Iowa Heritage Illustrated

Swaim, Ginalie

Laboring for Food

Peterson, Jon Richard

Couldn't Say I Was Scared': The War Correspondence of Luther College's Student Soldiers

Harper, Katherine

In Commemoration of Ellis: The Iowa Beginnings of a Great American Humorist

Stimson, Hazel Phillips

Moving On in 1917

Butler, Ellis Parker

The Sorry Tale
of
Hennery K. Lunk
by Ellis Parker Butler
In naming this quiet tall tale to his annual Honor Roll The 
Best Short Stories of 1918 compiler Edward J. O'Brien wrote 
that it "would have delighted Mark Twain." Certainly the Ameri­
can public embraced it when it appeared. The story (and illus­
trations) appeared in Harper's Monthly Magazine, May 2918. 
After more than a year of dreary World War I front-line dis­
patches, its gentle, old-fashioned humor must have come as a 
happy reminder of times past. —Katherine Harper
When I made my visit to my old home town, aftertwenty years' absence, I was interested in every one and everything. It is fascinating work to take 
a shred of memory and watch it grow as forgotten memo­
ries add themselves to it. It is as if you discovered an inch 
of yarn sticking out of a chest. The little tag-end of yarn is 
nothing of itself, but you take hold of it and pull it and out 
it comes—yards and yards of it—until you have a great 
mass of yarn in your hands, and you feel the itchy feel of 
it, and get the camphor-ballish smell of it, and all at once 
you exclaim:
"By George! By George! It's that old woolen under­
shirt I hated so when I was a boy!"
You are as tickled as if you had discovered a five-dol- 
lar gold-piece in an old vest. In a little while you walk the 
streets in a fog of long-forgotten memories. I say "fog" 
because it is all dim and dreamy and unreal. You are nei­
ther yourself nor the person you were twenty years be­
fore. You are like a Mohammed suspended between the 
floor of today and the ceiling of your youth, but as you 
hang suspended there the tracings on the ceiling grow 
clearer and clearer.
I remember I walked down to the river and sat on the 
waterlogged dock of the old ferry-boat Silas William. The 
boat is gone now, and the dock is rotting, but the same old 
river ran by. I remembered the first time I rode across the 
river on the Silas William and what an adventure that had 
been. Then I remembered Hennery K. Lunk, who used to 
own the ferry and was captain and half the crew. I remem­
bered, as if it had happened yesterday, how he warned me
140 Iowa Heritage Illustrated
H E  W A R N E D  M E NOT TO GO TOO N E A R  T H E  EDG E
not to go too near the edge because the Mississippi River 
was full of saw-back whales that would glide under a boy 
if he fell in the river, and saw the boy in two, and then 
swish around and swallow the boy in two gulps. He told 
me that if a man fell overboard the saw-back whales would 
go "swish! swish!" twice—once to cut the man in two 
lengthwise and once to cut the man-strips crosswise, be­
cause saw-back whales could not swallow a man unless 
he was cut into four pieces. Then the captain—Captain 
Hennery K. Lunk—dug into his pocket and gave me two 
peppermint lozenges and told me to eat them immediately.
He told me to eat one of them bottom side up and the other 
one top side down. That would go a long way toward saving 
my life if I did happen to fall overboard, because saw-back 
whales could not bear peppermint. If I kept breathing my 
breath in and out when I fell overboard the saw-back whale 
would come up and sniff my breath and turn around and 
swim away again without sawing me or anything.
I remembered how he came around to where I was 
standing, after he had gone up to the pilot-house to get a 
chew of tobacco from the pilot, and asked me if I was sure 
I had eaten one of the peppermints top side down and the 
other bottom side up, and he did not seem sure that I had, 
so he gave me another. He kept giving me others all the 
way across the river and back, because he did not want me 
to take any chances. My heart warmed to Hennery K. Lunk 
as the memories returned. There was a sun-roughened old 
codger sitting on a pile of lath on the dock, netting a seine 
with slow, exact swings of his arm, and I went over and 
seated myself beside him. j
"Morning, pardner!" I said.
"Mornin'!" he said, without looking up.
“You don't remember me," I said, "and I don't remem­
ber you, but I used to live here twenty years ago or so, and 
1 knew a man by the name of Hennery K. Lunk—"
My stranger shook his head without stopping his net­
ting arm. "Poor old Hennery!" he said. "So you used to 
know poor old Hennery K. Lunk! 1 thought everybody in 
the world had forgotten poor old Hennery by this time, 
he's been dead so long—"
"Dead!" I exclaimed.
"Yep! He's dead," said my netter. "Saddest thing! Sad­
dest durn thing that ever happened in this town. When I 
think how lively and chipper and always joking Hennery 
K. Lunk used to be when I first knew him— He was a fine 
feller, Hennery was."
"I never heard a bad word Spoken of him," I agreed. 
"He was kind and he was cheerful—"
"Used to run a ferry-boat right from this very livin' 
dock!" said my friend. "Old Silas William, she was. Many's 
the ride I've had on her. I don't know as I ever heard any­
thing as sad as what come over old Hennery K. Lunk."
"What happened?" I asked.
"Well," said the old fellow, "I don't mean the way he 
lost his money and all. That was sad, but it only sort of led 
up to the real sad part. You knowed he sold his boat?"
"The ferry-boat? No, I did not know that."
"Yes, he sold her. Durndest unlucky sale! Sold her one 
night to two fellers in town here for four thousand dollars—"
"Four thousand dollars!" I exclaimed. "Four thousand 
dollars for that rotten old hulk?"
"And the next day two fellers come down from Dee- 
buque, and offered him five thousand two hundred and 
fifty for her! Yes, sir; and it broke Hennery K. Lunk all up! 
It sort of sickened him, like it would anybody. He wasn't 
never the same afterward. It made him sort of moodish 
and glum all the rest of his life. He sort of dwelt on it, he 
did. He'd intended to retire and live on his money, but he 
kept mooding about that one thousand two hundred and 
fifty he'd lost, and he got so durned glum about it he set 
°ut to make it up, Hennery K. Lunk did. So he started a 
saloon—a liquor saloon."
Bad business, but profitable," I ventured.
And two days after he got her opened up," said the
sunburned old fellow, "they passed the prohibition law 
and he had to take all his liquor out in the street and smash 
it in the gutter. It saddened Hennery K. Lunk, that did. 
Yes, sir! It did so. I guess he lost a good thousand dollars 
by that deal, and I don't know what he would have done 
if he hadn't had a chance to buy Thomas Doherty's crock­
ery-store. You remember Thomas Doherty?"
"Yes, indeed!"
"Done a right good business, I guess. Hennery K. Lunk, 
he thought so. He thought he could make back that two 
thousand, two hundred and fifty he was short, so he went 
and bought Thomas Doherty out of his crockery business. 
That was three days before we had that earthquake here."
"I remember reading about the earthquake," I said.
"Busted every crock and dish in Hennery K. Lunk's 
store," said the old fellow. "It made a big change in 
Hennery, too. Made him sort of melancholy like. I guess 
he might have sort of caved in if it hadn't been he had a 
chance to buy Droman's livery-stable. He figured that 
Droman wasn't never any business man and that a good 
hand at business ought to clean up three thousand two 
hundred and fifty dollars in no time at all. So when the 
foot and mouth disease come the next week—"
"You don't tell me—"
"Shot 'em!" said my historian. "State come around and 
shot every horse in Hennery K. Lunk's barn. And no re­
dress, mind you. I tell you it 'most discouraged Hennery 
K. Lunk. He got so blue that if he hadn't had the notion to 
speculate in potatoes I hate to think what he might have 
done right then. But it looked like a hard winter, and he 
went and bought all the potatoes he could scare up. He 
showed me on a piece of paper, with a pencil, how he ought 
to make up the four thousand two hundred and fifty dol­
lars he was behind if potatoes went up to a dollar a bushel—"
"But they went down!" I said.
"Nope! Froze! Froze as solid as rocks, in the old Bergen 
Mill where he had 'em stored. So he says to me, he says, 'I 
ain't hardly got ambition to try no more,' he says. 'Seems 
like,' he says, 'life and every durned thing was against me. 
For two cents,' he says, 'I'd jump in the river and let one of 
them saw-back whales cut me in four—'"
"Did he say that?" I asked, eagerly. "I remember—"
"He had a lot of sayin's like that," said the old codger. 
"Hennery K. Lunk was always say in' things of one sort or 
another. So he says to me, 'I only got a dollar an' forty 
cents left, an' it ain't much to go on,' he says, 'but I can 
knock together a sort of hand cart with some wheels I can 
pick up, and I can buy a kerosene lamp for thutty cents, 
and I can buy a corn-popper for a dollar, and a dime's wuth 
of pop'-corn, and I can start in at the hotel corner, poppin' 
corn an' sellin' it for five cents a bag.'"
"'You'll need some salt and butter,' I says, 'and some 
paper bags, and some kerosene oil, if you want to do busi­
ness like that.'"
"'Well,' he says, 'I guess if I invest a dollar an' forty 
cents into a business I can get trusted for a quarter pound 
of butter, and an ounce or two of salt and a couple o' pints 
of kerosene oil up to Fackelmeyer's grocery-store, and it's
A SI’N-ROUGHENED OLD CODGER SITTING ON A PILE OF LATH
Fall 2003 141
my only chance to make back the five thousand two hun­
dred and fifty dollars I'm behind/"
"So he went ahead and done it, and the first popperful 
of corn he popped over the kerosene lamp caught fire and 
burned up the whole durned shootin'-match! Yes, sir; he 
was an unsuccessful man, Hennery K. Lunk was. He 
couldn't succeed at nothin' he undertook. Why—"
"What were you going to say?" I asked, when he hesi­
tated.
My friend drew his hand across his forehead and 
looked out at the river and shook his head.
"Unfortunate! Unlucky!" he said, sadly. "Even when 
it come right down to suicide—"
"You don't mean to say that he—"
"He tried, but he didn't have no luck at it," said the 
old fellow. "He shot at himself and missed. He jumped in 
the river and they pulled him out. He done everything he 
could, and tried every way he knew, poor feller! but he 
didn't have no more luck at suicide than he had at busi­
ness! He was a durned failure at suicide like he was at 
everything else. He'd be alive yet but for one thing. It was 
mighty sad!"
"What was it?" I asked.
"He fretted so much over not bein' able to die that it 
killed him," said the sunburned old man.
1 looked at him and at the lines of regret and sorrow 
that his face had taken on, and then I put out my hand 
and took his and shook it violently.
"Now I know you!" I exclaimed. "I couldn't quite 
place you before, but I know you now! How are you, you 
exaggerating old rascal? How are you, Hennery K. Lunk?"
"Well, I reckon I'll pull through awhile yet," he said, 
with a cheery smile, "if no saw-back whale don't swaller 
me in four swallers." ♦>
T H E  F I R S T  P O P P E R F U L  O F  C O R N  C A U G H T  F I R E
M
arch 1 was traditionally mov­
ing day for farmers in Iowa. 
Sales of farm land, rent and 
interest payments, and lease ar­
rangements with new tenants were 
often dated March 1. As historian 
Frank Yoder observes, the late win­
ter was a naturally slow time in the 
agricultural cycle. Moving on 
March 1 allowed the new owner or 
tenant to be established before 
spring field work began. By March, 
much of the feed, hay, and straw for 
the livestock—as well as canned 
goods, firewood, and coal for the 
farm family—would have been con­
sumed and therefore wouldn't need 
to be moved. Roads were likely to 
be clear of snow but not yet thawed 
into the quagmires of mud that once 
made spring travel on country 
roads so difficult.
Iowan Hortense Butler Hey wood 
compared this moving-day tradi­
tion to the migration of birds and 
other natural signs of spring. "One 
day the whole neighborhood is as 
permanent, as setttled, as stable as 
if it were to exist thus for years to 
come," she wrote. "The next the
DON UlTANG COLLECTION SHSI (IOWA <
roads are filled with a unique procession—farm wag­
ons piled high with household goods and trailing be­
hind them corn plows, seeders and other pieces of ma­
chinery, loads of grain wherein the clever housewife has 
packed her precious fruit jars, loads of squealing hogs, 
[and] small herds of restless, frightened cattle."
Hazel Phillips Stimson, of Independence, Iowa, re­
membered moving day when she was a child in 1917, 
and in 1976 she wrote down those memories for an es­
say contest by the Iowa Commission on Aging. To this 
basic tradition in rural Iowa, Stimson adds the color of 
detail and emotion. Her essay (like Heywood's) is 
archived in the Special Collections of the State Histori­
cal Society of Iowa (Iowa City).
—The Editor
142 Iowa Heritage Illustrated


English

The Sorry Tale of Hennery K. Lunk

The World Food Prize

Wikert, Kathryn Webb

Home to Iowa: Letters from Western Trails

Bennett, Mary

b y  M a r y  Bennett
A
rmchair military historians know all about the 
critical strategic importance of the Mediterra­
nean campaign during World War II. The Brit­
ish fought the Italians for control of North Africa, only 
to lose ground when German field marshal Rommel's 
Afrika Korps secretly invaded North Africa in April
1941. Even with the formal entry of the United States 
into the war at the end of 1941, it took nearly a year 
before troops and home front forces could be mobilized 
and outfitted.
Ready for action, but with no easy way to invade 
German-occupied Europe, and under pressure from 
Stalin to open a second front, the Americans made their 
first large-scale appearance as Allies—landing in North 
Africa in November 1942 under the leadership of Gen­
eral Eisenhower. Among the soldiers in the 34th Divi­
sion making the initial advances on the beaches of Al­
geria were several Meskwaki code talkers, who would 
save many lives using their unique language to com­
municate vital military messages.
Twenty-seven young Meskwaki men had enlisted 
in the Iowa National Guard in January 1941, probably 
motivated by economic circumstances as much as by 
patriotism or a chance to learn new skills. No doubt 
Americans could sense the tension of war on the hori­
zon, even though the cataclysmic effect of Pearl Har­
bor was almost a year away. As new recruits of the 168th 
Iowa Infantry, eight Meskwaki were selected for spe­
cial instruction in elements of walkie-talkie radio and 
machine gunning. This training and experimentation— 
using a code derived from Native American languages 
for secret communications—predate American entry 
into the war and even the use of Native speakers of the 
Navajo language, who are more commonly celebrated 
as World War II code talkers.
The Comanche and the Meskwaki were probably 
among the first to be trained as code talkers, although 
more than a dozen tribes were involved. As a February
1941 newspaper explains, they "were trained to trans­
late messages from English to their own language and 
relay them by radio or phone to an Indian who in turn 
will turn the message back into English for officers." 
The headline proclaims "Army Indians to Foil Enemy 
Listeners," while the accompanying photo depicts the 
Meskwaki wearing stereotypical feather headdresses 
more representative of western Plains Indians than the 
Meskwaki's traditional regalia.
The eight Meskwaki—brothers Frank and Willard 
Sanache, Dewey Roberts, Edward Benson, Melvin Twin, 
Dewey Youngbear, and brothers Judy Wayne 
Wabaunasee and Mike Wayne Wabaunasee—joined 
Company H, the heavy weapons company of the 168th
Infantry, just three 
weeks before the unit 
was mobilized. Ac­
cording to the press, 
the young men, who 
ranged in age from 
18 to 22, were "in­
duced to join up only 
when they realized 
that they were to play 
a strategic part help­
ing the 168th main­
tain a valiant tradi­
tion in battle." Their 
initial training was at 
Camp Dodge in 
Johnston, Iowa, but 
they were soon sent 
to Camp Claiborne, 
Louisiana, for more 
intensive training in 
the use of the walkie- 
talkies. As the news­
paper reported, the
SWSI (IOWA CiTY) MARSHALLTOWN T1UES-REPV8UCAN. FEB 26. 1941
Willard Sanache  s t raps  a radio unit 
on Dewey Youngbear. T h e  F e b ru ­
ary 1941 caption  read: “ Man-nwe- 
ne t-da-m on!  It’s an Indian way of 
say ing ,‘W e  d o n ’t like i t ’ in his n a ­
tive Mesquakie and w ha t  he really 
m eans  is th a t  he d oesn ’t  like to  have 
p e o p le  ask t o o  m a n y  q u e s t i o n s  
a b o u t  his language ,  now t h a t  he 
knows it will play a s t ra teg ic  p a r t  
in reg im en ta l  c o m m u n ic a t io n s  of 
th e  168th infantry.”
154 Iowa Heritage Illustrated
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Resting h e re  in th e i r  q u a r t e r s  in F e b ru a ry  1941 a re  th e  e igh t  Meskwaki t r a in e d  as 
code  ta lkers .  F ro m  left, f ro n t  row: Mike W ay n e  W a b a u n a s e e ,  Edw ard  Benson,  Dewey 
Roberts ,  Frank Sanache.Judy W ayne  W a b a u n a s e e  (reclining),and MelvinTwin. S tanding  
in th e  r e a r  a re  W il la rd  S a n a c h e  and  Dewey Youngbear.
shortwave radios "are carried in a pack strapped to a 
soldier's back, have a collapsible antenna and a three 
mile range." Besides mastering gunnery school, radio 
operators had to learn to use the code and understand 
electronics, mechanics, and the inner workings of a ra­
dio, such as vacuum tubes, amplifiers, transformers, and 
transmitters. Field communications were vastly im­
proved using the Indian code language to send mes­
sages about enemy troop movements, battlefield tac­
tics, and directions for artillery fire.
A
cting as scouts, those in the lead assaults had 
to move quickly with heavy equipment across 
any terrain to establish observation and com­
munication posts, whether in open, flat country, in the 
desert, or in mountainous regions like Italy. The 
Meskwaki code talkers, with their special language 
skills, were assigned to the 168th Infantry, 34th Red Bull 
Division. By October 1942, it was reported that Judy and 
Mike Wayne Wabaunasee (and probably the others) had 
been assigned to Northern Ireland, but they were soon 
dispatched to the deserts of North Africa, a place Frank 
Sanache described as "the worst place this side of hell." 
Landing in Algiers and moving eastward towards Tu­
nisia, the green recruits were decimated by the veteran
Afrika Korps. Frank Sanache was 
captured by Italian soldiers in Tuni­
sia in 1943, while Dewey Youngbear 
and Judy Wayne Wabaunasee were 
captured by the Germans.
With the support of the vast 
American fleet, airpower, and 
ground troops, the Allies regained 
territory in North Africa before 
launching attacks on the coast of 
Italy in September 1943. Dewey Rob­
erts remembered how the troops 
would advance, put up a defense 
line, dig foxholes, and stop for a 
short time before moving forward— 
all the while getting shelled by ar­
tillery. "The 34th Division got 
chewed up," he recalled. "From 
Salerno to the Naples area we lost a 
lot of men. They were killed, 
wounded, and captured." While 
near Naples in March 1944, Roberts 
had the opportunity to meet up with 
his younger brother, Ernie, who had 
joined the service a year earlier. The 
Italian campaign moved forward slowly, with heavy 
fighting because of the mountains north of Naples and 
mighty German defenses, but the Allies finally liber­
ated Rome on June 4,1944.
Besides suffering harsh treatment, beatings, and 
near starvation, American Indians, rarely seen on the 
European continent, faced racial prejudice in Italian and 
German POW camps. The Meskwaki, like other POWs, 
had to learn the German language quickly; if they didn't 
respond to a command, they would be beaten. Donald 
Wanatee, adopted son of Frank Sanache, said, "They 
didn't treat them well. They worked them to death."
The sense of desperation felt by these men is re­
flected in the multiple escapes made by Dewey 
Youngbear, who no doubt paid a heavy price each time 
he was recaptured. On his third attempt, he managed 
to find an Italian soldier's uniform to wear as a disguise. 
Driven by hunger, Youngbear risked eating and drink­
ing at a local restaurant, only to be discovered when he 
could not understand or speak to the German and Ital­
ian soldiers who approached him. Judy Wayne 
Wabaunasee also escaped his captors in Italy, but later, 
when he arrived at the same prison camp in Germany, 
guards noticed that Youngbear and Wabaunasee knew 
each other. Youngbear received "rough treatment from 
the Germans" for refusing to give information about 
the other Meskwaki code talker.
Winter 2003 1 55
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Annie  [W aseskuk ]  W a b a u n a s e e  displays a serv ice  flag in h e r  
h o m e  on th e  Meskwaki S e t t l e m e n t .  Each s t a r  r e p r e s e n te d  a 
son in th e  A rm e d  Forces: two w ere  code  talkers,  and  th e  third, 
W alte r ,  was s ta t io n ed  on th e  W e s t  C o a s t  ( O c to b e r  1942).
Like many POWs, they required hospitalization 
after their release, and their ravaged bodies suffered 
lingering effects. Dewey Youngbear died in 1948 of tu­
berculosis, Wanatee recalled, a disease he contracted in 
Germany as a POW. Other Meskwaki veterans also had 
war-related health problems.
B
ack home in Iowa, life on the Meskwaki Settle­
ment in Tama County had remained essentially 
the same for many generations, with relatively 
few encroachments from white civilization. The tribe 
had purchased the settlement land in the 19th century 
rather than live on a government reservation. Though 
economically impoverished in the 1940s, the tribe had 
retained a rich cultural heritage by preserving their lan­
guage, customs, and ceremonies over the years. Ap­
proximately 420 Meskwaki lived in frame houses with­
out modern amenities like telephones, electricity, or in­
door plumbing. Most of the women had a traditional 
wickiup near their homes because they liked to cook 
over an open fire. Younger members of the tribe scat­
tered during the war, joining the military or moving to
large cities to work in war industries. Others worked 
on railroads and at local factories in communities like 
Marshalltown, while some like Nell G. Ward pursued 
educational opportunities. Ward became the first for­
mally trained Meskwaki nurse after enlisting in the 
Cadet Nurse Corps and attending the University of 
Iowa.
The Meskwaki participated in scrap drives, canned 
vegetables, and contributed to the war effort in the no­
blest manner by sending warriors off to fight and die. 
Because of the war overseas, the swastika—an Ameri­
can Indian symbol long before Hitler was born—was 
replaced by a thunderbird on powwow advertisements, 
especially after the swastika caused an uproar in nearby 
Tama about whether the Indians were joining Hitler. 
Attendance at the annual powwow celebration was 
down in 1942, and no powwows were held in 1943 and 
1944 because of the war.
After the war, people moved more freely in and out 
of the life on the Meskwaki Settlement, and new ideas 
competed with old. More than fifty Meskwaki had 
served in the military during World War II, and the re­
turning veterans established their own American Le­
gion post in tribute to young Robert Morgan, the first 
Meskwaki casualty of the war. Ironically, these men were 
the first generation of Meskwaki to enjoy the full rights 
of U.S. citizenship, granted to Native Americans only 
as recently as 1924. Yet they honorably defended this 
country, fighting as warriors for both their homeland 
and adopted nation. ❖
Mary Bennett is Special Collections Coordinator at the State 
Historical Society of Iowa.
A  w ea lth  o f  h is to rica l in fo rm a tio n  is available abo u t 
the  M eskw aki,and  the  State H is to rica l Society o f Iowa, 
co n tin u in g  its active  ro le  in d o cu m e n tin g  th e  cu ltu ra l 
he ritage  o f th e  tr ib e , has p ro d u ce d  an in te ra c tive  p ro ­
gram  fu ll o f  pho tog raphs , d o cu m e n ts ,a n d  cu ltu ra l h is­
to ry . T he  M eskw aki H is to ry  C D -R O M  w ill be avail­
able fo r  d is tr ib u tio n  in th e  fall o f  2004. C o n ta c t M ary 
B enne tt, 3 19 -3 3 5 -3 9 16, fo r  m o re  in fo rm a tio n .
NOTE O N  SOURCES
The author wishes to  thank Meskwaki historian Johnathan L  Buffalo, who conducted oral histones with Frank Sanache and Dewey Roberts in 1978 and shared useful newspaper 
articles and photos. Donald Wanatee also graciously shared his insights. Also useful were articles in the Marshalltown Times-Republican (2 /21 / 19 4 1. p. 11; 2 /26 /19 4 1, p. 11); Des 
Moines Register ( 10 /11/42, section 4, p. I); a February 18, 19 4 1. clipping (newspaper not known); and several clippings rescued by the volunteers working on the W orld W ar II 
Clippings Project (SHSI-lowa City).Timothy Jones and staff from the National Museum o f the American Indian in Washington, D.C., have been researching the lives o f the code 
talkers, conducting oral history interviews with Frank Sanache and others from a dozen different tribes. Upcoming traveling exhibitions developed by the Smithsonian Institution 
Traveling Exhibition (SITES) will showcase photographs, te x t and artifacts such as radios and uniforms. Untranscnbed oral histories with the code talkers and other lowans in the 
34th Infantry, held at the Gold Star Museum at Camp Dodge, may yield more information. Robin Roberts (Dewey Roberts's nephew) and others have been working with Iowa's 
U.S. senators to obtain the Congressional Medal o f Honor for the Meskwaki code talkers.
156 loiva Heritage Illus tra ted
The war broke traditions and brought new ideas— and faces— to 
Iowa. Above: Sgt. Joseph W. Donahey came home to  his family in 
Clinton w ith a Filipino wife in February 1945. A survivor o f the 
Bataan Death March, Donahey had organized a guerrilla band. 
Among the Filipinos fighting w ith him was Corajon Mangrovang, 
the woman he married.
SHSI (06S  MOINES) DES MOINES REGISTER ANO TRI8UNE
Right: Women acquired new skills during the war. Here.W ACs at 
Fort Des Moines learn to  operate a transm itter in radio and tele­
vision school (undated).
SHSI (DES MOINES)
Winter 2003 157
V
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f
SHSI (OES MOINES) OES MOINES REGISTER AND TRIBUNE
Wearing helmets, boys play war with toy soldiers, tanks, and airplanes, while two girls look 
on (August 1942, probably Des Moines).The war fueled the imagination of American chil­
dren— some dreamed of becoming war heroes, others had nightmares of being bombed or 
losing their fathers.
158 Ioum Heritage Illustrated
Three basic training companies from the 
W AC training center at Fort Des Moines 
march down Locust Street in Des Moines 
(Memorial Day, 1945).
Winter 2003 159
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milks cows on the 
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farm near Farrar. 
Some 50 scouts 
from Polk County 
worked on farms in 
the  sum m er o f 
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food supplies.
Le ft: Students in 
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ALL THREE PHOTOS SHSI (OES MOINES) DES MOINES REGISTER AND TRIBUNE
Baby Helen Marie Radosevich holds a let­
ter from her father,Tony P Radosevich, sta­
tioned in Ireland since before her birth.The 
letter read in part: "W e have to  make our 
country a safe and peace-loving state so we 
can all live happily”  (O ctober 1942).
Christmas Day. 1944: Susan Minkel opens a 
card from her father, bearing the "Red Bull" 
icon and the silhouette of Italy. Newton phy­
sician Roger Minkel had been overseas since 
February 1941. Susan and her mother were 
living in Fort Dodge for the duration.
Dressed in a pint-size military uniform and 
w ith his white toddler’s shoes peeking out 
the bottom, David Carroll Veach studies the 
controls of a tiny tank in a toy store in Des 
Moines (November 1942).
160 Iowa Heritage Illustrated



Meskwaki Code Talkers

McNabb Jr, Harold S

George Washington Carver
Holistic Scientist for the American South
by Harold S. McNabb, Jr.
I
n October 1896, after finishing work on a master's 
of science degree in agriculture at Iowa State Col­
lege of Agriculture and Mechanic Arts in Ames, 
Iowa, a slightly built, 32-year-old African American man 
boarded a train for Tuskegee, Alabama, where he had 
accepted an offer from Booker T. Washington to join the 
Tuskegee Institute. Iowa's adopted son, George Wash­
ington Carver, was carrying a suitcase, a few amaryllis 
bulbs, and a wooden box containing a microscope, a 
gift from those he was leaving behind: the townspeople 
of Ames and the faculty and students of the college.
Those friends and admirers could not understand 
why he was leaving this mecca of agricultural teach­
ing, research, and extension. What did the 14-year-old 
Tuskegee Institute offer this bright, young scholar? Who 
was this Booker T. Washington, who could entice this 
popular student and now teacher away from their campus?
Little did they know of the inspirational challenge 
that a devout, motherly woman had given the 
12-year-old boy, called Carver's George, some 20 years 
earlier. He had to walk eight miles to Neosho, Missouri, 
to attend Lincoln School, the closest African American 
school to his original home in Diamond Grove, and so 
Mariah Watkins and her husband, Andrew, took him 
in. Born near the end of the Civil War in southwestern 
Missouri, he had been raised since he was a baby by 
Susan and Moses Carver, who had owned his mother 
and her children as slaves. "Aunt" Mariah told the boy 
that he was now free, and therefore should call himself 
George Carver. (Later, he acquired the middle initial W. 
when his mail was confused with another George 
Carver; and later still, the W. became Washington when 
he was asked what the letter represented.) At the Afri­
can American school at Neosho and under the care of 
African American "parents," as Carver for the first time 
was immersed in African American culture, he awak­
ened to the needs of his people. Mariah Watkins chal­
lenged him always to search for knowledge but to take 
that knowledge to serve others, especially those of his
race who were suffering as an outcome of the Civil War.
Reaching the point where his knowledge matched 
the teacher's in Neosho, Carver left for Kansas in the 
late 1870s with a family traveling to Fort Scott. After 
witnessing a brutal lynching of a member of his race, 
he immediately left for Olathe. There and later in Min­
neapolis, Kansas, he finished the equivalent of high 
school. Although he was admitted into the Presbyte­
rian church in Minneapolis, he was turned away from 
the small Presbyterian college in Highland. He had been 
accepted by mail, but when he arrived at the school, 
the president informed him that they did not admit 
African Americans.
Discouraged, Carver traveled west, taking over a 
homestead in western Kansas. But the quest for further 
learning set him wandering again. Eventually he ended 
up in Winterset, Iowa, where he found true friends who 
recognized his artistic abilities. Ever since he was a child 
in southwestern Missouri he had made nature draw­
ings, and he had learned to paint from a fellow home­
steader in western Kansas. A Winterset family, the 
Milhollands, recognized his talent and encouraged him 
to enroll in Simpson College in nearby Indianola. His 
art instructor there, Etta Budd, considered Carver a natu­
ral artist, but she questioned whether a black man could 
make a living in the arts. Since she had also seen evi­
dence of his "way with plants"—he sometimes brought 
her plants that he had cross-fertilized or grafted—she 
recommended that he transfer to Iowa State College, 
where her father was professor of horticulture, to study 
agriculture.
So, in April 1891, George Washington Carver arrived 
in Ames. Iowa State College was a leader in agricul­
tural education and research. The college was the first 
one established as a result of the Morrill Act of 1862.
George Washington Carver devoted his life toTuskegee Insti­
tute. He began his career in scientific agriculture in Iowa.
52 loiva Heritage Illustrated
TUSKEGEE UNIVERSITY
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Carver’s love of nature was reflected in his artistic talents as 
well as in his scientific research.
And thanks to that act and its successors—the Hatch 
Act of 1887, which provided funds for agricultural ex­
periment stations, and the Morrill Act of 1890, which 
expanded land-grant appropriations—the study of ag­
riculture had become a recognized scientific discipline.
From 1891 through 1896, Carver was mentored by 
some of the agricultural greats of the day: "Tama Jim" 
Wilson, Henry C. Wallace (both future U.S. secretaries 
of agriculture), J. L. Budd, and, above all, Louis Pammel, 
professor of botany, whom Carver termed "his great 
mentor and friend." As the only African American on 
campus, life was not easy for Carver. At first, the din­
ing room manager made him eat in the basement, and 
living arrangements were embarrassing until some fac­
ulty offered him a room in an old office. And he had to 
work at menial tasks to earn money for his expenses. 
Eventually, however, Carver's wide-ranging abilities 
and activities and his warm personality won students 
over, and many made special efforts to include him in 
their activities. Moreover, his ability to raise, cross- 
fertilize, and graft plants won him the respect of the 
faculty. He graduated in 1894 with a thesis titled "Plants 
as Modified by Man." The faculty then persuaded him 
to pursue postgraduate work. He received a teaching 
appointment and was put in charge of the campus
greenhouse, freeing him from the menial jobs he had 
pursued as an undergraduate to make ends meet.
He also earned the admiration of another future U.S. 
secretary of agriculture: "little Hank" (Henry A.) 
Wallace, who was just eight years old when Carver left 
Ames. Hank's father, Henry C., was the dairy professor 
on campus. Carver and the boy, Henry, hiked the bogs 
and fields around Ames together, collecting plant dis­
ease fungi (one of Carver's research specialties) and 
plant specimens. In the greenhouse, Carver taught 
young Henry how to breed plants. Although, with the 
Wallace family background, Henry was destined to be­
come an agricultural pioneer, Carver's mentoring was 
certainly a catalyst for the boy's future.
The Iowa State period in Carver's life shaped his 
future. His studies exposed him to the organization 
found in the natural and physical sciences, and to the 
"hands-on" method of teaching students and farmers, 
and awakened him to the potential he possessed for 
serving his fellow humans. Above all, he reaffirmed the 
holistic approach to problem solving that he had been 
developing since his boyhood days exploring the fields 
and stream banks in southwestern Missouri. Thus, when 
he had a chance to serve humankind, and especially his 
race in "Black Belt Alabama" at a school led by a per­
son who had the same philosophy and goals as his, he 
decided to bring the new "scientific agriculture" to 
Tuskegee.
P
lant breeding and mycology (the study of plant 
fungi and disease) were undeveloped, experi­
mental branches of the relatively new discipline 
of the scientific study of agriculture in the 1890s. 
Carver's studies at Iowa State, complemented by his 
own innate abilities and interests, prepared him well to 
engage in the kind of scientific experimentation in these 
embryonic fields that characterized scientific agricul­
ture. In the Tuskegee Institute's laboratories and in the 
fields of its experiment station, he conducted countless 
demonstrations and experiments that would enable him 
to make significant contributions to this new field of 
study. But his education and life experience at a white 
institution of higher education in Iowa did little to pre­
pare him for the real-life challenges he would face at an 
ill-funded African American institution of higher learn­
ing in the midst of Alabama's Black Belt.
He never conceived how poor the conditions would 
be in that vicinity. After his first trip into the country­
side around Tuskegee, he came back to Booker T. Wash­
ington and described what he had seen and heard as 
the "lowlands of sorrow." He began to think that the
54 Iowa Heritage Illustrated
Soil worn out from cotton and farmers worn out by economic servitude disheartened Carver when he came to Alabama. In 
simple, nontechnical words, he taught farmers how to apply scientific ideas, so “ the man fartherest down can get hold of it.”
challenges that Mariah Watkins had given him 22 years fore, both Carver's teaching at the institute and his out- 
earlier might be too hard to meet. But he did meet them. reach to farms around Tuskegee had to bring the new scien-
Over the next four decades, he led the revolution in tific agricultural principles that were being employed
southern agriculture from the "lowlands of sorrow" to at agricultural experiment stations at Tuskegee and
the highlands of pride and joy. across the country into a holistic approach to farm life.
George Washington Carver's work during those The southern rural social structure was built around
years is often reduced to accommodate his identifica- the church. This Carver understood and used as he be-
tion throughout the world as the "peanut man." But gan to work with farmers around Tuskegee. He began
there is much, much more to this great scientist and attending church with them, going to their homes after
humanitarian than his Work with the peanut: his faith, church to expound his scientific agriculture ideas, such
his mysticism, his service to others, his love of plants, as crop rotation (using plants that returned nitrogen to
his love of the natural world, his lack of materialism, the soil instead of cotton that "wore out" the land). In-
his belief that there is "no such thing as waste," and his stead of buying fertilizer in town, farmers, he urged,
non-violent attitude. In fact, his holistic integration of should use compost from the farm. He believed that
science, mystical love of nature, religion, and humani- waste did not exist in nature.
tarianism are what make it worth the effort to under- Carver suggested that families could grow some of
stand him. their own food in kitchen gardens around the home in-
What Carver saw in the "lowlands of sorrow" was stead of buying all their food in town using their mea-
an agricultural way of life that depended on one ger profits from cotton. He showed them how to pre­
non-food crop, cotton; a very non-sustainable agricul- serve foods for use during winter months. He produced
tural land system; terrible human nutrition; and a recipes for both old and new field and garden crops,
serf-like economic system—all of these robbing people These actions brought a balanced diet to the rural poor,
of pride and hope. The results of the Civil War had pro- At the same time, his students were developing ex-
duced another form of slavery, economic slavery. There- perimental plots that showed yield increases with crop
Summer 2003 55
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Working with native clays, Carver developed low-cost house 
paints for rural southerners. Calling himself a “ trailblazer” 
but not a “finisher,” he worked on hundreds of agricultural 
ideas.To Carver the mystic, they were all connected.
rotation, new crops, and genetically improved crop va­
rieties. Carver continued the field days at Tuskegee 
that Booker T. Washington had started, exhibiting the 
results of his students' experiments. By introducing 
peanuts, cowpeas, soybeans, and sweet potatoes (pre­
viously thought to be fit only for hogs) as possible ad­
ditional field crops, and tomatoes (previously thought 
to be poisonous) and other vegetables for the kitchen 
garden, Carver promoted diversification. But with new 
crops, new markets had to be developed. Carver not 
only developed new food products from peanuts and 
sweet potatoes, but began his research in chemurgy, the 
industrial use of agricultural crops. Carver gained in­
ternational recognition as the father of chemurgy by 
developing more than 300 products from peanuts and 
more than 100 from sweet potatoes. But this was only 
part of his holistic approach to the dismal condition of 
southern agriculture.
As Carver saw rural conditions slowly improve, he
also saw the need for more joy and pride among rural 
people. Therefore, he suggested that they add color to 
their lives by planting flower beds around their homes 
and painting their homes bright colors with colorful 
paints that he developed from the Alabama clays and 
had produced locally.
Although Carver's work on the peanut represented 
only a small part of his contribution to southern rural 
life, it is an important symbol of the developments in 
scientific agriculture at the time. Carver took full ad­
vantage of his successes in his research on the uses of 
the peanut. His name became a byword after his famous 
testimony before the U.S. House of Representatives 
Ways and Means Committee in 1921, where he was an 
advocate for a protective tariff on peanut imports. At 
the end of his testimony, after he had pulled countless 
samples of products made from peanuts from his 
"Pandora's Box” and wittily exhibited their uses, this 
usually staid audience burst into applause. Texas Rep­
resentative John N. Garner later recalled the presenta­
tion as "one of the most interesting talks I had ever heard 
before the committee and one of the most effective." 
Carver's creative testimony humanized scientific agri­
culture and thus is one of the best examples of the prac­
tical role of a scientist in our society. In other words, it 
is an excellent example of the land-grant university tra­
dition, a tradition Carver experienced both at Iowa State 
College, founded in response to the original Land-Grant 
Act in 1862, and at Tuskegee Institute, which began re­
ceiving federal funds after the 1890 Morrill Act ex­
panded funding for agricultural research and teaching 
in predominately African American institutions.
Carver became the spokesperson for the peanut in­
dustry, exhibiting products and speaking about the nu­
tritional values embodied in peanuts and sweet pota­
toes. He also continued to speak before gatherings of 
young people of the YMCA and the Commission on 
interracial Cooperation (CIC). (During his period in 
Ames, he had participated in YMCA activities, often 
leading the group.) During the last decade of his life, 
much of his time was spent traveling and lecturing 
throughout the eastern and southern states. Carver had 
a high-pitched, raspy voice, probably from an early bout 
with whooping cough when he was a baby. Still, he was 
considered an excellent and personable speaker who 
used word pictures and "hands-on” examples to mes­
merize his audience. He was also a gifted, inspiring 
teacher and mentor. His YMCA and CIC presentations 
to young people in the 1930s began to bring racial un­
derstanding to youth in a troubled southern society. One 
former student wrote to him: "You have shown me the 
one race, the human race. Color of skin, or form of hair
56 Ioum Heritage Illustrated
Iowa State botany professor Louis 
H. Pammel (in hat) was Carver’s 
friend and m e n to r  long af te r  
Carver left Iowa. Carver (right) 
and Tuskegee president Robert 
Russa Moton pose he re  with 
Pammel and his wife, Augusta,on 
a visit to Tuskegee in 1928.
mean nothing to me now, but length, and width and 
breadth of soul and loving kindness mean everything."
One cannot understand Carver fully without un­
derstanding his faith in God. From boyhood, he heard 
God speaking to him through nature. During most of 
his life, he spent early mornings in the woods and fields 
listening to God's words. Because he affirmed that God 
directed all of his research, many have described him 
as a mystic. Some have wondered how a scientist could 
attribute his research to guidance by God. In any case, 
Carver never separated religion and science as many 
scientists did then and do now. He is often quoted as 
saying, "How my very soul goes out to people who have 
not found the first principle of true happiness and Di­
vine love, which must rule the world."
the Tuskegee Institute. Indirectly, he has mentored 
countless others who, like me, have been inspired by 
the way he integrated his teaching, his research, his 
faith, and his commitment to service. And many of 
those, like me, have sought to mentor yet others who 
will exemplify the true meaning of Carver's most fa­
mous quotation: "It is simply service that measures
success." *>
Harold S. McNabb, Jr., is University Professor Emeritus of plant 
pathology, and natural resource ecology and management at 
Iowa State University. He has received numerous honors for 
his teaching and research. For more than six decades, he has 
been interested in George Washington Carver, his role model 
throughout his professional career.
T
he era in which George Washington Carver lived 
and worked was a period of great change. Sci­
ence was changing from being descriptive to 
experimental. Teaching was becoming hands-on, as 
laboratories and field trips supplemented lectures. Ex­
tension programs were developing for rural areas. Sci­
ence and religion grew apart as scientific discoveries 
greatly improved daily life. Carver actively participated 
in all of these changes except the separation of science 
and religion, which he fervently endeavored to hold to­
gether.
That holistic approach to the rural agricultural cri­
sis in the South of his day was, I believe, his greatest 
accomplishment. But a footnote should be added to that 
claim. Carver often said, "I am no great person. I am no 
great scientist. I have only been able to point the way in 
a few things. After me will come those who read and 
interpret the signs, the great of the world. I am only the 
trailblazer." Carver directly mentored Henry A. Wallace, 
who helped found the company that started the hybrid 
corn revolution. He mentored many more students at
Summer 2003 57
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George Washington Carver: Holistic Scientist for the American South

Bergman, Marvin

Reading the Past (2003)