Iowa Heritage Illustrated

Jeansonne, Glen

English

Herbert Hoover: Meetinghouse to White House

Iowa Heritage Illustrated, vol.90 no.3, Fall 2009

Iowa Heritage Illustrated, vol.90 no.1, Spring 2009

Iowa Heritage Illustrated, vol.90 no.2, Summer 2009

Acton, Richard

Iowans and John Brown's Attack on Harpers Ferry

Morgans, James Patrick

One way to glimpse 1850s Iowa is 
to invoke the power of place. Two 
houses that represent militant ab­
olitionists are the Todd House in 
Tabor and the Hitchcock House 
in Lewis. Both are on the Nation­
al Register of Historic Places and 
open to the public.
John Todd
IOWA ABOLITIONIST John Todd had a career as an activist 
that spanned nearly 60 years. Raised in Pennsylvania,Todd grad­
uated from the most progressive institution in America at that 
time.Oberlin College in Oberlin, Ohio. A t Oberlin, black men, 
black women, white men, and white women all attended the 
same classes. “ O f all the thousands of Oberlin students,” Todd 
once said,“ I never knew one who studied there long, who did
George Hitchcock
THE SON OF A SHOEMAKER who “was an ardent advocate 
of learning and religion," George B. Hitchcock was raised and 
educated in Massachusetts and Illinois. In 1835 he married Car­
oline Grossman, and in 1841 they moved to eastern Iowa. For 
a time he labored as a farmer in Scott County, but he soon 
entered his true calling, the ministry.
His “ fields of labor" in Iowa included Oskaloosa, Eddyville, 
and Lewis. While there are no references to Hitchcock par­
ticipating in the underground railroad while in Eddyville and 
Oskaloosa, both locations were situated along known routes. 
It would be stretching mere coincidence to believe that Hitch­
cock’s and the American Home Missionary Society’s presence 
in these communities were entirely without abolitionist mo­
tives and actions.
In Eddyville, Hitchcock founded a Congregational church 
with its own meeting house, the construction of which, achieved 
largely by means of his own labor, cost him the loss of an eye. In 
a few years he decided to “ settle in Indiantown in Cass County.
This will be a place of considerable importance---- All the roads
running west take the same route to Kanesville [Council Bluffs]. 
There is a good opportunity for a settlement, good land, good wa­
ter power and good rock quarries.There are about 25 families in 
the settlement” He added,“There is no preaching in any of the
not go out from there a thorough abolitionist." Todd became 
known as a dynamic Congregationalist preacher.
Once while traveling on a steamboat down the Ohio River, 
on his way to Iowa, Todd noticed that another passenger was 
reading the widely circulated proslavery argument by South 
Carolina clergyman Richard Fuller.Todd asked if he might read 
it next. The passenger was a proslavery man and questioned 
him about his beliefs.
Todd answered in no uncertain terms that he was for the 
abolition of slavery. Other proslavery passengers crowded 
around him in a most threatening manner and began shouting: 
“ Shoot him. Kill him.” Another yelled,“ The damned Abolition­
ist!" I wish I had him! I would swap him off for a dog and then 
I would shoot the dog!" Todd stood his ground.
In 1850, Todd and his wife, Martha, and their children 
joined George and Maria Gaston and others who shared their 
beliefs southwestern Iowa. In 1854, the Todds helped establish 
the town of Tabor.
In Tabor, abolition was not abstract talk about an Alabama 
cotton plantation. Slavery was a reality, and fewer than 35 miles 
away from the Missouri border. Some Missouri slaveholders 
became so alarmed at the number of slaves escaping into Iowa 
that they doubled the reward for their capture to $200 (a mini­
mum yearly wage at that time was $300.) The Todds played 
critical roles in helping free-soil immigrants reach Kansas Terri­
tory, and in assisting fugitives from slavery.
The Hitchcock House sits on a hill overlooking Lewis and the 
East Nishnabotna River valley. A National Historic Landmark, 
the house is open for tours May through September.
settlements, I shall supply them to the extent of my ability."
We need some five or six ministers in Western Iowa and 
Nebraska,” he wrote the American Home Missionary Society 
in 1855.“ This field is becoming more and more important, and 
will soon need a large reinforcement of ministers to supply the 
thronging multitude who are pushing forward to these wide-
80 Iowa Heritage Illustrated


John Todd

Smith, Michael

Ra r e l y
S e e n :
C o o l  S t u f f
from th e
M useum
Text by curators Michael Smith, 
Bill Johnson, and Jack Lufkin
Photography by John Zeller
"Hey, that's cool!"
That's what we hear from some 
of our visitors when they happen 
upon a particular item in our 
museum exhibits.
Others might remark, "Remember 
how Grandma used to have one 
like that?"
Or, "You never see those anymore, 
do you?"
Surely you'll make similar com­
ments when you visit our new 
exhibit "Rarely Seen: Cool Stuff 
from the Museum."
On these pages, enjoy a sampling 
of some of the "cool stuff" we're 
showcasing.

T
he State Historical Society has been
collecting the stuff of Iowa history for 
over 150 years.
Some objects in our m useum  collections relate 
to famous people, places, and events that are 
prom inent in our collective m em ory Think of 
foreign dignitaries and faraway wars, or local 
disasters and popular landmarks.
O rdinary people and everyday events, 
however, are as m eaningful as are fam ous 
people and m om entous events. So, too, are 
com m on rites of passage — like m arrying 
and m ourning—and everyday objects— like 
toys and chairs.
Objects that represent innovation remind us 
that Iowans have continually searched for 
better, faster, and easier technologies— whether 
in agriculture or electronics.
Works of art offer unique visions of the world. 
They add beauty to our lives, sustain cultural 
traditions, and feed the imagination, be they 
sculpture, needlework, theater, or music.
18 Iozoa Heritage Illustrated
In a 1959 visit to 
Iowa, Soviet pre­
mier Nikita Khrush­
chev presented this 
cloak, or burka, to 
Coon Rapids farmer 
Roswell Garst, ex­
plaining that as a 
young man he had 
worn one while herd­
ing sheep in the 
Ukraine.
An innovator in 
hybrid seed corn 
and agricultural tech­
nology, Garst had 
hosted delegations 
and exchanged vis­
its with agriculture 
alists from Eastern 
Europe and the So­
viet Union. Garst 
first m et Khrush­
chev in 1955 at his 
summer home in 
the Crimea.
Spring 2009 19
On left: Operation Iraqi Freedom was 
in its second year when Sgt. Shelaine 
Tuytchaevers donned this uniform. 
Based in Des Moines, she and other 
members of the 366th Mobile Public 
Affairs Detachment U.S. Army Re­
serve were ordered to Mosul. There 
she served as a broadcast journalist.
Right: Maj. Edward Bryja acquired this 
Iraqi enlisted man’s uniform while in­
specting one of the many warehouses in 
theTaji area in Iraq. Bryja was deployed 
to Iraq in 2003 as a public affairs officer 
with the U.S. Army’s Third Corps Sup­
port Command. During his tour he in­
vestigated the Republican Guard bases 
near Taji. This area held an Iraqi army 
air force base, repair facilities for the 
local Hammurabi Mechanized Division, 
rocket factories, and reported botulism 
and uranium enrichment facilities.
The gas mask is a reminder of 
the weapons of mass destruction that 
the multinational forces expected to 
encounter.
20 Iowa Heritage Illustrated

V
OC
N>
3
ÍD
03
OJV
c*
•<
o rf-j
ex CL
n
ft> mam a cu
ir 3 rt)<
0 O rt)"T
rt> V)
rf i/>
rt)
UJ
2
0 ■■ •
a
0
3
O 3 3
o rt) rt)
rt </> a.
IT <•
Vz 3"(D rt3"0 ¡7Tcr
«— ■ 3rt) CL c3
U 0c rt o'
cr IT
Designed to circulate air and dispel odors in a barn, ventilators like this one were 
commonly installed on barn roofs. This galvanized-steel Tip Top Ventilator was 
made in Des Moines by the Anderson Manufacturing Company and was used on a 
barn on the Van Pilsum farm near Prairie City about 1920.
22 Ioiva Heritage Illustrated
Genevieve Nahra Mougin keeps alive her Leb­
anese heritage through traditional lacework. 
She says, “It’s just something to do with my old
age.”
Her mother began teaching her needle­
work when she was only seven, using an ordinary 
needle and fine linen thread. The craft is known 
throughout the Middle East and is referred to 
variously as Phoenician, Syrian, Armenian, Ara­
bian, or, simply, knotted lace.
She uses no patterns. Her designs, she says, 
“come straight from my head.” Her most am ­
bitious piece is this drum table cloth. With a 
diameter of 47 inches, it took her over eight 
months to complete. She wears two pairs of 
glasses because of the delicacy of the lacework.
The threat of German U-boats in World 
War II was brought under control by the 
electronic wizardry of George Town, Kenneth 
Henderson, and Harold Goldberg. Work­
ing for the Stromberg-Carlson Company, 
they developed the radar power source that 
brought the Navy Standard Radar Modula­
tor (Moar II) into service as airborne radar. 
The units revolutionized the defense against 
German submarines. The radar could detect  
a periscope at four miles and a submarine’s 
conning tower at 45 miles.
After the war, Town and Henderson 
joined the engineering faculty at Iowa State 
University.
24 Iowa Heritage Illustrated
Like many couples in the early 1940s, Ar­
lene Alberts and Clinton Fogde were ready 
to marry after World War II ended.
But Arlene could not find a wedding 
dress, and white silk was not to be had 
anywhere because most of it was used for 
parachutes.That was when Clinton realized 
that he had ready access to yards of white 
parachute silk.
Still enlisted, Clinton and his buddies 
in the army air corps readied a cargo plane 
with a large cargo parachute tied to rail­
road ties. They took off from their station 
near Omaha. Flying low over the Alberts 
farm near Pocahontas, they pushed out the 
parachute. It floated down on the farm and 
was recovered by Arlene’s father. Arlene 
had her dress fashioned out of the silk, and 
the couple was married on June 16.
Spring 2009 25
The “Torch of Life” was a daily reminder to Des Moines motorists to drive safely. 
In 1967 the sign was installed prominently on the exterior wall of the National 
Traveler’s Life Insurance Company office on Keosauqua Way. On days when traf­
fic fatalities occurred in Polk County, the neon light was turned off, signifying an 
extinguished life.
26 Iowa Heritage Illustrated
This stately hearse belonged to Elias Parker, who entered the funeral business in Jesup in 
1912. Before that he was a farmer and blacksmith.
Hioebe Ann Will Greet 
Old Friends Tomorrow
ENTERS Phoebe Ann. 7G-year- old china-headed doll, and make* her bo» at Longfel- 
low achool again tomorrow, aftor 
l>u absence ot several year».
Accompanying Phoeho Ann will 
bo MIm  Margaret Burt.  76 yean  
old, who giuirht the primary 
room at Longfellow for twenty- 
1 night year». It 1» around Phoebe 
Ann and MIm  Burt that  tho party 
will center.
Phoebe Ann has been heralded 
a* the apostle of nmlty and good 
rill between teacher and chll-
black china-headed doll 
u«td to enchant the heart» 
girl* and boya around 
|  and other seasons will 
be pre«*nt tomorrow In her 
*dre«**iiD*' clothe*, which were
MARGARET BURT, 
mad« for her  Junt levonty yeara| 
aKo thla Christina*.
They include « ruffled pair of 
"panties.“ an undershirt.  a ebe-| 
mlso, a cone t  cover, a petticoat 
and a white embroidered dress| 
with a red aaah.
Boya. MIm  Burt claim», are 
more maternal than girls. Boya 
alwaya remember Phoebe Ann and 
aak about her  whenever an  old I 
l<oncfellow «Indent and Mia« Burt 
meet. *be aver*.
Many men and women now liv­
ing In tho city recall the dayaj 
when grief and homcalckn«»* 
were soothed by holding the doll 
or hearing a story about Phoebe 
Ann She. like MLsa Burt, played 
a prominent part In tho live* of| 
the little children, who attended 
their first day of achool under! 
Mias Burt.
Th* ag«-d teacher U not alarmed 
by tho action» of the youngster» or| 
today. She think* they arc Just 
¿a good. Just a i  wbole«omo and 
Juki as interested In dolla and 
childish play aa they were in time« 
past.
Ml*» Burt declare« that  *ho| 
lilani*« parents for the unruly 
children. Youngster* aro not bad 
br Inntlurt. They Ju«t apo their 
elder*. And tomorrow afternoon 
;ho champion of children and 
Phoeh* Ann will bo present to! 
meet some of the*« parents.
Fifteen of the parent* were 
children In MIm  Hurt * first room 
and their children tomorrow will [ 
present t be teacher of their] 
father  or mother with a ro«e.
Meet Phoebe Ann. Teacher Margaret Burt used this ceramic china doll to soothe  
upset or timid kindergarteners at Longfellow School in Des Moines, where Burt 
taught for 28 years. In 1927 a reporter for the Des Moines Evening News recalled 
that “many men and women now living in the city recall the days when grief and 
homesickness were soothed by holding the doll or hearing a story about Phoebe  
Ann.”
28 Iowa Heritage Illustrated
In 1890 Pastor Paul Bieger left the small 
Bethany Lutheran Church in Burlington, 
Iowa. This remembrance quilt was pre­
sented to him from the Ladies Aid Society. 
This close-up reveals only a few of the many 
varieties of fabrics, stitches, and patterns 
typical of a crazy quilt.
Spring 2009 29

COURTESY ROBERT W SCHOEFF. PROFESSOR EMERITUS. GRAIN SCIENCE DEPARTMENT. KANSAS STATE UNIVERSITY
Left and bottom right: Two views of 
the scale model of the Agri Industries 
grain elevator in Council Bluffs. The 
model was used as an exhibit in a trial 
following a disaster at the facility on 
the afternoon of April 20, I 982.
Council Bluffs residents heard and 
felt the terrible explosion from miles 
away. Experts deduced that a spark 
had ignited grain dust. Fire leveled the 
elevator house and damaged the mas- 
sive storage bins, with capacity for over 
two millions bushels of grain.
Five workers died and 24 were in­
jured. Families of the victims sued Agri 
Industries.
Spring 2009 31
i
Local businesses in Johnson County 
hoped that their ads painted on this 
theater backdrop would catch the eye 
of audience members awaiting the 
start of a performance. The colorful 
backdrop was used at Center School in 
Johnson County about 1933.
In the foreground is an Eastlake-style 
Kimball reed organ from the late 19th 
century. The organ and stool were sold 
by Waterloo dealer L. S. Parsons.
32 Icrwa Heritage Illustrated
—
CHUCKS<8 >XD
SERVICE
STATION
t 6 o  SOLON
U A L I T YHQHHH 
W ITHOUT E X TR A V IG A N C E
W ELC
SOLONCAFE
JUST A GOOD 
PLACE TO EAT 
A R T
MMISHEK AUTO i 1MPL.C0,
CHRYSLER PLYMOUTH -SALES L SERVICE 
MCCORMICK- DEERING EQUI PM ENT 
PHONE 161 -  SOLON, IOWA D IA M O N D S
W A T C H E S
SILVERWARE
GLASSES  
EYES E X A M IN E D  
WATCH R E P A IR IN G  
220 E. WASH.I W
FOR A  S Q U A R E  D E A L
HARDWARE
O / V S  fc O I L  
R E F R E S H M E N T S
MORSE, 10W)
M A M A R A
FURNITURE CO
SERVING THE PEOPLE 
OF IOWA SINCE 1905
Iowa City, la
HOHENSblUH
MORTUARY
J . H .  DONOHUE 
DELMER SAMPLE 
F U N E R A L  D IR E C T O R S  
A N D  P R O P R IE T O R S
PHONE 6171
IO W A  C IT Y  IA . IO
t h i s  b a n k  w i l l  d o
FO R  YOU E V E R Y T H IN G  
T H A T  A  G O O D  B A N K
O U G H T  T O  D O
I  I  ®  *  _ A
» —
SS» 
II
n U Á U T V  - S T V l ^  
^  SATISFACTION
grocery ZENISHEKonopytowers
GREENHOUSES, STORE 
COR. CHURCH \ 111 S.DUiUQUE ST 
t  D O D G E  | „ « m
JOHN DEERE 
„ FARM im p l e m e n t s  
tractors  l  h a r n e s s
SOLON, IOWA
F .W .R E Y H O N S ,P R O RIOWA CITYIJSEST STORE 
fe ^ M E N  AND BOYS__
'o  CENTER SCHOOL, NEW PORT N o.3  |
IOWA CITV, IA
*  A N D  'll
KOUDELKW
FURNACES 
SPOUTI NO • ROOFING 
ALL KINDS OF
SHEET NETALWK
I o w a  C i t y ,  l a .
Hi OLKSS 
. - vowA errv, i
~ jir*. I ‘
* II llgfl
ffk. — j-
i I $  Ú *
k »TH I  k i f
Jiiv \ " •ji
rt)3
"0
Vi
O3
Mi
c
s
rt>
0)
Mi
a
3 a.
S" (T)
T  2
8 JS
2 c
<M 3  
CU CL
3
m m  •
Mi
o w
3 3
3-S1» s.
ft; prt *"rt> 9
_  M)
S i
3 " rt)
>o
U>UJ
K w
0 5,
1 ■CU -D
Mi (X)
§ §• 
°-1 
*sO n
rt> to
3  * 
rr — \ 
to -?
; «n n
i
r r
0)Cu OJ c ^
I  ?rt>
3nro
cr
n
5T
a.
3 3rt) *o
l !
"  a
ft; O
< P< rr p n
300
rt)
2. to
o r ><
rt> rt)
0 0
"O n
rt) SL
CL
rt cr
3" c
&) Mimmm •
rt 3
rr ro
rt) «■ •
Mi
Mi
rt)
•
CL 3
<✓> w
"D 0
U> 3*mm •
3
3
Virr
rt)
a
0
3
0 o
3 0
ct
h
i
s
3
3
**3>0a>o
r,t?o
A T
- /  ' y * "  l J
j ' ♦  |  1
M
. 11 « f a ?
I I  7 {  ,
i } i . J fi l l
■ A *
Behold an almost for­
gotten 1960s trend, 
the paper dress. Doro­
thy Hershner of Ce­
dar Rapids acquired 
this dress through a 
promotion; she wore 
it only once— even 
though Time magazine 
predicted that cheap 
and disposable “paper 
clothing apparently is 
here to stay.”
34 Iowa Heritage Illustrated
i
Sculpted from Carrara marble, America was the creation of 
Vinnie Ream Hoxie for the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair and rep­
resented the bounty of this nation.
Born in I 847, Vinnie Ream was awarded a contract from 
the U.S. Congress in 1866 for a full-size marble statue of Abra­
ham Lincoln for the Capitol rotunda. The first woman to win 
such a federal commission, she was only 19 at the time.
Hoxie and her husband sometimes summered in Iowa
City.
You’ll see much more of Iowa history in 
the State Historical Society’s new ex ­
hibit “Rarely Seen: Cool Stuff from the 
Museum.”
Even more rarely seen are the staff 
who created the exhibit, such as technician 
Vern Tyler (right), who is putting the finish­
ing touches on a furniture display.
Other behind-the-scenes museum staff 
for this exhibit includeTom Hardie (techni­
cian); Jodi Evans (registrar); Jerry Brown 
(exhibit designer); Pete Sixbey (conserva­
tor); Bill Johnson and Jack Lufkin (cura­
tors); and Michael Smith (chief curator and 
interim museum director).
The State Historical Museum is located 
at 600 E. Locust, Des Moines, Iowa. Hours: 
Tuesday-Saturday,9-4:30,and Sunday, noon 
-4:30. Closed Mondays and official state 
holidays, www.iowahistory.org
36 Imva Heritage Illustrated

3
6
 
Iow
a H
eritage Illustrated
C/>
0 ^
3* 1
0_ -U
m m  •
•  • 
U»
a o
U) •
*<
i/>
• n
*
0
!✓>
*
*•
a
0 2
* 0
ft) 3
a
m m  9 Cü
</>
rt*
0
"<
4/)


Rarely Seen: Cool Stuff from the Museum

Beranek, Jamie

Don Ultang poses with the bulky press 
camera he used to take stunning aerial 
photos of Iowa for the Des Moines Reg­
ister, 1946-1958. In this essay, Ultang’s 
daughter Joanne recounts her growing- 
up years tagging along with her father in 
the new world of photojournalism.
From the Other Side of the Lens
b y  J o a n n e  U lta n g
T
he life and work of Don Ultang—my father— 
shaped my childhood and ultimately came to 
be a defining force in my adult life as well. As 
I was growing up, our family and life seemed 
"normal," because 1 knew nothing else. In fact, from 
the vantage point of adulthood, I came to see it as an 
environment of privilege, though by this I do not mean 
monetary privilege; we lived modestly in a standard 
Arts and Crafts bungalow in a beautiful but unevent­
ful part of Des Moines. Instead, I mean the advantages 
coming from growing up surrounded by some of the 
best and the brightest talents of my father's generation, 
that legendary and so-called Greatest Generation. 
Intelligent and educated, my father and mother set,
by example, an unstated but omnipresent household 
and family culture to match. In our home, bookshelves 
were crammed with books; an imposing volume of 7he 
Merriam-Webster Unabridged Dictionary was regularly 
consulted at meals to settle bets on words; my parents' 
friends, dropping by to visit, discussed current events 
or finer points of the law. And always, and uniquely, 
there were my father's photographs—expanding our 
personal horizons, making our surname widely recog­
nized, and providing a rich visual environment—with 
some of them enlarged, framed, and hung as artwork 
on our walls while others were carefully preserved in 
family photo albums.
But ours were not destined to be any ordinary fam-
140 Iowa Heritage Illustrated
C
O
U
R
T
E
SY
 O
F
 T
H
E
 A
U
T
H
O
R
ily photo albums. For they were primarily a series of 
what I would call photographic "studies," images usu­
ally captured with a more than sentimental purpose, 
using a large format camera and film that delivered ex­
quisite detail, even when enlarged. These images were 
developed and printed by my father as he did all his 
own darkroom work then. This produced a collection 
of mostly 8"xl0" (some 5"x7") prints, the notable ex­
ceptions being unique sizes for Christmas cards, as my 
parents sent out family photo cards long before pre-cut 
photo-holder cards became commonplace.
Sometimes my father took photos of us simply to 
perform focused technical studies such as testing out 
lighting conditions or a new type of film. One summer 
evening I was drafted to hold a candle in our front yard 
while my father took pictures in the fading light of the 
day. At other times, our random childhood activities 
might grab his attention, and then his eye, famous for 
capturing people in spontaneous settings—as illustrat­
ed in some of the slice-of-life photos selected for this 
issue—would focus on one of us.
One afternoon, I donned a bandanna, pretending 
to be a cowboy, momentarily abandoning all care for 
my appearance. Knowing that I had only one remain­
ing upper front tooth, my father, camera in hand, made 
numerous unsuccessful attempts to trigger a smile in 
me, now a very reluctant subject as I suddenly became 
self-conscious about those huge gaps in my teeth (and 
the remnants of a mosquito bite on my forehead). And 
after a number of his attempts, I was finally unable 
to contain my laughter any longer. The photographic 
result was honored by a prestigious award and later 
even headlined the nationally syndicated "Earl Wilson 
on Broadway" column.
The timing of my father's interest in photojournal­
ism could not have been more perfect. And what a time 
that was: A time when virtually everyone received the 
news in written words and still images printed on pa­
per, courtesy of their daily newspaper. A time when 
these same readers eagerly anticipated more in-depth 
coverage along with more studied, even heroic, still 
images, courtesy of their newspaper's Sunday edition 
as well as the great weekly magazines such as Life and 
Look. A time when the writing and still images had to 
be not only timely but also of a caliber that was com­
pelling and enduring. And a time when Iowa readers 
were well served in this matter by a sort of Algonquin 
Round Table on the prairie. For the writers and pho­
tographers assembled by the Des Moines Register were 
fascinating and remarkably talented individuals. And 
while the public now, as then, is understandably im­
pressed by my father's Pulitzer Prize, as a youngster
I thought it was just part of the norm—and with good 
cause as other Register staff members won Pulitzers as 
well.
Ithough more than a half century has passed, 1 
can still recall the compelling appeal to me of
M the physical and social milieu of my father's work at the Register. My father had the great 
honor of being the only photographer to be included 
in the invitation-only Register bridge club comprising a 
handful of writers and their wives. On a rotating basis, 
my parents hosted the bridge parties at our home. The 
learned and always lively conversation was a magnet 
for me, and whenever possible, after my bedtime I 
would sneak downstairs to enjoy this great treat. It was 
many years later when I mentioned this to my father 
that I heard his explanation: that, as a rule, reporters 
are, indeed, unusually interesting people due to their 
innate curiosity.
I was the youngest of three children (all girls), the 
most like my father in looks, temperament, and curi­
osity, and the least interested in "girl things," such as 
Blue Birds. All this gave me the desire and opportunity 
to tag along with my father when allowed—into his 
special, magical world.
In the evening if my father had to drive downtown 
to the RegisteYs office, I would jump at the chance to 
accompany him. I always stopped to peek into the 
ground-level windows where men were setting metal 
type and operating the huge printing presses. Every 
time we walked into 
the downstairs lobby,
I was thrilled to en­
counter the enonnous 
globe on display. Just 
a short elevator ride 
up, and we were in 
the domain of the 
photographers, who 
were as graciously at-
A
•m
Jervas Baldwin, Register 
staff photographer and 
family friend, captured 
Don Ultang’s daugh­
ter Joanne (the author) 
engaged in drawing her 
father’s airplane during a 
routine evening stop at 
the Register's photogra­
phy department.
h,
COURTESY OF THE AUTHOR
Winter 2009 141
V
The Des Moines Register and Tribune Company, at Locust and Eighth in 
the 1940s. The vertical sign of “500,000” refers to the circulation of the 
Sunday paper. The presses operated in the smaller building on the left.
tentive to me as the reporters were. A bonus was finding 
one of my favorite photographers, such as Jervas Bald­
win, there to talk to me while I waited for my father.
If I was left to my own devices, my activity of choice 
was to wander alone through the darkroom suite. Each 
time was a new adventure in navigating this pitch- 
black labyrinth, and as soon as I was well into the first 
room, I was convinced I was forever lost. But soon 
enough, an acrid odor and distinctive gurgling sound 
of the chemical in the big tank told me I was in the 
developing room. When my wandering brought me to 
the inviting smell of a warm iron on linen, I knew I had 
arrived where the prints were finished. Comforted by
these familiar smells and sounds of the 
drying room, I was now confident that 
I would make it out safely once again. 
And that soon my father would find me 
and take me home.
Accompanying my father to the air­
port was another tag-along adventure 
I relished. Our visits could be for any 
number of reasons. Following the weath­
er was like breathing for my father, and 
sometimes we would go to the top of the 
Des Moines airport to talk to workers 
there—especially the staff in the Weath­
er Bureau (as it was then called). On one 
lucky visit, a bureau staff member even 
permitted me to officially release the 
weather balloon for the evening.
Or we might stop by Howard Greg­
ory's Des Moines Flying Service, where 
the Register's plane was hangared, so 
that my father could speak to Bob Gar­
mon, his primary airplane mechanic. 
Picture the laconic conversations be­
tween astronauts Yeager and Ridley in 
The Right Stuff and you have the essence 
of the bond between my father and 
Bob—not much chatter, but an immense 
level of trust.
Sometimes a trip to the Des Moines 
airport resulted in a plane ride with 
my father. Growing up in this plane, I 
was never afraid to fly in it. In fact, as 
a little girl I actually enjoyed the stom­
ach-dropping bumps from turbulent air, 
sometimes imploring, "Do that again, 
please." Enchanted by the clouds, I 
was convinced that these giant cotton 
puffballs offered an ideal landing pad, 
should I be permitted to jump out of 
the airplane. My father patiently, and repeatedly, ex­
plained their vaporous nature—like fog, he said. This 
induced me to ask him to fly through one so I could 
see inside. As he was usually flying VFR (by "visual 
flight rules"), he consistently declined, and it was not 
until I flew on commercial flights some years later that 
I finally experienced the disappointing reality of see­
ing "inside" the clouds.
Often as not my father's front-seat passenger was 
one of any number of adults from that fascinating 
pool of mid-20th-century journalism greats. One such 
passenger, familiar to me as well as to many Iowans, 
was longtime friend and political writer Clark Mol-
142 heritage Illustrated
lenhoff. Assigned by the Register in 1950 to the Wash­
ington Bureau, Clark quickly established himself as a 
major presence on the political scene. Our visits with 
Clark and his wife Georgia were greatly relished. Both 
were lively conversationalists, always entertaining us 
with compelling stories from exotic places or inside 
the corridors of political power. Their adventures in- 
| eluded surviving government uprisings (hiding in
, hotel bathtubs and high-speed escapes to the airport
through streets filled with gunfire) as African countries 
struggled to change from colonies to independent na­
tions.
On one return visit to Iowa, the Mollenhoffs joined 
my parents and others at our home in a game of 
bridge. With my new autograph book in hand, I ap­
proached Clark and Georgia to sign my book. Clark 
simply wrote: "Stay out of the rackets!"—a directive 
well beyond me at the time. Much later I came to un­
derstand that this was an ironic but pointed reference 
to his 1950s investigative reporting on corruption in or­
ganized labor and organized crime, for which he won 
! a Pulitzer in 1958.
Usually my father's passengers were Register news 
' ‘ reporters or sportswriters traveling with him to jointly 
cover a specific story or event in Iowa or out of state. 
Reporter Walt Shotwell frequently accompanied him; 
once they traveled together as far as Kayenta, Arizona, 
to cover the search for two Des Moines Explorer Scouts 
lost in the desert. Another frequent passenger was the
late and most remarkable Register writer and Iowa his­
torian George Mills. Reflecting the high-spirited nature 
of this band of distinguished journalists, George used 
to call my father and say, "Get the plane ready—we're 
going to start some trouble."
Passengers on the plane were in excellent hands 
due to my father's extensive experience as a primary 
flight instructor during World War II, essentially teach­
ing the fundamentals of aerial acrobatics to an endless 
supply of novice navy pilots. After the war ended, his 
mastery of the risks in flying a small plane turned out 
to be invaluable—for his special brand of photojour­
nalism required some unusual flying to get the com­
manding images he desired. But this skill also gave 
him some notoriety among the reporters, who on more 
than one occasion were terrorized or even made air­
sick from steep turns and air turbulence bumps, all in 
a day's work for such assignments.
O
ne afternoon my father stopped by our home, 
and finding me there alone, invited me to go 
along with him to the airport. Grabbing a pi­
lot's snack of graham crackers, we headed out 
on what to me was the ultimate tag-along adventure: an 
aerial photo assignment. I can still hear him, while pre­
paring to taxi and take off, using the toneless shorthand 
between pilot and control tower, always identifying 
himself as "4291 Bravo," despite the fact that everyone
in the tower knew exactly who 
he was. A small plane requires 
only minimal runway to gain 
airspeed, and soon we were 
airborne, our destination the 
isolated site of a train wreck. 
With the approval of the Civil 
Aeronautics Authority, the 
window on the pilot's side of 
the plane had been modified to 
be removable, so that the pilot 
himself could take photos, one 
of several trail-blazing innova­
tions that shaped my father's 
photojournalistic career.
Once my father's discern­
ing eye had spotted the train 
wreck below and rapidly sized 
up the subject, terrain, and 
lighting, a series of moves fol­
lowed that required the visu­
alization talent of an Italian 
Renaissance painter and the
.  JRTESY o f  th e  a uth o r
Lively conversation ensued at the bridge parties of Register writers, their wives, and Don 
and Veda Ultang. March 23, 1952 (Don Ultang’s birthday) was the group’s “After theTax 
Party.” Their raggedy attire in these photos presumably reflected the anticipated hike 
in federal income taxes that year. From left: Reporter George Mills, in suspenders and 
long johns.Veda Ultang (in checked dress, sagging slip, and bare feet) watches as Carl 
Gartner prepares to bid. Right: Don Ultang, in ripped shirt and bowtie.
Winter 2009 143
N
COURTESY OF THE AUTHOR
/
his head—and then executing it under a va­
riety of demanding conditions.
In those days, there was very little that 
could be done in the darkroom to modify 
a photograph, so each unique composition 
was necessarily done "on the fly," both figu­
ratively and literally Now, as then, 1 am in 
awe when I compare my father's particular 
skill to those of other great names in out­
door photography—Ansel Adams comes 
to mind—who typically had the luxury of 
scouting and composing dramatic scenery 
and of waiting for days for the correct light­
ing. For me, the genius of my father as a pre­
eminent photojournalist of his day, and even 
now, was this consistent on-the-fly ability 
to capture images of great artistic composi­
tion, lighting, and dramatic or emotional 
appeal—under rugged conditions and with 
no control over the subject matter.
>1
Sharing a lifelong love for new visual experiences, Don Ultang and his 
daughter Joanne (the author) pause during a late 1990s visit to the Chir- 
icahua Mountains in Arizona.
smooth, rapid execution of a gold-medal Olympic div­
er. With the window out and the heavy Speed Graphic 
press camera in his right hand, my father circled back 
over the target—the sight of it momentarily blocked by 
the plane—until just the right moment. After he banked 
the plane so steeply it was nearly on its side, the twist­
ed train popped into view. In one continuous, precise 
movement, he leaned through the empty window frame, 
tripped the shutter once, and then leveled the plane and 
quickly re-established an appropriate altitude.
Continuing the motion, he removed and replaced the 
4" x5" cut sheet film holder, and then circled back and re­
traced those same steps, motions, and risks. Meanwhile, 
he was flying rapidly at a very low altitude, making sure 
that he did not stall the plane or fly into a rise in the ter­
rain. As with the Olympic diver, the chances for a perfect 
performance were limited to one or two efforts. But the 
consequence of a small error could be far greater.
This elegant pilot-photographer juggling act was 
the standard procedure behind my father's superb aer­
ial photographs, and yet the extraordinary thing to me 
was his ability to mentally compose the image—defin­
ing the angle and position needed and committing all 
to a kind of "4-D" visual and kinesthetic template in
am delighted that Iowa Heritage Illustrated 
has chosen to publish this rare and histor­
ically significant portfolio of my father's 
color work from that classic period, the 
time the late Ken MacDonald (the Register's 
outstanding managing editor and an early and long­
time supporter of my father) once so aptly described as 
"the glory days of American newspapers." My father's 
decision to donate his Register-era photojournalism 
collection to the State Historical Society of Iowa was 
fortuitous, for there could be no better advocates for 
perpetuating his legacy than Mary Bennett, curator of 
the Don Ultang Collection and whom my father came 
to regard as a dear friend, and Jamie Beranek, whom 
we can thank for the painstaking selection of images 
and the thoughtful accompanying text in this issue. 
Knowing my father as I did, I am sure he would be 
touched and delighted by the result of their efforts. ❖
The author professes zero interest in piloting an airplane and 
says that while her photo composition skills are actually pretty 
good, her primary relationship with cameras has been to quick­
ly lose or break them. By design, she has lived and worked in 
the visually rich cities of Boston, New York City, and Santa Fe. 
Currently residing in Chicago, she admits to taking the occa­
sional decent photo of Lake Michigan, from the extreme comfort 
of her living room, with her compact digital camera with Leica 
lens, when she can find it.
A CAMERA THE SIZE OF A BASKETBALL” is how Don Ultang described his 
Speed Graphic (sitting here on his equipment case). Large-format cameras were 
still standard equipment for press photographers in the mid-20th century. Each 
film holder, like the ones in the lower left, held two 4”x5” negatives, one on eac 
side. Indoor shots required a large flash gun and a ready supply of flash bulbs.
In the foreground is Ultang’s 35mm Leica, a far more versatile camera, and 
his light meter.
‘‘Ultang wasn’t the first flying photographer, nor the first to exchange that 
marvelous old weapon, the Speed Graphic, for an unobtrusive 35 millimeter, 
nor the first to try to make color photos a daily part of the daily paper,” wrote 
James Flansburg, of the Des Mo/nes Register, in 1991.‘‘But he was an important 
leader and innovator in all those endeavors, and he gave each of them his own 
unique twist.That’s accomplishment.” — The Editor
PHOTO BY CHARLES SCOTT; EQUIPMENT 
FROM ULTANG COLLECTION. SHSl (IOWA CÌTY)
k  - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - <; . _ _ _ _ _
L '- - - - - - - - -
• L  , * r m ,
t f i t i p *• K i f  ,  y * "
\  • 4


From the Other Side of the Lens

Art in Daily Life: Native American Collections at the State Historical Society of Iowa

Morain, Tom

Sometimes the reward is the journey itself, not 
the destination. That was true for historian 
Tom Morain when he tried to connect the dots
covered a fascinating drama unfolding on the 
prairies of southern Iowa, but not necessarily 
the pilot that he had hoped to document.
In this case, how the project progressed is a 
worthy story in itself. —The Editor
A History Mystery 
in Ringgold County
J
2
— r—
/  !r
\
L :
r {
□
__ l 2 s > X-
> • 
n V x>
p \ H i i iT !/ r ’
L
J
** I r ' ' ' \ / { A
E:- 3 L p_ Vi ___ Z
V.
Settlement was sparse in Ringgold 
County in I 857. The county lies on 
the border with Missouri.
by Tom Morain
Ramsey Farm is a living history attraction at Lesanville in Ringgold County, about five miles east of Mt. Ayr on Highway 2. The farm used 
to be the home of George and Jennie Vance. Their 
nephew, Paul Ramsey, has fond memories of the child­
hood summers he spent there, and today he wants to 
provide children some of the same rural experiences. 
He acquired the farm with its historic barn and added 
a country schoolhouse, church, and general store. La- 
moni, home of Graceland University, is some 15 miles 
south and east. Wondering if there would be intern­
ship opportunities for my Graceland students, I visited 
Ramsey Farm.
That meeting turned out to be Chapter 1 of a his­
tory mystery. Out of curiosity, I began to explore the 
history of Lesanville, a stop on the Chicago, Burling­
ton, and Quincy (CB&Q) railroad line with a post office 
and a few stores. The town was named after numerous 
Lesan families who settled the area.
At this point in the adventure, I had not discov­
ered how many Lesans and Lesan in-laws and Lesan 
in-laws-in-laws I was dealing with. That deficiency 
was soon rectified. With the help of Paul Ramsey, now 
87 and living in Newport Beach, California, I came to a 
new appreciation for the vital importance of family ties 
on the frontier—and of the incredible potential of the 
internet to uncover those connections.
When I started my internet search, luck was with
60 Iowa Heritage Illustrated
me. 1 quickly located a very complete Lesan family 
tree (Paul's mother was a Lesan) dating back to 1702 
in Maine with occasional anecdotes about individual 
family members. I learned, for example, that the silver 
bell in the spire of their church had been cast in Paul 
Revere's workshop in the 1790s. And in 1825, Paul's 
great-great-something-grandfather "was crossing near 
the upper bridge in Belfast Harbor, Maine, in a boat 
laden with wood." The boat capsized in the winter wa­
ter and Edmund "became so chilled by exposure that 
he survived but a few moments after being rescued."
To identify the first Lesans to settle in southern Iowa, 
1 started with Paul Ramsey's generation and worked 
backward through the family tree. Paul's mother, Madge 
Adelia Lesan, had married Theodore Ramsey. She and 
her eight siblings were the children of Burritt and Molly 
(McLaren) Lesan. Burritt's father (Paul's great-grandfa­
ther) was George W. Lesan, the' first Lesan in Ringgold 
County, or so I thought at the time.
George had ridden out from Illinois in December 
1854 to locate farmland. He stopped back at the land 
office in Chariton to enter tracts for his own family, his 
brother David's, and sister Harriet's. The three families 
and some unmarried younger brothers moved togeth­
er to Ringgold County the following spring, in 1855.
There were lots of Lesans, and keeping track of the 
various family lines presented its challenges. Broth­
ers George and David Lesan married two sisters, Me-
lissa and Sybil. The sisters were also named Lesan as 
they were the brothers' first cousins. Including sister 
Harriet Lesan Lee and her husband, Carlos, the three 
families lived together while they helped build each 
other's houses and get in a first crop. The Lesans were 
not frontier loners; they formed a closely knit family 
unit. I was just beginning to learn how extensive and 
cohesive that family network really was.
Scanning the various lists of Lesan children, I spot­
ted a name that brought me up short. Owen Lovejoy 
Lesan was born in Ringgold County in 1859, the son 
of David and Sybil. Bells went off in my mind. Was the 
Lovejoy name significant? You bet!
The original Owen Lovejoy was a fiery abolitionist 
congressman from Illinois. Owen was the brother of 
martyred newspaper editor Elijah Lovejoy, killed by a 
mob in 1837 in Alton, Illinois, for his outspoken anti­
slavery views. I wondered: Why did Sybil and David 
name their infant son in Iowa after an outspoken abo­
litionist in Illinois?
Midwest. The author explores the impact of former 
slaves migrating to Iowa, Wisconsin, and Minnesota 
during and after the Civil War. In a chapter leading 
up to the outbreak of the hostilities, Schwalm touches 
very briefly on an incident in Ringgold County.
Ringgold County? My radar went up. The Little­
ton P. ("Tune") Allen family from North Carolina 
purchased land just north of the Missouri border and 
brought two teenage slaves, a brother and sister, with 
them onto Iowa "free soil." Schwalm writes: "Local 
residents persuaded Allen to sell the two slaves to a 
Missouri buyer in 1853."
That is about all she wrote, but the timing connect­
ed with my Ramsey Farm research and raised more 
questions. Who were those "local residents" in Ring- 
gold County? How did they "persuade" Allen to sell 
his slaves? Could the antislavery Lesans have in some 
way been part of this effort?
Although I was compiling a convincing case for 
the antislavery persuasion of these New England 
transplants, I had as yet nothing to connect them to the 
confrontation with the slaveholding Allen family. Tune 
Allen sold his slaves in 1853, but I had no evidence of 
any Lesans in the county before 1855. Was there a link?
I was hooked.
Another Google search for George W. Lesan took me 
to a page on a Ringgold County history Web site. Lesan 
was briefly mentioned in a short biography of Civil War 
veteran Andrew J. Imus, but there was nothing very sub­
stantial. It related that Imus had been working as a teen­
ager on the Lesan farm before he enlisted at age 22 in 1862 
in Company G, 29th Iowa Infantry.
The biography also reported that tragedy struck 
Andrew's family on the way out to Ringgold County. 
His father, Horatio Imus, drowned when he was thrown 
from a wagon and became entangled with the horses 
while crossing a swollen creek in Marion County. The 
current swept Horatio's wife, Mary, and a younger son 
downstream for a quarter-mile before they were res­
cued. The family also lost their team in the accident, 
a frontier tragedy indeed. Mary Imus, now a widow, 
continued on and settled on the tract that Horatio had 
purchased. Eventually, seven of her sons and a daugh­
ter would settle in Ringgold County.
"Imus" is not a common last name, and I thought I 
had seen it somewhere before. I returned to the Lesan ge­
nealogy site. Thanks to the wonders of the computer, with 
a click of the "Find" button, the word "Imus" instantly 
appeared highlighted. Martha Imus, the daughter of the 
ill-fated Horatio, was married to John A. Lesan, the older 
brother of George and David. John A. Lesan had come 
out from Illinois with his wife's family in 1854, the year
What does the name say about parents living only 
four miles north of the border with slave state Missouri 
in 1859, when sectional tensions were about to pull the 
nation apart? Today, that would be like naming a baby 
Nancy Pelosi in Montgomery, Alabama, or Sarah Palin in 
Berkeley, California. Just who were these Yankee Lesans 
on the Missouri border?
Returning to other Lesan sources, I made two quick 
discoveries that confirmed my suspicions about Lesan 
family politics. The family had migrated to southern 
Iowa from Stark County in northwest Illinois, part of 
the district from which Rep. Owen Lovejoy was first 
elected to Congress in 1856. They certainly must have 
known who Lovejoy was and what he stood for.
I found another piece of evidence on the genealogy 
sheets. George and David Lesan's father had verifiable 
antislavery credentials. Several sources mentioned 
that a mob in Elmira, Illinois, broke into his home on 
a June night in 1860 and "threatened to lynch him be­
cause he was operating a station on the Underground 
Railroad." Probably fearing for his safety, John cleared 
out of Illinois shortly after the attack to join the grow­
ing Lesan clan in Ringgold County.
N
ow here is where the story begins to get com­
plicated. At the same time I was researching 
Ramsey Farm material, I was reading an excel­
lent new book on Iowa history, Leslie Schwalm's Eman­
cipation Diaspora: Race and Reconstruction in the Upper
Summer 2009 61
before his two younger brothers and sister. That meant 
that I could document that there was at least one Lesan 
in Ringgold County within only one year after the 1853 
sale of Allens slaves. Maybe I could yet find that link that 
connected the Lesans to the Allen incident.
To my great fortune, I discovered online a remark­
ably detailed Imus family tree with some intriguing 
new leads. Horatio's younger brother Hiram was help­
ing with the move when the drowning occurred. Single 
at the time, he would marry the next year and settle on 
his own farm. Another brother also set up a household 
in the neighborhood close to his mother, brother Hi­
ram, and niece Martha Imus Lesan and her husband's 
relatives.
WARNING! Every family has that one great aunt 
known to launch, for no apparent reason, into extended 
soliloquies on the family tree recited in remorseless de­
tail. If memory of her from your childhood days is too 
painful, you may skip the next two paragraphs. They 
merely document this assertion: Family connections re­
mained strong and influenced eastern Ringgold County 
settlement patterns.
I discovered still another Imus connection. Early re­
cords show that a close neighbor to these families was 
Levi Terwilliger. With the help of the family tree, I dis­
cerned that the Terwilligers were yet another branch 
of the Lesan-Imus clan. Levi's wife was Lucy Minerva 
Imus, a sister of the late Horatio. I had thus reconstructed 
a rural neighborhood of (at least) four Imus households 
and three Lesan families. Those family trees explain a lot 
about the settlement of eastern Ringgold County. George 
Lesan's selection of his land was not random. When he 
rode out in 1854 to locate land for Lesan families, he was 
moving into a supportive family web.
Within the next few years, a second wave of Lesans 
and Imuses arrived. Charles Lesan, the widowed fa­
ther of Sybil and Melissa, came with more of his chil­
dren. In 1860, as noted earlier, Charles's brother John, 
also widowed, left the Illinois mob behind as he came 
to Ringgold County with yet more of his children. The 
Imus clan grew as well and they all settled near each 
other. Family history was proving to be perhaps the key 
factor in the settlement of eastern Ringgold County.
Family history also explains early legal decisions. 
In the summer of 1855 a local government was formed 
for Ringgold County. The first case of the Ringgold 
County court was to probate the estate of Horatio Imus 
and to assign a guardian for the children. George Lesan 
was appointed executor and guardian for the minor 
Imus children. George, the brother of Horatio's son­
in-law, was apparently sufficiently "family” to take 
responsibility for the children's legal affairs, including 
Andrew Imus, whom we met earlier as a farm hand 
working for George. Without the benefit of the fam­
ily data, we would not have known that Andrew was
J
not just a hired hand alone on the Iowa frontier. He 
was living with his guardian surrounded by several 
families of relatives.
Still hoping to find some connection between the 
Lesan-Imus network and the intruding slaveholder, my 
heart beat faster when I discovered a political angle. In 
the first election for county offices in the summer of 
1855, Hiram Imus was elected sheriff. (Why not run for 
office if you're related at least once, sometimes twice, 
to every voter in your precinct?) Had his victory come 
a few years earlier, Hiram would have been the natural 
spokesperson to inform the Allens that Iowa law did 
not recognize slavery. But alas, the incident happened 
two years before the election.
"CredulousDefinition: "Ready to believe, 
especially on slight or uncertain evidence."
I confess: I had grown credulous when I finally came 
across a local account that identified one "Milton Trul- 
linger" as the man who confronted Allen and "persuad­
ed" him to give up his Iowa slaves. Well, everyone knows 
how casual people were about spelling back then, even 
with family names. Of course, wasn't it obvious? Wasn't 
"Trullinger" just a loose spelling of "Terwilliger," and 
that this Milton Trullinger/Terwilliger must have been 
an early-arrived brother of Lucy Minerva Imus Terwil­
liger? Eureka! I had reached my goal of connecting the 
extended Lesan family with the Allen incident.
Alas! That hope went down in flames. Milton Trul­
linger proved to be a real person with his own distinct 
pedigree. The Trullinger/Terwilliger connection was a 
dead end. It seemed that the trail had ended: Neither 
Lesan nor Imus nor Terwilliger had played a part in 
the confrontation with Allen. Like many a history ven­
ture, my quest did not confirm my hypothesis. To the 
best of my data, the ancestors of Ramsey Farm played 
no part in the Allen slave controversy.
And then it happened—’’amazing grace, how sweet 
the sound”—a new angle that “saved a dead-end histo­
rian like me.” Gentle reader, if you have persevered to 
this point, please push on a short while more, that you 
may yet be rewarded for your long-suffering.
From some accounts of pre-Civil War incidents 
in Ringgold County, I had jotted down a note about 
four early settlers who were believed to have been con­
nected with the underground railroad. One was Mil-
62 Iowa Heritage Illustrated
r-
ton Trullinger, the settler who had confronted Allen. (1 
had still not forgiven him for not being an orthographi- 
cally challenged Terwilliger.) G. K. Grimes and Charles 
Grimes were cited as two more. The fourth was one 
Stanberry Wright, who lived just north of the Lesan- 
Imus neighborhood and whose house was designated 
as the polling place in early elections.
To make a connection between the underground 
railroad and the Lesan family, we need to step back 
and look at some developments at the national level. 
In the Compromise of 1850, Congress passed the Fu­
gitive Slave Law that made assisting runaways a fed­
eral crime with stiff penalties. In Ringgold County, 
as in other frontier locations of the time, that statute 
depended for its enforcement primarily on the locally 
elected law enforcement officials.
In 1855, the sheriff was Hiram Imus—whose extend­
ed family included a baby named after a fiery abolitionist 
and a man attacked by an Illinois mob for his antislavery 
views. I think it is safe to assume that the underground 
railroad in Ringgold County could safely operate without 
fear of interference from Sheriff Hiram Imus.
However, while I had successfully documented 
the antislavery perspectives of the Lesans of Ringgold 
County, I had discovered no concrete steps by the fam­
ily on behalf of African Americans. John Lesan Sr. had 
been attacked by a mob in Illinois for alleged support 
of the underground railroad, but there was no mention 
of any connection to it in Iowa.
But then I found it. It was not the Allen incident; it 
was better. Not only did the Lesans oppose slavery on a 
philosophical level, but they were willing to become per­
sonally involved in the welfare of African Americans, a 
radical position in that era.
A local history relates that toward the end of the Civil War, five blacks came north into eastern Ringgold County from Albany, Missouri, and 
were given their freedom, a wagon, and an old team of 
horses by one Mrs. Murphy. They were Sam and Sarah, 
their two children, Tom and Martha, and another man 
named George.
While we know almost nothing about them, what 
we do know sheds light on their new neighbors, the 
Lesans. The account states that the five blacks lived in 
a log cabin “near the Lesan school" where "the children 
attended school while the adults worked for families 
in the neighborhood." Many white farmers were will­
ing to hire black workers during the war years when
labor was in short supply, but integrating a school in 
that era denotes racial attitudes far in advance of the 
norms of the times. In many Iowa communities, black 
children were shut out of public schools or segregated 
into inferior classrooms. In Lesanville, black and white 
children learned together.
Something tragic seems to have happened to the 
black men; the account does not explain. Whatever it 
was, a frightened Sarah turned to David Lesan for pro­
tection. "After Sam and George's deaths, Sarah and the 
children were afraid to spend the night in the cabin. 
They slipped into David Lesan's barn where they slept 
in the haymow. Upon discovering the situation, David 
gave them permission to live in a cabin near his home. 
Eventually Sarah and her children moved to Mt. Ayr." 
The family of Owen Lovejoy Lesan was not only philo­
sophically antislavery but also personally committed 
to the welfare of African American neighbors.
he research had been a long and convoluted path. 
I had wanted to know more about the background 
of Ramsey Farm and Lesanville, but I was lured 
away by the siren call of a Lesan baby named Owen 
Lovejoy and an incident (unrelated, as it turned out) 
of a family who had crossed the line into Iowa with 
slaves. On the journey, however, I discovered a fasci­
nating saga of an extended family migrating together 
to new Iowa homes and shaping an early settlement 
with their antislavery views.
In the process, I also strengthened my appreciation 
for the value of family in history. Putting the facts to­
gether would have been impossible without charts of 
family connections of a brother's brother marrying a 
sister's sister, of cousins marrying cousins, and of fam­
ily resources stretching to nurture children in times of 
tragedy. Family history greatly enriches the study of 
local and even national events. Thanks to the miracle 
of the internet, now we historians and genealogists of­
ten have access to the "who-married-who's" without 
hours of driving, charges for photocopies, and motel 
bills for trips to distant archives and libraries.
It takes patience to map those relationships, but 
their value is clear. And it gives us a new apprecia­
tion for those great aunts who chanted by memory the 
sacred sagas when we were only pretending to listen. 
It is in those family narratives that so much history is 
rooted. ❖
Author Tom Morain is director of government relations at 
Graceland University in Lamoni. In 2008 he received the Pe- 
tersen-Harlan Award for his contributions to Iowa history.
Summer 2009 63


A History Mystery in Ringgold County

Not a member yet