OneMansCourage

Kimball Township
Brule County, Dakota Territory
On May 7, 1882, Moritz made his first act of settlement by breaking
ground on his 160 acres of farmland in Kimball Township. He was
among the earliest farm settlers in that area and was considered a
hardworking and honest man who took an active interest in the public
affairs of his newly found settlement.

Located in southern Dakota, on the left bank of the Missouri River,
is Brule County, which consists of magnificent prairies. The scenic
Bijou Hills are in the southwest portion of Brule County. Inside the
borders of the Town of Kimball is Kimball Township, which received
its name from Edward Kimball, an officer of the railroad.

Moritz built a small house, a 14 x 20 foot barn, and dug a well,
which wasn't an easy task to do by hand, but he took the task with
stride and commenced his home on May 8, 1882. On occasion, members
of the Sioux Indian Tribe erected teepees on Moritz's land as they
passed through the area.

The houses had dirt floors and dirt walls. The walls were sealed
with newspapers or pages of books torn from their binding, then
mixed with saliva and a glue-type substance from the hooves of dead
animals.

On thirty-five of his 160 acres, Moritz started a small grain farm
that produced two hundred pounds of corn, forty pounds of potatoes,
and flax per planting season. Farmers planted in the spring and
harvested in the fall. Farming proved challenging because of dry
summers, cold winters, high winds, and grasshoppers.

Mortiz and Hedwig welcomed their first son into the world in January
1883, naming him George Edward. Four more children followed, all
born on the family homestead.

Dorette Wilhelmina (Minnie)--born February 5, 1884

Paul Reinhart--born July 1885

Clara--born February 9, 1887

Johann Wilhelm (John William)--born November 30, 1888 (Donald's
father)

The children grew up experiencing the many hardships of a pioneer
life, which meant uncertain crop conditions, Indian hostilities,
sparse settlement, and brutal winters, with temperatures plummeting
below zero for weeks at a time.

At times, the snow became so deep it prevented trains from getting
through, which meant no food, supplies, or fuel for most families.
Kerosene for lighting purposes was rare, and the long, dark winter
nights were abundant. Without coal to heat the chilly air inside
their homes, families burned twisted sticks of hay to try to stay
warm.

Families were hard-pressed to find flour for baking bread, which
caused them to grind wheat seed for flour instead. The Lakota
Indians referred to the cold winter months as the Moon of the
Snapping Trees because "one can hear the twigs snapping in the
frigid air."

The 1880's were a time in the Dakota Territory when the Indians
strongly resisted the white-man's intrusion on their sacred ground
and began a series of bloody battles for their land. It was also a
time of great tragedies in Brule County, the first being the
blizzard of 1888. It was unexpected, rapid, and intense in its fury.

The White Lake Times (South Dakota) described the storm as follows:

Last Wednesday night, January 11, was warm and
pleasant with the thermometer above zero. A light
snow was falling, and at one time in the night, it
rained slightly. Thursday morning dawned bright and
clear. Everything was calm with just a faint gentle
wind from the southeast and the thermometer at 26
degrees above zero.

At about 10 a.m. the report was spread on the streets
that Agent Boom had received a telegram from Pukwana
saying that a terrible blizzard was coming from the
northwest. Such a condition of affairs couldn't be
imagined by our citizens. Most heeded the warning and
prepared accordingly, while others hardly paid
attention to the warnings and were caught unprepared.

At exactly 10:57 a.m. it came, and in a moment the
air was filled with flying snow, and calm was
succeeded by terror. The thermometer fell at once to
ten degrees below zero, making the total change of 36
degrees in the weather in the brief space of a few
minutes.

A blizzard such as raged here last Thursday is beyond
power of description. Travel for any short distance
was almost impossible as a wagon couldn't see five
feet ahead and many were lost and bewildered at their
first attempt to make a short distance. The storm
didn't let up in its fury until 2 a.m. the following
morning.

A couple of years after the blizzard, rumors had surfaced that the
Indians were plotting a mass uprising in the Dakota Territory.
Fearing the newly created Indian Ghost Dance was, in fact, a war
dance and not a religion, the first Governor of the State of South
Dakota organized a heavily armed, cowboy militia known as the Home
Guard. Their duties were to protect homesteaders along the west edge
of the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation.

By December 1890, officials were convinced Chief Sitting Bull's
influence over other tribes would lead to violence and ordered the
military to locate and arrest both Chief Sitting Bull and his
half-brother, Chief Big Foot, calling them agitators.

On December 15, 1890, Chief Sitting Bull and eight of his followers
were murdered at his home on the Standing Rock Indian Reservation
when the Federal Indian Police attempted to arrest him, claiming
Sitting Bull and his follower's resisted arrest. Following Chief
Sitting Bull's death, the remaining tribe fled in a panic to a
reservation along the Cheyenne River where they joined Chief Big
Foot. After learning of his half brother's fate, Chief Big Foot
feared he, too, was in danger of being arrested or killed.

Under the cover of night, Chief Big Foot, although aged and battling
pneumonia, led the band of approximately 350 Sioux men, women, and
children on a 150-mile, week-long trek through the Badlands seeking
shelter and protection from Chief Red Cloud at the Pine Ridge
Reservation.

On December 28, 1890, Chief Big Foot and the others were captured at
Porcupine Creek by Major Samuel M. Whitside. Members of the Seventh
Cavalry, then escorted the Indians to the banks of Wounded Knee
Creek for the night. Colonel James Forsyth arrived with
reinforcements and took command of the operation. Troops
interrogated the Indians throughout the night while reportedly other
soldiers drank excessively, celebrating the capture of Big Foot.

On December 29, 1890, Colonel Forsyth and members of the Seventh
Cavalry of the United States Army attempted to disarm the band of
their weapons, further agitating an already tense situation. As the
Cavalry attempted to remove a gun from a deaf Indian, it's believed
the weapon accidentally discharged a single shot that didn't injure
a single person.

Immediately, the soldiers retaliated by opening fire on the Indians,
slaughtering nearly every unarmed Lakota man, woman, and child,
including Chief Big Foot.

Bad weather was imminent, and the Sioux were left where they died
until January 3, 1891 when soldiers from the burial detail returned
to inter the frozen corpses.

The Wounded Knee Massacre, originally referred to by the U.S. Army
as The Battle of Wounded Knee, ended the Indian Wars in America.

Nine years later came the big prairie fire of 1899. It started north
of the town of Kimball when sparks from an old straw pile that had
been burning for almost a week jumped the fireguard. The path of the
fire killed hundreds of cattle, horses, and sheep, as well as
destroying many farm buildings on various homesteads.

By mid 1900, Moritz began suffering with stomach pain, and that
summer Hedwig accompanied him to Chicago for a medical examination
where doctors diagnosed him with stomach cancer. Hedwig kept the
truth about this illness from her husband, telling close friends and
loved ones that his days were numbered.

Family and friends offered many acts of kindness to the family
during this hardship, and their children worked on the farm with
more diligence than ever. Since son William was fluent in German, he
read the Family Bible to his father twice a day until his death on
January 26, 1901. Today, this Bible remains with the family.

By 1910, William was the only child still living at home and helping
his mother run the farm.

"Pop. How did your mom and dad meet?" Ed asked.

As became the norm, Donald made himself comfortable on the bench,
lit a cigarette, took a sip of his coffee, and told Ed what he knew.

"I believe my mom and dad met, courted, and fell in love in
Chamberlain, then married one year later on June 20, 1918, which was
also my mother's birthday. Mom and dad settled in on the family's
farm with my Grandma Schuman."

1918 Flu Pandemic in South Dakota
In early October 1918, the Spanish Flu hit South Dakota. By December
1918, the deaths totaled 1,847, which ranked influenza as the number
one killer of South Dakotans and held that ranking for the next two
years.

State-wide the flu escalated to a point the South Dakota Board of
Health indefinitely closed gathering places such as churches,
theatres, schools, pool-halls, and parlors.

"In any community where the disease is prevalent, public gatherings
of all kinds are forbidden," stated the superintendent.

The Board of Health mandated that until all danger from the
influenza was over, funerals had to be conducted in the
open-air, eliminating even a few people gathering in a small,
insufficiently ventilated space.

Newspapers throughout the state offered precautionary tactics,
hoping their suggestions would help stop the flu from spreading such
as:

By 1920, Brule County accounted for eighteen of the 1,251
flu-related deaths throughout the state of South Dakota. This
Spanish Flu became a worldwide pandemic with deaths ranging between
25 and 50 million people. Of that, approximately 675,000 Americans
died from the epidemic.

1919 - 1930's
Brule County, South Dakota
Minnie gave birth to their first child on March 21, 1919. Sadly, the
infant named Mary Jane died that same day. William's mother Hedwig
passed away eight months later on November 28, 1919.

Donald William was born on September 30, 1920 and was now the oldest
child, with five siblings yet to come.

Donald recalled being in the hospital room with his mother when his
brother Daryle died.

"I was about nine, maybe ten, when Daryle came down with pneumonia.
I remember my mother rocking my little brother in her arms. She'd
sing quietly in his ear and, every so often she'd raise Daryle to
her lips and kiss him on the forehead."

Donald hesitated for just a moment and wiped a tear that had fallen.
"The next thing I remember, Daryle died in my mother's arms. My
mother was inconsolable. All she kept whispering was momma . . .
momma . . . momma. Daryle was the second child my mother buried. I
had a baby sister born before me, and she died the same day she was
born."

William, Minnie, and their family continued to live on the Schuman
Family farm until the 1930's, when they moved just outside White
Lake, South Dakota, where they farmed until 1967.

Minnie loved to play with the kids outside. A family favorite was
hide and go seek. There were so many places to hide. That's what
made it fun. Sometimes, in the evening, they played pinochle.

According to Donald, the Schuman homestead wasn't much to brag about
but they all called it home. The farmhouse had two bedrooms
upstairs, and one downstairs. The kids slept upstairs, boys in one
room and girls in the other. They had shelves for their folded
clothes and a hook on the back of the door for their Sunday clothes.

The Schuman family, as did most, lived right off the land. They had
a granary that held the harvested oats that fed the horses, and a
garden where they grew potatoes, carrots, onions, and corn. Donald's
father kept the corn in a corncrib and Minnie either canned the
carrots or stored them in a bin. Donald explained that they covered
the carrots with sand, which preserved them longer.

They stored the potatoes in a potato bin in the cellar and Minnie
made the best homemade potato chips. She'd slice the potatoes nice
and thin, then fry them up in lard. This was a favorite family
treat.

Minnie also made her own lard, She even made her own soap from the
lard.

Everyone helped dig up the onions, then laid them out in the sun to
dry. Once dried, Minnie would peel a small portion of the outer
shell to remove any dirt left on the onion. The younger kids then
placed the onions in a gunnysack that was hung from the ceiling in
the cellar.

The barn was considered small, but it was large enough to handle
thier cows, horses, and pigs. The piglets stayed in the barn until
they were big enough to be outdoors and survive. Their bull had its
own pen and the cows gave birth to their calves in the pasture. Once
the calves were big enough to be separated from their mothers, they
were raised for sale. The family also raised their own chickens.

Their washhouse had a supply tank with a hydrant, which is where
Minnie did the laundry. They didn't have a washing machine. Instead,
Minnie used a washboard or scrub board, as some like to call it.
First, she soaked the clothes, then she scrubbed them up and down on
the grooves of the washboard with a bar of soap. She rinsed the
clothes in a tub of water, then hung them outside on a clothesline
behind the washhouse. During the brutal winter months, the laundry
hung indoors.

Everyone had chores and, since age usually dictated the chore, the
boys had more responsibility than the girls did. Donald worked in
the fields with his father and his brothers, while his sisters
gathered eggs and milked the cows. Since milking the cows was done
by hand, Minnie usually helped the girls with that particular chore.

Minnie then brought the milk to the separator house and poured it
into the top of the separator machine. The machine was a large,
round stainless steel bowl that you had to crank by hand, which in
turn separated the cream from the milk. During the winter, they
brought the separator inside the house. Minnie sold some of the
cream and eggs, and that money went toward things like sugar,
coffee, tea, and anything else they couldn't grow themselves.
Clearly, family's were pretty self sufficient back then.

Donald went to school through the eighth grade. Back then, he and
his brothers were needed on the farm. The younger kids walked a
couple of miles to school after they finished their morning chores.
A few times they were allowed to ride their horses. While the
younger kids were at school, Minnie usually spent her time churning
butter, which was a routine undertaking on the farm.

When the little ones returned from school, they'd finish the rest of
their chores. They'd have to husk corn, gather dried cow chips, and
haul water from the supply tank into the house to fill the reservoir
in the cook stove. Minnie liked to have two or three extra pails of
water inside the house, just in case. When I asked, just in case of
what, Donald replied with a chuckle, "Who knows. My mom was a small,
feisty woman, and if she wanted something, we knew better than to
question her. My mom worked hard and we all loved and respected
her."

During the brutally cold months, Donald's father would haul the
burner inside. It did a good job heating the entire house. A
register for the burner went through the ceiling and heated the two
rooms upstairs. Most of the time they were nice and toasty.

They burned dried cow chips instead of coal. Donald's sisters went
around the field and carefully placed the cow chips in piles because
they crumbled easily. Then Donald and his brothers pick them up
later with the horse and wagon and pile them in the basement.

As Donald got older, he usually went to his Aunt Susie's farm in
Buffalo County to help her and her husband with their cattle. Susie
(Waugh) and her husband Charles (Nedved) leased a couple thousand
acres of land on the Crow Creek Indian Reservation, where they
raised some fifteen hundred head of cattle. The Crow Creek Indian
Reservation is centrally located in parts of Buffalo, Hughes, and
Hyde counties, on the east bank of the Missouri River.

Eight hours a day, Donald rode the range, taking care of the cattle.
Sometimes, he had to pull calves out of the creek and help deliver a
calf or two. This lone cowboy would, at times, sit and eat smoked
rattlesnake with the Indians. Donald told me, "Rattlesnake is good.
Tastes just like chicken."

Civilian Conservation Corps
On March 21, 1933, President Franklin D. Roosevelt signed a bill
creating the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC). Its purpose was to
provide young men between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five with
work and, at the same time, regain lost forestland.

To be eligible, you had to come from families on relief, be
unmarried, and unemployed. The Department of the Interior and
Agriculture supervised and planned the work while the Department of
Labor recruited the enrollees, and the Army ran the camps.

They paid the enrollees' room and board plus thirty dollars a month
($1.00 a day), with $22.50-$25.00 of their pay sent home to their
families. This served a dual purpose by helping families financially
and at the same time kept young men off the streets and out of
trouble.

On July 12, 1939, at the age of eighteen, Donald reported for
enrollment to the U.S. Army Authorities at CCC Camp Chamberlain,
South Dakota, and assigned to BR-2 Department, 2750th Company in
Fruitdale, South Dakota.

The camp's project was Drainage Private Land Erosion (DPE), and
Donald's job description was concrete construction. He also received
vocational training in printing, truck driving, first aid, and news
writing.

The enrollees' day began at 6:00 a.m., dedicating the first two
hours to calisthenics, eating breakfast, making beds, cleaning
barracks, and policing the grounds.

Their work schedule was 8:00 a.m. - 4:00 p.m., including a one-hour
lunch at noon. If the enrollees missed a day of work because of
severe weather, they would work on the following Saturday to make up
for the lost day.

After the workday ended, the young men had the opportunity to take
part in various activities offered at the camp such as reading,
baseball, football, basketball, boxing, pool, volleyball, table
tennis, swimming, fishing, and horseshoes, with tournaments played
between the barracks. Donald trained in his age bracket for boxing
and won the title of Golden Glove Champ of his camp.

"Hey, Pop, did you ever get into trouble as a teen?"

Donald couldn't help but laugh at his son's question.

"Of course I did. I'm a Schuman, aren't I?"

Curiously, and with a chuckle, Ed asked, "What kind of trouble, Pop?
Tipping cows?"

"Nope! I didn't see any fun in sneaking up on a cow at night and
knocking it over while it slept. Although, I do remember an incident
while on furlough from the CCC. I went to visit my Uncle Roy (Waugh)
to do some coyote hunting just outside the Badlands. He lived in
Cottonwood and drove a stripped-down 1934 Chevy. Stripped down. No
doors. No fenders. No interior. You sat right on the gas tank. In
the distance, we spotted a coyote, and in an attempt to catch the
animal, my Uncle Roy accelerated down the ill kept, bumpy, dirt
road. My dad always told me, if I didn't have bad luck, I didn't
have any luck. So, as bad luck had it, we hit one of those large
bumps. My finger was on the trigger of my rifle and, when we hit the
bump, my rifle accidentally discharged into my boot. The bullet went
into the top of my foot and exited between my toes, which in turn
scared off the coyote."

Uncle Roy examined Donald's foot trying to determine the severity of
the injury, and decided it would be best if they went back to
Cottonwood.

Even though Donald did not seek traditional medical attention for
his foot, the method he chose wouldn't have been the first choice
for most people. At least I think it wouldn't.

Apparently, in those days, fresh cow dung was an old farm remedy
used on livestock to help heal wounds and draw out any infection the
animal may have had. (You know where I'm going with this, right?)

Once home, Uncle Roy drove into the pasture where he and Donald
waited for a fresh patty to fall. As you can imagine, it didn't take
long before they were able to fill a bucket in which Donald fully
immersed his injured bare foot.

It appears all Donald got that day was a sore butt, a hole in his
foot, which he purposely covered in cow poop, and visions of one
lucky coyote running fast and free.

Although Donald's injury wasn't life threatening, it did prevent him
from returning to the CCC Camp. Instead, he spent the next sixteen
months recuperating on the family farm doing small chores, while at
the same time trying to stay out of trouble.

Donald enjoyed telling Ed stories about his past, just as much as Ed
enjoyed listening to them. More so, regardless of the conversation,
Ed enjoyed the time he spent with his dad.

"Ever been jackrabbit hunting, son?"

"No, Pop. Why?"

"Here's a story for you," Donald said with a chuckle.

"I woke up one morning and decided to go jackrabbit hunting and
loaded my .22-caliber rifle and ammunition in the back seat of my
Model A Ford."

"Don't tell me you shot a hole in your other foot, Pop", Ed said
facetiously.

"Well, it's not exactly about my hunting jackrabbit, Eddie. The
following night, I put on my best Sunday suit and went to a dance in
town with my brothers Jack and Dick. On the way home, I smoked a
cigarette, then flicked it out the window. At least I thought it
went out the window.

I parked in front of the house, like usual, and found my way to bed.
Actually, I had a little too much moonshine that night and fell into
bed, clothes and all. I'm not sure how long I was asleep before I
heard my dad hollering for me. I found out later that my dad woke to
the sound of bullets going off, jumped out of bed, and ran to the
window. That's when he saw my car on fire."

"What did you do?" Ed asked eagerly.

"Well, my dad was screaming for me to get up. At first, I wasn't
sure if I was dreaming or not. I remember hearing my dad yelling for
me to get out of bed, and something about my car being on fire."

"No kidding? Your Model A was on fire? How did that happen?" Ed
asked.

"Well, remember when I flicked my cigarette out of the window?
Unknowingly, it landed in the back seat, which of course is where I
left the rifle and ammunition from my earlier hunting trip. My dad
was already outside and on the driver's side of the car, in his
underwear, trying to release the emergency brake so he could push
the car away from the house. He feared the house was going to catch
fire. I came running down the stairs when I realized I wasn't
dreaming. I saw the flames and ran into the kitchen, grabbed the
slop bucket, ran out the door to the passenger side, and threw the
slop from the bucket on the fire."

Because Donald knew how the story ended, he began laughing
hysterically.

"The slop went through the passenger side window, and out the
driver's side window, hitting my dad in the face and chest. My dad
wasn't happy, to say the least. He told me to push the car away from
the house and let the damn thing burn, then walked inside the
house."

Ed was laughing so hard, he had tears in his eyes trying to
visualize his dad standing in his Sunday best, half-inebriated, the
Model A Ford on fire, bullets going off every which way, and
Donald's dad standing in his underwear covered in slop.

"It wasn't funny then, Eddie, but we sure did laugh about it years
later."

Ed and his dad sat in silence, both lost in the moment, and although
decades had passed, one thing was apparent. The special bond that
this father and son once shared so long ago hadn't been broken.