First timer? In this formerly once-a-day blog (and now pretty much a once-a-week blog), I use an app that provides a random latitude and longitude that puts me somewhere in the continental United States (the lower 48). I call this “landing.”
I keep track of the watersheds I land in, as well as the town or towns I land near. I do some internet research to hopefully find something of interest about my landing location.
To find out more about A Landing A Day (like who “Dan” is) please see “About Landing” above. To check out some relatively recent changes in how I do things, check out “About Landing (Revisited).”
Landing number 2430; A Landing A Day blog post number 865.
Dan: Today’s lat/long (N41o 1.058’, W98o 11.550’ W) puts me in E-Cen Nebraska:
My local landing shows my proximity to Louisville and the Platte River:
No Surprise. I landed in the Platte River watershed (72nd hit). I won’t bother with a map, but as you know doubt strongly suspect, the Platte, in fact, discharges to the Missouri (435th hit); on to the MM (943rd hit).
Quickly moving on to Google Earth (GE), here’s the closest Street View I could manage:
And here’s what the Orange Dude sees:
Of course, I sent the OD to a nearby bridge over the Platte:
And here’s what he sees:
So what about Louisville? Well, there’s no traditional hook, but I figured I’d roll up my sleeves, shake the Louisville tree, and see what falls out.
But let’s start out with the correct local pronunciation. According to RoadsideThoughts.com, it’s: loo-IS-ville.
There was a nasty flood in 1923. From the town website:
“Terrific Flood Visits Louisville Last Friday Night Taking the Lives of 12 People”
“Damage to property is also very heavy”
“Heroic Work of Rescuers Who Risk Their Lives in Effort to Save Women and Children Trapped in Their Homes by Rapidly Rising Waters”
These were the headlines on the October 5th paper in 1923, when 12 people lost their lives in a flood which came down Mill Creek at about 7 p.m. on September 28.
The flood came as a culmination of a terrific rain which had continued throughout the afternoon. The creek had risen gradually for more than an hour before it reached a danger point, and debris had lodged against the pile bridge of the Missouri Pacific at the south end of town until a complete dam was formed, which caused the creek to overflow its banks and spread out over the town. It was believed by many, who witnessed the flood, and who viewed the dam at the bridge, that had it not been for the stoppage at that point the creek would have remained in its banks.
Here’s a map:
Doesn’t the story seem peculiar? Think about it. Mill Creek becomes totally blocked by a debris dam upstream of the town, forcing the water to go around the dam. The water, which “would have remained in its banks” if not for the dam, then “spread out over the town.”
While I can picture a messy situation, I have trouble imagining that the above scenario would have devastated the town, resulting in 12 deaths.
The article goes on to mention that a man attempting a rescue could not, “on account of the rapid rise of the water in a few seconds.”
Also: “The worst loser was Mrs. C. G. Clifford whose home was swept away, leaving not a trace of it (her house was where the tennis courts are now).”
Here are the tennis courts today:
I have to believe that the debris dam catastrophically broke up, allowing a devastating flash flood of water to wash over the town, considering that if the dam had stayed in place:
- the water would have spread out, losing energy; it is also likely that much of the water would find its way back to the stream channel.
- it’s hard to visualize any reason for the incredibly rapid rise of the water (in a few seconds)
- it’s also hard to visualize a house being washed away so violently, “leaving not a trace of it.”
That’s my ALAD story, and I’m sticking to it.
Enough of the flood, except for this post script. While I was checking out Mill Creek, I noticed that a bridge carrying South Depot Street over the creek was missing:
Here’s a closer look:
So, I figured there must have been another, more recent flood that took out the bridge. I put the OD at the bridge to see what he could see:
There’s the bridge! Well, the inconsistency is explained by the fact that the date of the Street View shot is July 2012, while the date on the overhead GE shot is June 2018.
I put the OD on the far side of the bridge, and looked back:
Oh, all right. So the above Street View shot is dated July 2018.
Trying to figure out what happened, I painstakingly searched for the fairly recent flood that took out the bridge, but to no avail. Then, I finally stumbled on the Louisville City Council minutes from July 12, 2017. Here’s a quote:
After seeing bridge inspection results from NE Department of Transportation, Petersen moves, Jensen seconds to close and remove the South Depot Street Bridge. Motion carried by unanimous roll call vote.
OK, OK. I can hear my readers now: “Are you kidding me? You spent all of that time about some dumb bridge? And you wasted my time just reading about it!”
Guilty as charged. Moving right along . . .
The town website had a feature on quite the character – one “Dynamite Pete.”
Dynamite’s real name was, Levi Everett, born 9 Dec 1862. He may have received his nick name in the 1880’s when he worked as a power monkey for the quarries. Dynamite said that he was happier out in the woods, playing his Jacob Steiner violin, singing, feeding the birds and squirrels. He said he did not pay rent or pay taxes. He raised his own food even at one time raising and curing his own tobacco.
He had a full upper lip mustache and shoulder length hair that would have been gray had it ever been washed. However in their “natural state” both his mustache and his hair were an off-white color with a slight yellow tinge. His attire was always the same, no shoes, no hat, no shirt, only a pair of well-worn oversized bib-overalls.
Dynamite lived about six miles west of town in a cave near the Platte River. Sometime around the summer of 1942 Dynamite and his girl friend meandered into town and announced their plans to get married.
His bride, a Native American woman, was cut from the same cloth as Dynamite. Of course the local busy-bodies and the good town fathers, who knew what was best for everyone, told him that they would not permit them to get married because he did not have a “proper” house in which to live. For the next several months much was made of this issue and the story eventually appeared in the newspapers and then heard over the radio.
As a result of all the publicity Dynamite received a train ride to New York City where he performed on a national talent scout radio show called “We The People.” After which he was given an air plane ride over New York Harbor and the Statue of Liberty.
This made a local hero out of Ol’ Dynamite and thereafter he finagled many a free beer, as he made his appointed rounds of the taverns back in Louisville, telling the locals of his trip to New York City. Thus he was the first to buck the stiff collared, red-neck village bigots and win.
He had pneumonia and was in an Omaha hospital before living at the Hill Crest Nursing Home in Plattsmouth where he died, at age 87, on 26 December 1949. Dynamite is buried in Oak Hill Cemetery near Plattsmouth.
Dynamite Pete reminded me of stories that I heard from my mother about one “Onion John.” My mom was born and raised in the small New Jersey town of Belvidere (pop now about 2,500). She told me he was a very peculiar (but endearing) man who lived in a shack up on the “mountain” outside of Belvidere. Long after Onion John was gone, mom would point out to me the location of his former shack.
She recalled that the town kids loved Onion John, and would follow him around whenever he’d walk into town. I assume this was in the 1930s.
So I Googled Onion John and found numerous entries about the book “Onion John,” by Joseph Krumgold (a Newberry Award-winning young person’s book). Here’s the Wiki plot summary. Of course, “Serenity” is Belvidere:
Onion John is an unusual man: a European immigrant who lives in a hut made of stone and furnished with bathtubs. He befriends young Andy Rusch, the only person in Serenity who can understand his speech. As Andy comes to know Onion John (so named because he grows the best onions in town, and eats them like apples), he finds that the man believes some odd things. In Onion John’s world, friendly spirits live in the clouds, and evil spirits can be banished by smoking them out. His needs are few, since the townspeople are happy to give him castoff clothing after someone dies, and he earns a little money by doing odd jobs around Serenity. Andy and his friends are always happy to go along with whatever Onion John says.
Life turns upside-down for Onion John when Andy’s father decides to get the Rotary Club to build Onion John a new modern home, complete with electricity, running water, stove, and only one bathtub. The whole town signs on, committees are created, and the house goes up on the site of John’s old stone hut.
Almost immediately after moving in, John, unused to modern appliances, leaves newspaper on the stove. The ensuing fire destroys the house.
When the local citizens decide to rebuild this home, Onion John leaves town rather than accept a life of conformity. He just wants to be left alone.
I found a blog by Peter Sieruta, “Collecting Children’s Books.” One post is called “They Killed Him with Kindness, Literally.” From the post:
Critic Carolyn Horovitz could not fully accept the characterization of Onion John, finding him “a personification of an abstraction.” With his superstitions, spellcasting, and nonchalant attitude toward work, he does appear to be the archetypal “free spirit” of fiction.
That’s why I was surprised to learn that Onion John was a real person and that most of the events in the book actually happened.
In fact, Joseph Krumgold’s original manuscript referred to the town by its real name: Belvidere, New Jersey. Amazingly, Krumgold also called all the characters by their real-life names! It wasn’t until his publisher expressed a concern about lawsuits that Belvidere became “Serenity” and the names of the characters were fictionalized.
Much of the plot is true as well. Apparently, the town of Belvidere really did adopt their local eccentric and he was “treated with loving kindness in a way that distorted his values. He was destroyed by the love of this town.”
You see, in real life Onion John did not escape injury when his new house caught on fire. Instead, his misuse of the electric stove caused an explosion that cost him his life.
The people of Belvidere took up a collection to bury him.
Onion John’s real name was Uhan Kleban. Here’s his gravestone in the Belvidere cemetery:
Post Script (#2): My mom moved out of Belvidere in 1938, headed off to college (where she met my father). Her parents died in Belvidere in the mid-1950s; I suspect she wasn’t aware of the whole Onion John saga. My parents are buried in the same Belvidere cemetery as Onion John – only about 250 feet away.
Here’s a map showing Belvidere and the location of Onion John’s house (as remembered by my mother):
I decided to talk with my Uncle Dick, my mom’s brother. He was born in 1929 and grew up in Belvidere. But while he knew of Onion John, he had no personal stories to tell me – which seems peculiar, as Uncle Dick would have been a kid around town in the late 1930s and through the 1940s.
Anyway, Uncle Dick referred me to my cousin Ann (my mom’s sister’s daughter) who also grew up in Belvidere; he mentioned that amazingly, she had just emailed him about Onion John after bumping into a Facebook post.
So, I called Ann, and she told me that she was reading the Onion John book (as am I)! She told me that her mom (my Aunt Ginny) read the book back in the day, but didn’t like it because it wasn’t consistent with her recollections. Aunt Ginny, who grew up in Belvidere and then moved back with her parents in 1955, never mentioned anything about Onion John dying in a fire, although she did have a story about Onion John purposely breaking windows in town in winter so that he could spend some time in the warm jail.
I thought about getting in touch with Peter Sieruta (the gentlemen who’s blog “Collecting Children’s Stories” mentioned Onion John dying in the fire. He was well known enough to have a Wiki entry, but unfortunately, he died in 2012.
Bottom line. I (and therefore you) may never know the real Onion John story . . .
A quick return to Louisville is in order. The town website had some “then and now” shots of town. A corner along Main Street in 1910 and 2000:
A view up Main Street (dates unknown):
Here’s a 1927 shot of a safety meeting at the local cement plant (Ash Grove Cement, still operating in Louisville):
I had no idea that any employers would be this responsible (i.e., having a large meeting to talk about safety) way back in the day.
And here’s a shot of a search for bodies after the 1923 flood:
I’ll close with a GE shot by Phillip Rhodes (just upstream of Louisville):
That’ll do it . . .
KS
Greg
© 2019 A Landing A Day
A Landing a Day 