A Flathead family memoir (Part II)

Retired professor Irle White of Libby continues the story of his grandparents’ lives in the valley

Grandpa was away a lot of the time and he worried about his sons not having enough to keep them busy during summertime. Both of my grandparents were raised on farms and believed in the benefits of a wholesome rural life. When Grandma received an inheritance in 1906, they purchased nine acres of land on the west shore of Flathead Lake near the village of Rollins. It was ideal for their purposes. The property was located on Gravel Bay, facing southeast with about 150 yards of lakeshore frontage. There was a spring and an old beaver dam on one side of the Rollins property. Another stream ran across the upper end of the farm. Water filtered down through gravel and silt keeping the soil moist all the way down to the lake. It was a perfect arrangement for growing apples, cherries and berries.

When the frost cleared in March of 1908, Grandpa had the area logged by the Dewey Lumber Company, then located at Rollins. In exchange for logs, he received enough timber to build a house. Two of the boys were big enough to help with building and by October of 1910, the house was completed. The house still stands but has now passed out of the family.

The design was typical of farmhouses of that period, straightforward and utilitarian. One large square room with a fireplace served as living and dining room. There was a screened sleeping porch facing the lake, a large ground-floor bedroom, and a kitchen in back. The second floor was divided into three bedrooms. This was the house where Grandpa raised his family and where my sisters and I, a generation later, spent our childhood summers. It was on the farm at Rollins that I first grew to love my Grandpa. He showed me what the world was like when he was a boy and he taught me his values by setting an example.

Grandpa’s plan to create enough work to keep his sons busy and out of trouble was working well. “Idle hands are the devil’s playground,” was the family philosophy and Grandpa made sure the Devil did not show up to lure his boys into mischief. The official work schedule called for work in the morning and play in the afternoon. There were weeds to pull in the berry patch, fruit to pick and wood to chop. There was always at least one cow to milk twice each day. During berry season the boys were roused out of bed at first light, 4:30 a.m. at mid-summer, to pick and crate berries and get them to market by mid-morning.  They were frequently too worn out to get into afternoon monkey business.

Rollins was halfway between Kalispell to the north and Polson to the south. Each town was about 35 miles distant over rough dirt and gravel roads. By water, it was only half as far, and in 1913 the

trip by boat was much more comfortable.

By 1915 there were more than 20 steamers carrying passengers and freight on the lake. One made a morning run from the railhead at Somers to Polson at the foot of the lake. It returned northbound each afternoon to catch the train from Somers to Kalispell. Another steamer served the west shore from Polson, past Big Arm and Lakeside all the way to Somers. This “local” steamer stopped on signal wherever a dock extended out into deep water. There was such a dock at Rollins about a quarter mile from Grandpa’s place.

In summertime, the northbound steamboat arrived at Rollins about 7:30 a.m. If all went well, fresh berries were in Kalispell markets by mid-morning. By 1915, Grandpa was providing sweet cherries, apples, and berries to the growing city. Grandpa’s orchard produced fruit for the Kalispell market for many years. In the late 1930s, and as late as 1944, my sisters and I helped with the harvest.

From age seven until I was fourteen I often accompanied Grandpa when he went to market, but by then he did not ship by steamboat. In the early thirties a new highway was built and Grandpa hauled produce in a Ford Coupe converted into a small pickup truck.

Grandpa worked his orchard with Kit, a horse who was strong, wise, and trustworthy. She was the result of a weak fence separating a Hamiltonian trotting mare and a Percheron stallion. She became an excellent horse for cultivating orchards and a gentle and adored carrier of four of Grandpa’s grandchildren. Often my sisters, my cousin Bruce and I climbed aboard Kit for the half-mile ride to the Rollins post office, each of us clutching a buffalo nickel to purchase a Hershey bar. When one of us slid off either end, Kit calmly moved to a tree stump or embankment so we could remount.

Grandpa was small and wiry, 5’6” and perhaps 140 pounds, but he was strong. In his late 70s Grandpa taught me how to harness Kit to a single-blade plow. I was too light to steer the plow, but he let me try. Grandpa lined Kit up, threw reins over his shoulder, put all his weight on the handles and made a clicking noise with his tongue. Both Grandpa and horse snorted a bit and started down a row of cherry trees ducking branches as best they could. I followed behind, barefoot in newly turned warm earth that felt like flour. When the plow turned up rocks I carried them to a “rock boat” to be hauled off and disposed of later. At the end of a row, perhaps 150 yards long, we stopped, all breathing hard. Grandpa unhooked Kit and we three wandered down to the stream for a drink of water. On a hot day this routine was repeated twenty or so times. Seldom did we plow more than two rows without a break, and if Kit started to lather, Grandpa stopped, gathered long strands of cool grass and wiped her down in the shade. Grandpa had a rakish sense of humor. He and I wandered about his farm, checking on raspberries or cherries, or clearing debris from the old beaver dam.

One afternoon he taught me how to “water the roses.” We were in front of the house when nature called. Grandpa walked over to a rose bush beside the front steps, well out of sight of anyone inside, and said, “This is a good place. We may as well water the roses, just don’t let the women see you.” I do not know why this event has stayed with me for 75 years. Perhaps it was a sort of male bonding.

In 1913 Grandpa’s stint as district superintendent was finished and he was assigned to the church at Polson, a bustling town of 500 and growing. His preaching style and character were noted in The Flathead Courier. “Reverend White, the new pastor at the M.E. Church, accompanied by Mrs. White, arrived in Polson last Friday... He is a scholar and gifted with language, presents his subject without notes and in such a manner as to indicate he is a zealous worker.”

The townspeople intended to make Polson a permanent growing town and wanted modern, up-to-date facilities. When Grandpa and his family arrived, there was a fire company, a waterworks system, two telephone companies, and a motion picture show. There was a photograph gallery and a steam laundry.  A wood-fired steam plant furnished electricity to a few businesses on Main Street. There were three billiard halls in town but no saloons because liquor was banned on the reservation. Nevertheless, according to Uncle Bruce’s memoirs there was “a certain amount of bootlegging and moonshining going on.”

In 1914, Grampa was assigned as Pastor to the church at his beloved Rollins. Five years before, when he was Superintendent, he arranged for the church to purchase a point of land known as Reynold’s Point jutting into the lake at Rollins. The property was to be used as an institute — a summer camp — for Methodist children. By 1915 tent sites were cleared and fire pits were built but there was no chapel or permanent buildings. Grampa’s farm was only a mile away. He had a horse, a plow, the time, and the skills so he decided he would assist with improving the property, a project that held his interest for more than twenty years. Grampa designed and helped construct four bunkhouses, a dining hall, kitchen, four outhouses and a chapel. This work was still going on in 1940. I remember Grampa loading rakes, drags, and a 3’ wide scoop shovel, hitching Kit to the wagon and whistling as he went down the road to work on his institute.

While the family lived in Polson, Rollins remained their summer home. Although steamers made regular runs between the two towns, on many occasions Grandpa or one of the boys chose their outboard motor-powered Whitehall boat to make the trip. They told many stories of adventures on the lake.

The level of the lake was raised ten feet when Kerr Dam was completed in 1939, but before that time, sand bars and shoals lay just below the surface of Polson Bay. One Saturday night Grandpa caught a steamer at Rollins. The boat first headed north to Somers to pick up passengers for a late run back to Polson. The passengers had been doing a good bit of celebrating. They had a couple of ukuleles and there was lots of singing and dancing. They were very friendly folk, and Grandpa was made to feel welcome. The captain was in a joyful mood and when his passengers wanted him to take sightseeing side trips, he obliged them. They circled Wild Horse Island and cruised around Skidoo Bay. About 10 p.m., they strayed off course and out of deep water. Two miles off shore, they ran aground. The wind increased and so did the waves. It was cold and dark when the oil lamps blew out. The boat keeled and rocked and it was difficult to walk on deck. Waves sent spray over the frightened passengers. They were beginning to panic. The Captain turned to the only pastor on board and asked Grandpa to help calm his passengers. Grandpa gathered everyone and led them in prayer for their salvation. They were on their knees singing “Nearer My God To Thee” when the powerful steam engine was able to pull the boat into deep water, but many passengers believed they were saved because of Grandpa’s prayers.

I heard Grandpa tell this story several times, and he always ended it with a twinkle in his eye when he said, “I saw several new faces at church service that Sunday.”

I have always been grateful that Grandpa knew I loved him.

White is a resident of Libby