died 4 March 1971.
When I was two years old I had pneumonia. The doctor of the day said he would either kill me or cure me, and he poured a pail of cold water over me. The next morning I sat up and played. The doctor also told us much later that my sister Olga was so frail she would never see her ninth birthday. I worried so much; I dreaded every morning, expecting to find her dead every day as her ninth birthday approached. She lived until she was 79 years old. I lived in Fertile until my marriage when I was 22 years old.
I went to school until I completed my grade 8. I wanted to be a nurse, so in 1908 my parents sent me to a school of nursing in Chicago, Illinois. This was my first time away from home. It was in the days of white slavery, so we were warned to be very careful. I'm sure a man dressed as a woman followed me all day in St. Paul, Minnesota.
The school of nursing was like a nunnery. It was preached that it would be a sin to marry. All the nurses in those days were forced to think that way. Our teachers were all sisters, headed by Sister Superior. I stayed six months and could no longer stand the rigorous life. I wanted to be a nurse as much as ever, but I was so young, and away from home for the first time, in a city like Chicago it was just too much. The fear and homesickness was unbearable. We had to visit the slums. The school building was huge and housed the staff, but students had to find their own living quarters. My room was on the third floor of a flimsy old building. They had open-flame gas lighting, and we were so afraid of it.
Right beside our building was a saloon, there were no street lights, and we had to climb a winding, rickety outside staircase to our rooms. I know that if my parents had known what I was going through, they would have brought me home even sooner.
Severt Johnson came out to Canada in 1905, and returned to Minnesota until 1907, when he again went to Canada to prove up his homestead. He came out with his partner Ole Westad.
There were only two or three buildings in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, at that time. They camped behind one of these buildings when they first came as young bachelors.
In 1912 he came back to Fertile, and we were married on 12 January of that year. We left home two weeks later on 28 January. When we got to Emerson, the conductor (of the train) had told us to get off on the Canadian side of the border. We should have gotten off on the American side to have our baggage checked. We had to run back 1.25 km in "no-man's-land", it was terribly cold too, I almost lost my hat, and the wind was blowing so hard. I couldn't go into the station either and had to wait in the cold while Severt rechecked our baggage. The train waited for us luckily, or perhaps we would have still be there. If we hadn't gone back, we would have lost all our baggage.
We arrived in Winnipeg, Manitoba, in the morning. We stayed there overnight, because Severt wanted to buy a tractor. I believe it was the first tractor in the area of our homestead. It was shipped by rail to Saskatoon. He hired a man to break 40 hectares with it that first spring. The next year he broke 20 hectares with oxen. We also bought some clothes in Winnipeg. I wasn't used to such cold weather. I remember he made me buy some long underwear - woolen no less. I couldn't start a row in Ealon's store, so I had to agree. He made me wear it too. I was so embarrassed, but I suppose he did the right thing.
We boarded the train again and arrived in Traynor, Saskatchewan, the next evening. Old man Niereson was there with dad's team and sleigh. It was storming like crazy. The stores were open until all hours in the night there, so we bought some groceries. Niereson had been there three days waiting for us. There was no way to let him know exactly when we'd come. We had supper in a boarding house and started out in the storm for the homestead. George Freed, a neighbor, was also at the station to see when we arrived. He had ulterior motives, because they planned a chivaree, if we didn't appear in public the next night.
We got to the homestead at 03:00. Everything was frozen solid. The shack was 3 x 3 meters in size. Severt had put up a heater beside a tin cook-stove. I've never seen a stove like it before or since. I wish we'd have kept it. We brought coal from Traynor also, so Severt lit both stoves, and did they burn! He put too much coal in them, they got so hot the pipes started on fire. Severt said sparks and flames went 1500 meters up in the air. There was no wind luckily, and snow was on the roof, so it burned itself out. The roof was bent in the shape of a loaf of bread. They bent two layers of 1.25-cm lumber the shape they wanted, with one layer of tar paper between. Severt sat up until morning. I went to sleep.
The next day it was clear and bitterly cold. There was a dance that night 8 km away, but we had to go or risk being chivareed. I really suffered with the cold and being so tired. I wore a big shawl around my head, one my grandmother had given me. Everyone teased me about it later when they got to know me.
One woman came to that same dance with a newborn baby. She had only an apple box to sit on in the sleigh box. Everyone went to dances in those days regardless of weather. It was the only thing that broke the isolation and monotony. We danced until broad daylight. We sure foiled their plans for a chivaree.
Chivarees were terrible. They got so carried away, they tore the roof right off one of the shacks. One young pastor got married after the church was built. They didn't even know what chivarees were, but the people had no sympathy. They came yelling for the bride to come out so they could see her. She was too terrified to come out, of course, so the pastor offered them $10 if they would only leave, but that was out of the question. They got a window open and poured a pail of ice-cold water over her in bed. They went absolutely berserk, so we were lucky. No one could be chivareed after they have appeared in public, and George Freed didn't have time to get the people together the night we arrived.
When we got home from the dance there was no hay left for the cattle, so Severt had to go a long way to get hay home. Of course it was frozen down and covered deep in snow. He went and got a neighbor, Oscar Lungrock, to help him. Oscar was a very shy bachelor who had very little to eat and a poorly built shack.
Ricka Niereson helped me scrub and clean our shack that day, and Oscar helped Severt with the hay. Severt invited him in for supper, but the poor fellow was so shy he wouldn't come in, even though he had to go home to a frozen shack with hardly anything in it to eat. He lived on seed wheat, dry and raw, and slept on an old coat beside his stove. His hair was 20 cm long, and of course in those days that was frowned upon, so he rolled it up under his cap and never took the cap off in public.
Life generally was humdrum. Freed had a dance once or twice a week, and we all went. At least we went whenever I was able to wheedle Severt into going. I had fun at those dances.
Then they built a little church in Cando, Saskatchewan. There was no railroad and no stores until later. The church helped. Two years later a man put up a store where we got necessities. Traynor was 37 km away.
We waited three more years for the railroad, a branch line from Biggar to Battleford. We were right between the two, 48 km to each from our place.
Then another man came into Cando with a lot of money. He built a new store and ran the first fellow right out of business. We had everything we needed in this world in the new store. Just like when a new shopping mall opens in a small city nowadays.
We owned two cows, so we always had milk. I made lots of butter and sold it for groceries. The store had no place to keep the butter sweet. Only in the cellar, which was damp, so it went moldy. But it's to their credit that they still kept buying our butter. When we got more cows, we went to Battleford to trade for groceries. We would leave home at 04:00 and would cross the reserve just as the sun came up. There I saw my first Indian. They looked so wild. They had their graveyard beside the trail. They didn't bury their dead; they hung them in boxes in the trees, or set the boxes up against the trees. When we drove by, an Indian suddenly appeared and almost scared our horses to death.
(This is where Ruth and Matilda stopped and did not get back to finishing the stories.)
as told by Matilda Josephine Hammer Johnson
written down by her daughter Ruth Johnson Hedstrom [177695300 ]
edited and typewritten by her grand-nephew Kristen Åkre [51653687]
My father, Ludvig Hammer, was born 13 October 1860 in Trondheim [Stjørdal], Norway. When he was five years old he came to Iowa with his parents, Andreas and Mali Hammer. Andreas homesteaded on rocky Iowa land. It must have been the worst land in the state. They farmed what they referred to as "upstairs fields", because of the rocky hilly terrain. His first three crops were totally lost to what they called a "chance" bug. Grandpa tried to make a living for his family. He was a big, very strong man. He could carry a 135-kg barrel of salt. He ran after a wagon one time carrying a barrel, he really did kill himself doing things like that. He died in his early sixty's. His heart couldn't take the strain he imposed on it by such hard work. One of the original "big Norwegians". Mali lived into her early ninety's.
When my father, Ludvig, was 19, the family decided to "go west". They travelled with a caravan of covered wagons. The wagons were pulled mostly by oxen. Some families hitched up whatever they had though. One horse and one cow; one ox and one horse; and the like. That was quite a story. I don't remember how long they said it took them. They did anything they could to feed themselves - hunted, trapped - whatever they could. Although grandma and grandpa said they didn't eat any gophers, many of the people travelling with them did. The Holen family came with them too. They travelled until they had absolutely nothing left to eat. One of the men found a settler who had some barley to spare. They settled in a small village type fashion and divided the barley amongst the families. In Beltrami, Minnesota, there was a settlement where they grew only barley, so that is on which they lived. They boiled it, husks and all and ate it. The men went out to try and get work in the established settlements. They dug wells beside sloughs. The land was open plains with no trees anywhere. The people in Beltrami had potatoes, so they spaded up little plots and so had potatoes to go with their staple barley. They worked like slaves, of course. Eventually they got a grist mill in Thief River Falls so they could at least grind up their barley.
My father had a helpless arthritic brother (Ole?), and one time Grandma had only one potato left in the house. The uncle of mine who was ill got most of it and the rest was divided evenly amongst the rest of the family. Then they had to survive for a time on only barley again. They hauled the barley from Fertile to Thief River Falls to have it gristed. Gradually, of course, things improved. The settlement was about 11.3 km west of Fertile, Minnesota. The Indians at that time were very savage. They walked in with butcher knives and demanded whatever they wanted from the settlers.
On the trek out to the Fertile they camped overnight in circles for protection. One night they drove until darkness came. When they rose in the morning there was a woman's head on top of a post, and her breasts on other posts. Had they seen what was in their camping grounds, I'm sure they wouldn't have picked that particular spot. The Bergs, Holens, and Hammers all came together.
The railroad eventually came through, which was a tremendous help. Dr. Nelson had build a house in the original settlement, and there was also a post office. These had to be moved to the railroad when it came.
Dad (Ludvig) must have been 20 or 21 when he met mother. Mother was Mari Endeberg. Mother's parents were Ole and Ingeborg Endeberg. Mari came to stay with her sister, Ingeborg Severson. She never again saw her parents whom she had left in Norway. Her parents never did come to America, and she was never able to go home to see them again.
I don't remember when mother and dad were married exactly (Ludvig and Mari were married on 27 February 1885). Ludvig had a homestead of his own by that time. They built a little log cabin. They lost four babies: one son and three daughters. Mother had to work so hard. She stooked (shocked) and did chores and a lot of other things too. Dad had to go out and work so much. Mother was born in Sigdal, Norway, 1 April 1862 and died 10 January 1946.
I (Matilda Josephine) was born in 1889 in Fertile on dad's homestead. That house still stands. Olga was born on 3 November 1892, and Lily on 6 September 1897. Olga was married 16 July 1927 and died 4 March 1971.
When I was two years old I had pneumonia. The doctor of the day said he would either kill me or cure me, and he poured a pail of cold water over me. The next morning I sat up and played. The doctor also told us much later that my sister Olga was so frail she would never see her ninth birthday. I worried so much; I dreaded every morning, expecting to find her dead every day as her ninth birthday approached. She lived until she was 79 years old. I lived in Fertile until my marriage when I was 22 years old.
I went to school until I completed my grade 8. I wanted to be a nurse, so in 1908 my parents sent me to a school of nursing in Chicago, Illinois. This was my first time away from home. It was in the days of white slavery, so we were warned to be very careful. I'm sure a man dressed as a woman followed me all day in St. Paul, Minnesota.
The school of nursing was like a nunnery. It was preached that it would be a sin to marry. All the nurses in those days were forced to think that way. Our teachers were all sisters, headed by Sister Superior. I stayed six months and could no longer stand the rigorous life. I wanted to be a nurse as much as ever, but I was so young, and away from home for the first time, in a city like Chicago it was just too much. The fear and homesickness was unbearable. We had to visit the slums. The school building was huge and housed the staff, but students had to find their own living quarters. My room was on the third floor of a flimsy old building. They had open-flame gas lighting, and we were so afraid of it.
Right beside our building was a saloon, there were no street lights, and we had to climb a winding, rickety outside staircase to our rooms. I know that if my parents had known what I was going through, they would have brought me home even sooner.
Severt Johnson came out to Canada in 1905, and returned to Minnesota until 1907, when he again went to Canada to prove up his homestead. He came out with his partner Ole Westad.
There were only two or three buildings in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, at that time. They camped behind one of these buildings when they first came as young bachelors.
In 1912 he came back to Fertile, and we were married on 12 January of that year. We left home two weeks later on 28 January. When we got to Emerson, the conductor (of the train) had told us to get off on the Canadian side of the border. We should have gotten off on the American side to have our baggage checked. We had to run back 1.25 km in "no-man's-land", it was terribly cold too, I almost lost my hat, and the wind was blowing so hard. I couldn't go into the station either and had to wait in the cold while Severt rechecked our baggage. The train waited for us luckily, or perhaps we would have still be there. If we hadn't gone back, we would have lost all our baggage.
We arrived in Winnipeg, Manitoba, in the morning. We stayed there overnight, because Severt wanted to buy a tractor. I believe it was the first tractor in the area of our homestead. It was shipped by rail to Saskatoon. He hired a man to break 40 hectares with it that first spring. The next year he broke 20 hectares with oxen. We also bought some clothes in Winnipeg. I wasn't used to such cold weather. I remember he made me buy some long underwear - woolen no less. I couldn't start a row in Ealon's store, so I had to agree. He made me wear it too. I was so embarrassed, but I suppose he did the right thing.
We boarded the train again and arrived in Traynor, Saskatchewan, the next evening. Old man Niereson was there with dad's team and sleigh. It was storming like crazy. The stores were open until all hours in the night there, so we bought some groceries. Niereson had been there three days waiting for us. There was no way to let him know exactly when we'd come. We had supper in a boarding house and started out in the storm for the homestead. George Freed, a neighbor, was also at the station to see when we arrived. He had ulterior motives, because they planned a chivaree, if we didn't appear in public the next night.
We got to the homestead at 03:00. Everything was frozen solid. The shack was 3 x 3 meters in size. Severt had put up a heater beside a tin cook-stove. I've never seen a stove like it before or since. I wish we'd have kept it. We brought coal from Traynor also, so Severt lit both stoves, and did they burn! He put too much coal in them, they got so hot the pipes started on fire. Severt said sparks and flames went 1500 meters up in the air. There was no wind luckily, and snow was on the roof, so it burned itself out. The roof was bent in the shape of a loaf of bread. They bent two layers of 1.25-cm lumber the shape they wanted, with one layer of tar paper between. Severt sat up until morning. I went to sleep.
The next day it was clear and bitterly cold. There was a dance that night 8 km away, but we had to go or risk being chivareed. I really suffered with the cold and being so tired. I wore a big shawl around my head, one my grandmother had given me. Everyone teased me about it later when they got to know me.
One woman came to that same dance with a newborn baby. She had only an apple box to sit on in the sleigh box. Everyone went to dances in those days regardless of weather. It was the only thing that broke the isolation and monotony. We danced until broad daylight. We sure foiled their plans for a chivaree.
Chivarees were terrible. They got so carried away, they tore the roof right off one of the shacks. One young pastor got married after the church was built. They didn't even know what chivarees were, but the people had no sympathy. They came yelling for the bride to come out so they could see her. She was too terrified to come out, of course, so the pastor offered them $10 if they would only leave, but that was out of the question. They got a window open and poured a pail of ice-cold water over her in bed. They went absolutely berserk, so we were lucky. No one could be chivareed after they have appeared in public, and George Freed didn't have time to get the people together the night we arrived.
When we got home from the dance there was no hay left for the cattle, so Severt had to go a long way to get hay home. Of course it was frozen down and covered deep in snow. He went and got a neighbor, Oscar Lungrock, to help him. Oscar was a very shy bachelor who had very little to eat and a poorly built shack.
Ricka Niereson helped me scrub and clean our shack that day, and Oscar helped Severt with the hay. Severt invited him in for supper, but the poor fellow was so shy he wouldn't come in, even though he had to go home to a frozen shack with hardly anything in it to eat. He lived on seed wheat, dry and raw, and slept on an old coat beside his stove. His hair was 20 cm long, and of course in those days that was frowned upon, so he rolled it up under his cap and never took the cap off in public.
Life generally was humdrum. Freed had a dance once or twice a week, and we all went. At least we went whenever I was able to wheedle Severt into going. I had fun at those dances.
Then they built a little church in Cando, Saskatchewan. There was no railroad and no stores until later. The church helped. Two years later a man put up a store where we got necessities. Traynor was 37 km away.
We waited three more years for the railroad, a branch line from Biggar to Battleford. We were right between the two, 48 km to each from our place.
Then another man came into Cando with a lot of money. He built a new store and ran the first fellow right out of business. We had everything we needed in this world in the new store. Just like when a new shopping mall opens in a small city nowadays.
We owned two cows, so we always had milk. I made lots of butter and sold it for groceries. The store had no place to keep the butter sweet. Only in the cellar, which was damp, so it went moldy. But it's to their credit that they still kept buying our butter. When we got more cows, we went to Battleford to trade for groceries. We would leave home at 04:00 and would cross the reserve just as the sun came up. There I saw my first Indian. They looked so wild. They had their graveyard beside the trail. They didn't bury their dead; they hung them in boxes in the trees, or set the boxes up against the trees. When we drove by, an Indian suddenly appeared and almost scared our horses to death.
(This is where Ruth and Matilda stopped and did not get back to finishing the stories.)
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