Kewaunee County Pandemics: 100 Years

 

For nearly two years, the U.S., and the world, have been focused on COVID-19. A little over one hundred years ago, the world and the U.S. were focused on the Spanish Flu, and, at the same time, diphtheria. In 2021, media reports COVID rates daily. One hundred years ago, the means of reporting was through the weekly newspaper. In November 1917, Algoma Record published disease information and requirements provided by Algoma Health Officer, Dr. W.W. Witcpalek. Witcpalek listed the eighteen diseases required to be reported. Diphtheria was third on the list, ranked after measles and smallpox. Diphtheria was one of the eight requiring quarantine. Witcpalek cited state statutes while also pointing out fines or imprisonment for non-compliance. 

Diphtheria has been around far longer that COVID, which is new, or the Spanish Flu of 100 years ago. Diphtheria was firs described by Hippocrates in the fifth century BC while it was Aetius who defined epidemics near the end of the 5th centery AD. Diphtheria was there for centuries, however it took a Frenchman to give it a name in 1826. It seems to have appeared before 1800 in the U.S. but never had a real name. Between 1921 and 1925, diphtheria was a four year epidemic in the U.S. A 1925 dogsled race - known as the Serum Run - was a 674-mile trip from Nenana to Nome, Alaska, for the purpose of getting diphtheria antitoxins to prevent an epidemic in Nome and the surrounding area. It was that "Race for Mercy" which inspired the Iditarod just short of 50 years later.

During the 1920s, the U.S. was seeing frm 100,000 to 200,000 cases yearly, resulting in 13,000 to 15,000 deaths. Wikipedia says diphtheria peaked in 1921 when the U.S. saw 206,000 cases. But what is it? Diphtheria is a disease caused by bacteria that makes toxins that cause swelling of the mucus membranes which can obstruct breathing and swallowing. It can enter the bloodstream to cause heart disease and even death.

It was immunizations and better living conditions that nearly eliminated the spread to two cases of diphtheria in the United States between 2014 and 2017, however one hundred years earlier, in August 1916, Wisconsin medical officers were astonished that among the 4,000 Wisconsin men who left Camp Douglas, there was not a single case of diphtheria, typhoid, smallpox, mumps, or any other disease.

It was an un understatement when the Record on January 3, 1878 reported, “Misfortune never comes single handed.” The paper reported that on the previous Thursday, Mr. and Mrs. C. Martin of Carlton lost three children from diphtheria. The children were buried in one grave, only to be followed by the deaths of two siblings. How does a family cope with the deaths of five children almost overnight? The Record further reported that 20 children in one school district died within two months.

During May 1888, Record carried a reprint from the New York Herald saying it was the opinion of many Brooklyn doctors that diphtheria abounded where railroad tracks were salted to melt ice and snow. The doctors cited 40% of the cases from January 1 and March 23 were reported by those who lived on railroad lines. Dr. Metcalf, chair of the Dept. of Contagious Diseases, said there were additional cases from homes on side streets about 50’ from the tracks. He did say further study was necessary.

Three cases of diphtheria were reported to the Ahnapee health department in mid-April 1891, however of the three, two died just before the paper was published. As there were no new cases, the health officer on April 16 decided schools could reopen the following Monday while churches and lodges would be allowed to resume services and meetings following the Saturday after that. The health officer hoped all persons would use due precaution to prevent further spread of diphtheria.

Pierce, Casco and Ahnapee towns were reporting new cases of diphtheria in late November 1894, prompting the Record to call for every possible precaution to be taken. Then the public school in the English Settlement was closed because of diphtheria prevalence. Lottie Teweles was the teacher. A few days earlier, it was reported that Joseph Fensel’s family, in Casco, lost their 8 year old daughter who was buried on November 6. On November 18, the Fensel’s 6 year old daughter died of the same disease.

Sheboygan Health Officials declared the epidemic was over a few days before Halloween 1896. Dr. Blocki, the health officer, was criticized for keeping diphtheria conditions from the public while the school superintendent was also criticized for keeping schools open.  Blocki felt that refusing to release information quieted speculation and mis-information that inflamed people. Both Blocki and the superintendent felt children were beter off in school because schools were more sanitary than homes. The papers didn’t appear to chronicle what was certainly outrage among Sheboygan mothers!

William Kuehlman was the only juror from the northern part of the county a year later, in late October 1897. Judge Gilson released Kuehlman from jury duty due to the proximity of diphtheria near his home. Had it not been for disease, the judge would not have released him. Forestville had diphtheria cases. Its schools were ordered closed but opened again. In the community recently renamed Algoma, there were five new cases but no deaths. Schools were open and precautions were taken. When the quarantines were lifted from August Klatt and Mel Perry’s residences, the paper said no new cases had been reported in the previous week. But then came December when School District # 4, on the north side, did not open because of diphtheria. However, it was expected that District #4 would open before Christmas in the old building near the south branch bridge.

Handshakes are few and far between in the COVID environment, and they were in 1897 when just before Christmas the paper reported that New York “men who know all about medical science are forbidding handshakes because fingernails are in the bacilli of diphtheria, smallpox, scarlet fever and a hundred other diseases.”

Just as in 2020-2021, when all around the world folks were looking for alternative treatments, in early 1898 it was Hood’s Sarsaparilla that was touted as American’s greatest medicine. A testimonial from Mrs. R.E. Anderson of Cumberland, Maine, said it cured diphtheria in her 7-year-old boy who was paralyzed and suffered terribly. The Andersons and their doctors had given up all hope before starting a 3-month regime of Hood’s which restored the boy’s health. A few months later, the Record admonished parents to take care not to mistake the symptoms of diphtheria for mumps until the disease was developed. Early symptoms of throat and neck swelling were peculiar to both and vigilance was paramount.

In early 1899 the paper announced, “Medicine is making such strides that the cure of today is supplanted by the cure of tomorrow. Loudest voices soon disappear and the best physicians are slow to accept new innovations.” The paper went on to say about the only way by which progress can be made is experiments with human life, which was most risky. How many times was the same thing heard one hundred years later.

One of the 1899 experiments was called the chlorine remedy, tried with great success on twenty-four people in Brooklyn’s Kingston Hospital. Of the twenty-four cases, there were twenty-four cures. According to the New York Times, the New York Board of Health did further testing, while, in the meantime, physicians were sending patients for treatment, which was the inhalation of chlorine. Although there were professional differences, people had little concern. The Baltimore American pointed out that if chlorine worked, there would be general rejoicing.

While chlorine inhalation was on the cusp in New York, Town of Lincoln residents were fightened by the outbreak of diphtheria. District 2 school was closed and people were kept under quarantine. There was one death, however many were said to be “very low.” Some were suggesting high diphtheria rates in the Lincoln resulted from a dry season. It was said that dug wells with little water were full of gasses and sediment, giving rise to the germination of diphtheria, typhoid, and scarlet fever. A few months later. Dr. Moraux was attending several cases in Montpelier.

Both the Record and the Enterprise kept readership informed on disease in the county, the country and even across the world when possible. An article datelined Berlin: May 1902 was something to take note of. Reports were that the use of Berin’s diphtheria serum produced Berlin’s lowest ever diphtheria death rate. Berlin saw 469 deaths in 1901 where such rates had ranged between 1,00 to 2,600 a year before the Berin’s serum treatment.

Then came 1913 when Chamberlain’s Cough Remedy was advertised as a quick way to cure cold. Colds had ramifications. The company claimed their cough remedy could always be depended on, was safe and was pleasant to take. Medical authorities pointed out that children could more easily develop diphtheria, whooping cough, scarlet fever and consumption, or contract other contagious diseases if they had colds. A good selling point.

1914 was a bad year. Anna Jindra was ready to return home from visiting her aunt when she received a phone call telling her to stay away. Her family was quarantined. Within a fewweeks, Nasewaupee’s John Buechner lost two daughters to diptheria and then he died, but of paralysis.

The most astounding news came a year later when the Record ran a reprint from a May Philadelphia Record. Its story of the presence of lingering germs after 50 years was big news. Both health authorities and an attending physician said diphtheria germs stayed in the walls of a Philadelphia home for a half century. How on earth was it possible? At that time the family who owned the home had several deaths. As it happened, the new owner, Raymond Miller, scraped away a heavy coat of whitewash before papering the walls. Miller’s whitewash refuse was thrown outside after which warm, damp weather was said to have revived the germs, “which had been imprisoned under the whitewash.” If there were other such reports, Algoma Record didn’t follow up.

The paper did, however, did discuss diphtheria “media” in August 1916 when the State Laboratory of Hygiene announced better methods for managing it. The new process meant the state could return reports from 18-24 hours earlier. Over hundreds of years, the known world looked for disease treatments. Some that worked were coincidental. A week before Christmas 1919, the Enterprise carried a Medical News article about treating the sick safely with plain remedies. The  Medical New article also ran an ad looking to hire “Smart Agents.” One wonders what their plain remedies were.

There were always ways to encourage the public to do something about disease and Friday May 2, 1923, was it. When the day was designated by Wisconsin's Governor McGovern as both Arbor Day and Fire Prevention Day, State Fire Marshall Purtell said fire prevention was also disease prevention as Arbor Day called attention to all the waste blown about since the previous fall which was an invitation for conflagrations and favorite disease-breading places. Purtell mentioned the heavy yearly disease toll and called for sanitary conditions. He went on to say family dogs and cats sunned themselves in the rags, straw, and leaves before taking their germs around the neighborhoods and into the homes.

Despite all the cures – charlatan and medical efforts – diphtheria remained. When the Record reported 151 cases in 1925, it recalled diphtheria sweeping through Kewaunee County 40 or more years earlier taking a toll on nearly every family, sometimes taking all the children in the family. New treatments were beginning to work wonders in halting the spread.

Almost 50 years before Philadelphia authorities touted chlorine treatments, the British Medical Journal, (January 8, 1859) called attention to Stephen S. Alford and “Chlorine in the Treatment of Diphtheria.”

Alford felt every medical man should record anything that works in diphtheria. He felt such remedies should remove the poisonous growth to prevent its reforming and thus destroy its poisonous character. Alford claimed if an application of silver nitrate did not destroy the growth, it had to be constantly reapplied. He was experimenting with chlorinated soda used every 10-15 minutes to wash away throat fungi and mass with constant gargling. He said the use of chlorine counteracts poisons to destroy the virus before it spread to other family members. Other doctors agreed with Alford’s assessment of efficacy.

The same issue of the publication carried another chlorine article, “Chlorine Inhalation in Diphtheria” by C.F. Hodson who claimed chlorine inhalation was successful in hopeless cases and was a useful treatment for severe forms of diphtheria.

Chlorine has a variety of uses from disinfecting water to being part of sewage and industrial waste sanitation. Chlorine is a fabric bleaching agent. Chlorine is often called bleach and was in many of the products merchants were unable to keep stocked in 2020 and 2021. We smell chlorine in swimming pools and on hospital linens, and hand sanitizer when we are out and about.

While the two pandemics are different, there are similarities. As Abraham Lincoln said on December 1, 1862, “We cannot escape history.”

Sources: Ahnapee Record, Algoma Record, Algoma Record Herald, Kewaunee Enterprise, Wikipedia.

The First Algoma Man Sentenced to Life in Prison: “An Anarchistic Regard for Human Life…..”

Wikipedia says, "The history of anarchism is as ambiguous as anarchism itself. Scholars find it hard to define or agree on what anarchism means, which makes outlining its history difficult. There is a range of views on anarchism and its history. Some feel anarchism is a distinct, well-defined 19th and 20th century movement while others identify anarchist traits long before first civilizations existed.

"Prehistoric society existed without formal hierarchies, which some anthropologists have described as similar to anarchism. The first traces of formal anarchist thought can be found in ancient Greece and China, where numerous philosophers questioned the necessity of the state and declared the moral right of the individual to live free from coercion. During the Middle Ages, some religious sects espoused libertarian thought, and the Age of Enlightenment, and the attendant rise of rationalism and science signaled the birth of the modern anarchist movement.

"Modern anarchism was a significant part of the workers' movement alongside Marxism at the end of the 19th century. Modernism, industrialization, reaction to capitalism and mass migration helped anarchism to flourish and to spread around the globe. Major schools of thought of anarchism sprouted up as anarchism grew as a social movement, particularly anarcho-collectivism, anarcho-communism, anarcho-syndicalism and individualist anarchism. As the workers' movement grew, the divide between anarchists and Marxists grew as well. The two currents formally split at the fifth congress of the First International in 1872, and the events that followed did not helpt to heal the gap. Anarchists participated enthusiastically in the Russian Revolution, but as soon as the Bolsheviks established their authority, anarchists were harshly suppressed, mot notably in Kronstadt* and in Ukraine.

All that takes us to December 1914 Algoma. Whaaaat, you say? Anarchy in Algoma? Algoma had less than 1,900 people then. But as Algoma Record headlines screamed, "Dastardly Murder by Fiendish Foreigner." The paper went on to report the "anarchistic disregard for human life" that led to the "most heinous and cowardly manner," when a Russian Pole employed in Algoma "deliberately and treacherously shot and killed a fellow countryman" before turning "his gun upon another countryman and pulled the trigger." Though the second man was not instantly killed, the dead man never had a chance. Both were shot in the back of the head, but the gun was pressed against the ear of the murdered man. It all happened about 2 miles north of Algoma on the night of November 14, 1914.

Before the shootings were known, the murderer aroused suspicions of Algoma's railroad crew as he attempted to go north to Sturgeon Bay. He paid Algoma station agent Raymond Kohlbeck with "big bills," prompting Kohlbeck to wonder how one working as a drayman had so much money. Others at the depot noticed the man - later called Konil Kutnik - counting his money at the rear of the station's dark platform. By the time Kutnik arrived in Sturgeon Bay, Max Hillman, who had been shot, recovered consciousness and staggered to Henry Ronsman's farm, on what today is Carnot Road. Due to language barriers, Ronsman did not understand Hillman and went for his neighbor Gustave Gericke, who lived across the road. Then they took Hillman to Dr. Burke in Algoma.

Sturgeon Bay Police Chief Herman Fitschler was alerted and authorities were on the lookout for Kutnik when the train came in. The man, who offered no resistance as he attempted to cross the railroad bridge, was taken into custody by Sturgeon Bay Nightwatchman Lequee.

According to the Record, the "desperado" was interrogated by Sheriff J.H. Kulhanek on the return from Sturgeon Bay. There was no train that time because Sheriff Kulhanek and Under-sheriff Trudell used Mr. Fowels' auto. Admitting to the killing, Kutnik said he was drunk all day and took the money although did not remember everything. When the group reached Algoma, there was an inquest at the city hall.

While the murderer called himself Henry Kralove, he gave the name Konil Kutnik at the inquest. The slain man was Sam Bilowvich, a Russian in the employ of Moses Shaw at his farm north of Algoma. A Russian of the Jewish faith, Max Hillman, worked for B. Levinson, an Algoma junk dealer. Kutnik, Bilowvich, and Hillman spoke a common language and were thought to be friends.

On the day in question, Mr. Kutnik was paid his $2 salary, however it was said that he went through his money "overnight." Since he carried a 32-calibre Smith & Wesson gun and was with his companions, it was felt that he was out after the few dollars Bilowvich was believed to have. As it was, both Bilowvich and Hillman were found with their pockets slashed. Later it was learned that Hillman was carrying just over fifty dollars while Bilowvich had 6 or 7. At Kutnik's apprehension, he had a revolver in his sock and was carrying about $32 and a knife. Where was the rest of the money?

The story of the murder surfaced when victim Sam Bilowvich became a curiosity to this blogger who learned he is one of two whose remains are in the Old Ahnapee Town Cemetery, adjacent to the hill on Highway 54 just west of Algoma's city limits. Other remains in that cemetery were removed to the Evergreens with the relocation and rebuilding of the old Highway 17. Bilowvich is not an old Kewaunee County recognized name, and because of that, the search was on.

Born in Minsk, Russia - where his wife still lived - Bilowvich was about 31 at the time of his death. Undertaker Schubich saw to the burial and the Town of Ahnapee paid the expenses.

When a Record reporter was able to interview Max Hillman, Hillman said he distrusted all Russians. Hillman described getting shot in the head, being pushed from the wagon in which the men were riding, having his pockets knifed open and his money taken. Because the bullet was lodged in Hillman's head, medical plans were to send him to Sheboygan for surgery as soon as he could travel. Throughout the articles in the papers, Bilowvich and Kutnik were mentioned by name. Hillman was mostly referred to as "the Jew" or "the Jewish peddler."

Kutnik said he was about 20 and had been in the U.S. for a year before the murder. He said he was brought to the area by Bernard Levinson, who conducted an employment business in Algoma, and worked for Joe Blahnik in Ahnapee, Hugo Bushman, and Rudolph Dobry in Pierce. While working at Bushman's, he told of a man killing his brother and how he came to the U.S. to find the murder and seek revenge. He was working at Dobry's when he threatened to kill Woodrow Wilson, thereby being discharged as soon as the family knew he had a revolver. Wilson, he felt, was the cause of the war that had started in Europe and hard times in the U.S.

Describing Kutnik, the Record said he was heavy set and broad shouldered, had "beetling brows," and was a man of powerful build. The paper reported that he was a native of Tarnow on the border of Poland and Galicia in Russia, where his mother and brother remained. Articles mentioned his "Nihilistic tendencies" that were apparent on occasion, and said it was "fair conjecture that this was not his first killing."

Among those testifying at Kutnik's trail were Moses Shaw and August Heidmann, both of whom regarded the man as a capable workman who was honest, clean and intelligent. Several saloon keepers testified about the men being drunk, and Frank Urbanek told his bar tender not to serve one of the men who was plainly drunk, Kutnik said he knew he did a "bad thing" that made his mind "skip." He said he had never before been drunk and was not in the habit of drinking whiskey. Drinking whiskey began with a bottle earlier in the day, before the men went to any of the saloons.

Mr. Kutnik's stoicism throughout his three-day trial and at his sentencing were brought up several times in the papers.

When Judge Grasse sentenced Kutnik to life in the State Penitentiary at Waupun, the December 18, 1814 Record reported Grasse's words. Judge Grasse said Kutnik was convicted to the highest crime against the people of Wisconsin. He said when Moses received the Ten Commandments on Mt. Sinai, one was, "Thou shalt not kill," meaning that not only the law of the state was violated, but also the law of God. Grasse went on to say that he originally had sympathy for Kutnik and hoped his counsel could find extenuating circumstances.

Grasse further said that Kutnik liked the man he killed and bore him no bad will. He also said that Kutnik came from Russian Poland, the same place as John Sobieski and Thaddeus Kosciusko who gave their lives for freedom, the same place as the fine Polish farmers of West Kewaunee and the Poles of Milwaukee. Grasse said Kutnik's crime was atrocious and one of the most bloody in county history. His life sentence included solitary confinement on the first day of every November to follow. Kutnik was the first Algoma man sentenced to life in prison.

The headline at the left appeared in the May 9, 1924 Kewaunee Enterprise. Kutnik was turned down. He made the application several times in the ensuing years. A July paper reported Judge Grasse visiting Waupun and meeting with Kewaunee County prisoners, one of whom was Konil Kutnik.

On June 3, 1926, Door County Advocate carried this brief article (below) about Kutnik's request for parole, which did not happen.

Kewaunee Enterprise reported on Halloween 1930 that Konil Kutnik was again turned down for a pardon.

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Little more than a year and a half later, on May 13, 1932, Algoma Record Herald carried an article about a state probation agent in town to access it's files regarding the trial nearly 20 years earlies. Mr. Kutnik was seeking executive leniency. It was believed that if pardoned, he would be deported to Russia.

It took another ten years before Konil Kutnik was pardoned on Christmas Eve 1942. In the January 1 Record Herald, it was reported that Governor Julius P. Heil granted clemency, giving Kutnik absolute pardon. Kutnik had been sentenced to a life term, however, was paroled months earlier on April 4, 1942. 

A Kewaunee County coincidence in this story is that on arrival at Waupun, the Warden turned Kutnik over to Guard Frank Mashek, once of Kewaunee County. Mashek had worked as a guard for 8 years. As Sheriff Kulhanek and Under-sheriff Trudell were leaving, Kutnik broke down in tears, his first demonstration of emotion since his arrest.

What happened to Konil Kutnik and Max Hillman is a mystery. Mr. Bilowvich's story ended in the Old Town of Ahnapee Cemetery.

*Kronstadt is a town on an island west of St. Petersburg, Russia.

Sources: Algoma Herald, Algoma Record, Algoma Record Herald, Door County Advocate, Kewaunee Enterprise.

Kewaunee County's Earliest Veteran: War of 1812

Wisconsin was still part of the Michigan Territory that day in 1834 when Major Joseph McCormick (left) sailed north from Manitowoc with a group of men exploring the lakeshore. When the men reached what is now called the Ahnapee River, they went upriver for what they said was nine miles. How did they sail that far? The river was wide and deep, held in place by the thick forests surrounding it. Within a generation of first settlement in 1851, the trees were cut and the river was left to seep into the surrounding area and bake in the hot sun, becoming the river we know today. 

McCormick’s goal was locating lands and viewing the area. Spending a few days in the area, the men were favorably impressed. McCormick reported beautifully timbered land, rich soil, and game in abundance. In short, the area that became Algoma had everything one could possibly want. McCormick envisioned a village that did not take root. Then. Those in Manitowoc had recently relocated to the place and another relocation was not in the cards. Settlement became a reality in the days between June 28 and July 4, 1851, when the three founding families – Warners, Tweedales and Hughes – came north. In the meantime, Wisconsin became a state and the settlement was in the newly created Door County.

History tells us that some in McCormick’s party of that day knew his plans, but went on to get the land for themselves. It is possible that it happened, however a look at the Bureau of Land Management website indicates the earliest landowners had military warrants and likely never set foot in what became Kewaunee County, let alone what became Algoma. One Barlow Shackleford patented the first piece of land that would become the city called Algoma on February 1. 1843. At any rate, it was nearly 20 years later when McCormick made a return trip, then electing to live near Forestville

McCormick was the area’s “mover and shaker.” He was a member of Wisconsin’s Assembly in 1872 when Kewaunee Enterprise called him a “Democratic warhorse.” The well-known, highly respected, robust McCormick was eighty-six at the time. Also called an “uncompromising Democrat,” McCormick served with distinction in the War of 1812, was a member of the Texas Constitutional Convention, a 3-year member of the Indiana legislature, and was eighty-four when elected to Wisconsin Assembly.

A Horace Greely supporter even though he was opposed the man in an earlier day, McCormick felt Greeley was neither deceitful nor was one who resorted to trickery to further his positions. McCormick had little faith in Civil War General U.S. Grant, who also was running for president.

McCormick felt Greeley’s election would  put an end to reconstruction issues while bringing peace and reconcilliation. He felt that if the Democrats ran a 3^rd ticket, it would ensure more reconstruction, a continuation of military power and ku-klux-klan legislation. McCormick said he’d vote for the liberal because he saw no chance of a Democrat beating Grant.

McCormick was born in Wyoming, Pennsylvania on April 18, 1787, and lived in Indiana, Texas, Missouri, Kentucky, and Illinois before settling in Manitowoc. Commissioned as a captain in the War of 1812, he was promoted to a major, participating in several engagements, the most noteworthy being Tippecanoe.

In June 1872 Major McCormick was out riding with his nephew Miller McCormick who had come from New York. As the men started out on a trip to Sturgeon Bay, the horse made too short of a turn, causing the buggy to tip while throwing McCormick to the ground. Dr. Parsons came to his aid immediately, however there had been serious injuries to his hip and shoulder. A week later the paper said that while he was improving, he was unable to move without assistance. McCormick’s Masonic fraternity was credited with providing exceptional care. At the time of the accident, the Oswego (N.Y.) Gazette carried a tribute to McCormick’s great-nephew who had died in France.

When McCormick died in late August 1875, Ahnapee Record said his death was caused from the carriage’s overturn 3 years earlier. His Masonic funeral was the Peninsula’s largest to that time.

Joseph McCormick was buried in the old Defaut Cemetery, now the northeast corner of the Evergreens. One hundred years later, there was no marker on the Major’s grave, prompting great grandson Ray Birdsall and his sister to arrange for a stone. McCormick served in the War of 1812, and is Algoma’s earliest buried veteran.

Photo by T. Duescher

Kewaunee County & The Flappers: A Women's Movement

Thinking about flappers today probably means you're on the way to the hardware store for the rubber disc - a flapper - that allows water out of the toilet tank and into the bowl after flushing. If flappers were on your mind during the 1920s, you'd be thinking of the young women known as "flappers," and they were far more interesting than a toilet component!

Flappers gave rise to the women's movements that came later, however it was the years between that gave others pause. And that's putting it mildly. With the '20s came young women who cut their hair and wore short skirts such as in this 1926 Bach-Dishmaker ad. Who knows what was more scandalous - hair cut short and close to the head, or showing knees? Bobbed hair was thought to be as liberating then as going braless during the 1960s.

Flappers were mostly middle-class young women who listened to jazz and disdained what was thought of as acceptable behavior, rejecting societal morals of temperance and chastity. The women were seen as rebellious. They were shoppers, materialistic, and they even drove cars and danced, however they weren't doing the more sedate dances their mothers did. Was it any wonder the women gave their mothers and grandmothers vapors, the long-time term for emotional agitation, fainting, "hysteria," and more? Wikipedia tells us having "a case of vapours" was later used for melodramatic or comedic effects.

Bobbed hair meant less work for the mothers with little girls such as Grandma with her brood of a dozen. By the time the last 3 girls were born, Grandma had to be exhausted and was no doubt smiling as she cut their hair to a manageable length just at the bottom of the ears. Although Grandma was comfortable with the decision, there was "hell to pay" when her girls got to school. Even at 9, Elaine said what was on her mind, and that was verboten. Hair was worse than an opinion, and Elaine "got it," which meant physical punishment that was far more than a slap on the hands with a ruler. With her dozen kids, Elaine's punishment was the only time Grandma ever "went to school." What happened to Elaine as a little girl illustrates the controversy of the era. The hair that caused punishment is at the left.

It was said flappers wore short skirts to show off their legs and ankles which had always been hidden from view. Short skirts allowed dancing, and the dance of the era was the Charleston, a dance craze that involved waving arms and fast-moving footwork. The dance had its roots in African American dances in the south and then in Harlem in New York. Although the dance gained its popularity almost overnight, it was banned in places due to a seemingly sexual nature and exposure of women's legs. However, some units of government banned the Charleston as a "safety concern." The fast-moving dance was made up of knees twisted in and out while the heels were sharply pointed outward in each step. Since banned for safety sounds better than banned for morals, the bans didn't have much impact on an office seeker (males) who said they were more concerned about breaking legs than showing them.

Until the turn of 1900, women's dresses were floor length, and limbs were generally covered, but it all changed as hemlines began to rise early in the 1900s. By 1910, dress lengths were over a woman's foot, and even that was scandalous to some.

Hemlines rose slowly, although by 1915 the ankle was exposed. Heaven forbid! Surely some wondered what would happen next. The adventuresome found the dress on the left on sale in 1919 at Washburn's in Sturgeon Bay. Who could keep up with a younger generation that didn't know it's place? Hemlines rose a bit higher in 1916, and as the U.S. entered World War l, hemlines were almost to mid-calf. Hems were up and down, but when the war was over and the U.S. entered the 1920s, the "roaring '20s," saw more changes. Although the 1920s brought women the right to vote, it was 1972 when singer Helen Reddy released, "I am Woman Hear Me Roar." 

According to Arena Stage, a center for American theater in Washington D.C., when the 19th Amendment was ratified, the life of a flapper sparked the new-found independence women received through the right to vote. The bobbed hair became a symbol of liberated women, Forty years later, bras were the new symbol of liberated women, and the brans were being burned on the streets of New York.

It was the day of the silent movie, and 1920's star Clara Bow was the woman young American women emulated. It was Bow who inspired much of what came next. Half a century later, her influence was still in what was called "feminism." "Chanel" brings thoughts of perfume, however Coco Chanel was a fashion designer using men's apparel in her clothing lines and in her own androgenous loo, Chanel introduced the :little black dress" and the classic Chanel suit. While Bow was a major influence of U.S. women, it was Chanel who influenced the western world. The old Virginia Slims cigarette ads contained the phrase, "You've come a long way, Baby." Women did by then, although there was a long way to go. As for the cigarettes, 50 years earlier, flappers smoked most often with cigarette holders. The Slims were not short, fat cigarettes.

During the 1920s and  '30s, women wore hem lengths from above shoe top like Grandma did to above the knees like Agnes did. The photo on the left was taken in 1931.

That women smoked or had alcoholic drinks should not have surprised anybody, but those who did such things in an earlier day, did it in privacy. Kewaunee County women were known to smoke cigars before the days of the cigarette. Hotels such as Boedeckers' on the southeast corner of 4th and Steele in Algoma offered "ladies' parlors" where women could privately enjoy a whiskey, beer or a good cigar. In the crossroads' communities such as Pilsen, Rosiere, and Lincoln, the church was often flanked by a tavern, mill and mercantile. Following Sunday services, the men stopped to wet their whistles while women stayed outside visiting. That didn't mean women were forbidden to drink, it was just that the interior of a tavern was for men who would bring out a drink for their ladies.

The '20s were different though. So-called unladylike flappers entered bars which earlier were a man's domain. It didn't take long for the ladies' parlors to go by the wayside.

Readership no doubt enjoyed Record Herald articles that made fun of flappers in summer 1921. At that point, the city was short on such women. Nevertheless, the paper reported the women necessitated rigid rules for the beach, regulating that they wear two-piece suits with skirts reaching to the knees. Also mandated were stockings and high-necked yokes for all females appearing to be older than 10. Algoma provided a bit of levity with other rules in jest. Women from 10-12 were to wear hoopskirts that came to 1 inch of the ground while those from 20 – 30 would wear regulation diving suits of solid rubber with steel helmets having glass-covered eyeholes. Women from 30-40 were to stay in the bathhouses. Pretty woman were to stay home and bathe under the garden hose. Men over 10 were allowed to bathe wearing a full-dress suit, monocle, silk hat and patent shoes from 11 P.M. to 5 A.M., but not during daylight.

But flappers? They would be arrested on sight with vamps, bathing beauties and beach shimmy dancers. Who knows what a beach shimmy dancer was then, but it is belly dancing in 2021. More than likely such a display would have been banned one hundred years ago even while the joking was going on.

The paper continued tongue-in-cheek saying a board fence 30’ high would be built 2 miles straight out into the lake. The ladies would bathe on one side and the gents on the other. Any person going around the end of the fence would be arrested. Apparently, the ridiculous was humorous. 

The papers jested about the women and their fashions, but the joking didn't seem to affect Bach-Dishmaker's advertising. It appeared that women were jumping on the fashion band wagon. Judging from the amount of advertising the company, and other stores did, women were jumping on the band wagon. 

Flappers raised eyebrows in the cities. Even in small town Algoma, they were ridiculed on the street and in the paper. How many flappers could there be in a small rural county? “Puerile Patter” was an Algoma Record Herald society column in the early 1920s. In September 1923 it ran an article about a directive issued by “General Gans Capelle, to All Member of the PeeWee Platoon.” Clarence “Gans” Capelle was a World War l veteran who said the Platoon was “directed to capture all the flappers in town, scrape the paint off their faces, photograph the captives and distribute the pictures so citizens would know what the other residents of the city looked like.” The paint in question was lipstick, rouge, powder, and other enhancing cosmetics.

Flappers even made the newspaper’s auto page in February 1924. The joke was that the new Fords had a bible turned upside down on the hood so if the owner ran out of swear words, he could read the bible backwards. The paper said it was a good invention to which would soon be added a scoop shovel attached to a long arm to be shoved outward to the sidewalk where it could be used to scoop up flappers thus avoiding unnecessary delays in stopping. Somebody must have enjoyed that bit of humor.

The Record Herald’s editors apparently spent some time in Milwaukee because comments were made on the faces of those women and questioning how there would be enough rouge left to “cover the maps of Algoma flappers.”

It was winter 1925 and Algoma was seeing snow. By the folks knew flappers could make it into any report when they made it into snowstorms, The paper was questioning winter sports in knickers, and how flappers could resist tobagganing or skiing. After all, the magazines showed models wearing beautiful clothing that wasn't "wowrth a whoop" in wind-swept country.

The issue, January 9, called attention to the Supreme Court ruling saying Chicago had to stop stealing “our lake water.” ARH said the ruling was a test case so there should not be much trouble keeping Sturgeon Bay flappers from “appropriating our so-called men.” What is “so-called?” In another dig, the paper continued saying if some of the flappers spent as much time using soap and water on the backs of their necks as they did with powder and lipstick on their faces, they’d be more attractive. Then the paper likened the women’s hair fashions to Mongolian tribesmen.

When the Farmers’ Cooperative Co. had their annual dance at Bruemmerville in July 1925, 276 men paid admission and brought with them “5 or 6 times as many gold-diggers, pseudo-flappers, plain housewives” and more. The paper described the kinds of dancing such as the latest wiggles which was stalling traffic. Capelle’s Pee-Wee’s Platoon was out in force when the paper continued the dancing descriptions. It said women were born to be steered, not to steer, and any woman raised havoc on a dance floor when she could neither pilot nor allow a partner to pilot. Once again in jest, the paper appealed to Assemblyman Anton Holly for a law to rotate clockwise on a dance floor and urged unattached women to attach themselves to chairs.

By 1927, folks were beginning to wonder what would happen when flappers married. Rolling socks, cigarettes, dollars, and dice was what flappers knew, but where grandmothers had a special day for washing, baking, and cleaning, the new generation flappers had days for golf, bridge, and motoring. Canned goods made market inroads and prepared foods were meeting demands. Prepared foods could be served at the flick of a wrist as ingenious flapper housewives found clever uses for canned goods. To serve a healthful frozen dessert, the shrewd woman opened a can of her favorite fruit - peaches, for instance – and set the can in a pail of ice and salt. Three hours later, dessert was ready to serve. That did require some planning because city housewives were dependent on the iceman.

Algoma – or at least part of it – was laughing late in 1928 when Ernest Haucke Post of the American Legion co-sponsored what was called the biggest social stunt of the season, a play titled “When Men Marry.” The production had a cast of 70 local men who were transformed with cosmetics and evening dresses into petite flappers, stately matrons, hot mamas, charming vamps, and "drug store shebas." The director of an Iowa theater company was in town teaching the men dainty steps, femininity and grace. The play was guaranteed to be a “scream.” But it was at the expense of the women ridiculed.

Even the prominent Mrs. Henry Ford was quoted in August 1931 when she commented on the knickers (short, loose pants gathered at the knee) and overalls worn by young women. That brought the little ditty, “I can show my shoulders, I can show my knees: I am a free-born American, I can show what I please.” Girls in Minneapolis had a football chant: “Root-a-tee-toot, Root-a-tee-toot, We’re the girls from the Institute. Although we freeze below the knees, We  still persist in BeeVeeDees.”

The Charleston caught on and dances began featuring contests such as the Charleston Contest and dance at William Paul’s Maplewood hall. That was followed in August 1926 when the six-piece Lyric Orchestra played for a dance at Bruemmerville. The dance featured a Charleston contest for which, proprietor W. Velicer said, there were prizes.

Arthur Murray was franchising dance studios as early as 1912. A March 1926 ad in Algoma Record Herald said one could learn the Charleston in as few as 6 lessons. Murray, who taught the Prince of Wales and 400,000 others, taught with clear and explicit instructions. In an article republished in the Record Herald, the Milwaukee Sentinel pointed out the 40 New York girls who became Charleston experts after watching the instructive movie reels. The Record Herald told readers  the series was shown in the best theaters and that one lesson a week would begin at the Majestic just after Easter. At the 7^th week, the Majestic would hold a local Charleston contest.

Algoma Record Herald commented in August 1933 on the dance marathons being reported by big city newspapers. The local paper told of the records being set by the “bob-haired flappers with rouged cheeks” who could dance all night and day without a pause. The paper felt some all but died of exhaustion. 

Then came an enterprising Illinois farmer who apparently felt mid-west girls weren’t interested in new-fangled flapper life while saying they could beat the world when it came to milking cows. In today’s world, one might feel he insulted mid-western women, but not so. His comment led to another kind of marathon when fourteen women and girls won their way into the milking finals.

Fourteen high-producing cows, beautified (cows are girls) for competition, were ready to milk. A few minutes after the ref gave the signal, Mrs. Hattie Garrelts bowed to the cheering crowd. She won a cash prize and a gold banner. As she accepted the honors, she told her audience that she  knew her Betty would win. As Mrs. Garrelts pointed out, Betty got proper rations, her stable was clean and, and regular intervals, her flanks and udders were clipped for better health, larger production and sanitation.” That prompted one farmer to wonder how much milk a cow would produce “for one of those bob-haired dancing flappers?” The farmers felt the milkers showed the world a real marathon even though milking didn’t make the front page.

In the early issues of Ahnapee Record, the 16- and 17-year-old editors, George Wing and Charles Borgman, advocated rights for women. That was 1873, but there were murmurings throughout U.S. history. Seneca Falls was a milestone. Women would not be denied and “it” started in the 1920s. In early 1942, women were expected to do their duty for the war effort. That meant many went into production jobs at places such as Algoma Plywood and the shipyards of Kewaunee and Sturgeon Bay.

Hemlines were calf level in the 1950s, but then came the 1960s with short shirts, the pill and bra-burning. Some schools checked the length of girls’ skirts. In some places the girls had to kneel on the floor. If the hem did not reach the floor, the girl was sent to the home ec room to let her hem down. The 1990s saw another woman’s movement and the baby steps taken toward equal pay for equal work while calling attention to those who were held in place by a glass ceiling. “Me Too” began a few years before 2020.

The flappers emerged as the world was coming out of the Pandemic of 1918-1919. They started a movement. Kewaunee County’s 1920 population was just over 16,000, and Kewaunee County was a part of that movement.

Note: Bach-Dishmaker, on the northwest corner of 4th and Steele, and Englebert's, which occupied the building occupied by Walters' Hardware today, advertised the latest fashions, which appeared to be more conservative than those hawked by stores in larger cities.

Sources: Algoma Record Herald, Kewaunee Enterprise, Sturgeon Bay Advocate, Wikipedia. The Last Collection by Jeanne Mackin, c. 2019, a World War ll era novel centering on the contentious relationship between Coco Chanel and Elsa Schiaparelli. It was the novel that piqued this blogger's curiosity about Algoma and the young women of the 1920s.

Graphics: Photos are the author's while the ads come from the newspapers noted.

Kewaunee County: 1920-1933 and 13 Years of Prohibition

 

Just a little over 100 years ago, President Woodrow Wilson vetoed the Volstead Act. It was the Volstead Act that provided for a special unit of the Treasury Department to enforce prohibition, the 18^th Amendment.  Wilson vetoed the act, but both branches of Congress over-rode it to make prohibition the law of the land.

In their younger years, those of a certain age were glued to TV programs about Al Capone, Elliot Ness and his federal agents, and more. Capone and John Dillinger were known to unwind in their Wisconsin hideouts, and for years there was scuttlebutt about Baby Face Nelson visiting his aunt and uncle’s farm west of Algoma. Although a connection has never been established, it’s a fun story that periodically resurfaces. Baby Face Nelson’s real name was Lester Gillis and Gillis is a name found in Kewaunee County. Lots of other places too.

During the 1940s, there were honeymooning Algoma couples – and surely others - who journeyed over gravel roads that caused multiple tire blowouts, to Three Lakes just to look at bullet holes from the famous Dillinger shoot-out. Check out Travel Wisconsin to find restaurants associated with gangster lore. They’ve even got links to gangster history.

While the Senate voted 3 – 1 against President Wilson, the American public was not entirely on board. That included Kewaunee County and its neighbors.

In July 1921, Ed Jacobs and John Schafer of Sawyer (Sturgeon Bay’s west side) were not as creative as the Virginia moonshiner who kept surplus product in a nearby cemetery. Warrants for their arrests came after their still was found in Jorgenson Swamp, also in Sawyer. Thirty witnesses appeared in 6 or 7 hearings but there were no arrests until nearly 20 gallons of moonshine were found. The finding was a total accident after several small jugs surfaced. A careful police search led to 16 gallon jugs and a small keg found in the underbrush. Jacobs and Schafer denied any knowledge when they were questioned at earlier hearings and filed charges of prejudice.

When a “sponge” squad of the state enforcement officers visited saloons in the southern and western parts of Kewaunee County in October 1921, little incriminating evidence was found among the 15 or 16 establishments, however Otto Hrabik of Krok and John Hruska of Neuren were found to have moonshine in their residences. Complaints were filed with District Attorney Leo Bruemmer who would be the prosecutor.

James Wishka’s Carlton farm was raided at the same time. A still and mash were found. The inventive Mr. Wishka had hidden his still in the treetops after manufacturing. How was it found? A tell-tale odor? Inventive also were the crooks masquerading as authorities in the western part of the county. A short time before the officers raided, several men representing themselves as dry officers “raided” and helped themselves to money in the cash registers.

Following the arrest of Hruska, Hrabik and Wishka, they pleaded guilty, Wishka to a charge of manufacturing and distilling without a permit and the other two who said they privately distilled liquor at their saloons. The men were released after paying their fines and a cost of $10 each. Hrabik paid $120, more, while Hruska was fined $175 and Wishka, $400. 

Believe it or not, Kewaunee County had its own federal agent by 1922. Agent Thomas Martin was doubtless one of the least popular men in the county, but anybody reading the papers knew he worked diligently. He found a jug of moonshine at the Hassel home in Kewaunee and used it as evidence of a purchase and transportation to a country dance at William Bohne’s saloon. The Hassels and Mr. Bohne were arrested and bound over under bonds of $500 each. Then Martin went on to raid other places in Kewaunee, Algoma and Casco, however nobody in those places was found to possess liquor. But he hit the jackpot in October 1922 when he nabbed Joseph Tebon and Erasmus Brans of Algoma. The men pleaded guilty to the manufacture of liquors, but not just then.

Tebon said the gallon and a half confiscated at his house was the first he manufactured. He had a wife and 6 kids to support. He didn’t own property and worked as a day laborer. According to the paper, the Tebons lived in Algoma’s 2^nd ward. During the raid, Martin found a 6-gallon still in the attic and 3 gallons hidden behind a dresser in the bedroom.

Farmer Erasmus Brans. who lived west of Algoma out near the railroad crossing, was raided an hour after Tebon. He also had a 6-gallon still, but had 7 gallons in his home. Both men were warned of a jail sentence for a 2^nd offense. The Record Herald told readership that together Tebon and Brans had enough moonshine to wreck the very in-ards of a garbage-fed goat and “thus it is that Algoma’s fraternity of moonshiners and bootleggers is now adorned with the names of Tebon and Brans as well as DeBauche.”

The paper went on to say bootlegging got some free advertising out of the busts although somebody would pay for it in the end. One of the federal agents raiding Tebon and Brans said he’d not feed the moonshine to a hog he cared for although the “mothers of the boys, the makers of the poison and insanity” thought it was no doubt good enough for sons and daughters of others.

Algoma Record Herald reported that the confiscated stills and liquors were being held at Algoma. The paper didn’t say what happened to the evidence, but it did say the raiding agents, Asthmuth, Sullivan and Laabs, gave grossly exaggerated reports to the newspapers.

The way the agents told it, the story could have come out of the sensationalized TV news of today! They told of the shacks hidden in the hills west of Algoma and said they were operated by two men whose occupation was running a real Kentucky still that was the chief source of moonshine on the peninsula. The agents said Tebon’s place was a 50-gallon still that had 1,500 gallons of mash and 42 gallons of shine. The agents said Brans’ shack and his 60-gallon still was two miles west of Tebon’s. Agents claimed Brans had 1,200 gallons of mash and 83 gallons of moonshine.

Readership across the state learned what a hotbed of illicit activity took place in small Kewaunee County. No doubt the righteous were thankful agents were in place to stop it. However, Kewaunee County was not what the agents made the place out to be. It appears that agents borrowed some of their story from other places, including a Door County raid conducted by the Sturgeon Bay district attorney, chief of police and sheriff. When the three local officials swooped down a few miles south of Sturgeon Bay, they found a 20-gallon still and 12 barrels of mash belonging to the Millers. The son pleaded guilty while the elder Miller pleaded not guilty. Both were bound over.

Tebon and Brans pleaded before Judge W.A. Cowell whose contemporary, Judge Grass, said, “I am not a prohibitionist; I am a temperance man.” Grass was quoted saying if he stopped at a home where he was offered wine, he’d have some. Grass felt the Volstead Act was unjust in that it enabled a rich man to have alcohol, but stopped a poor man and farmers.

Grass said his father kept a saloon so he knew what strong drink does, the sorrow and  shame of women whose husbands and sons appeared in his court, and the downfall of professional men such as doctors and lawyers. Grass felt careful thought should be given to restoring strong drink. Moonshine, he said, was deadly. Wives whose husbands drank said moonshine made them crazy. Then there were the school boys and girls drinking moonshine at dances.

Dance halls figured into the liquor laws. A dance was an easy place to find moonshine. The savvy, such as newspaper editors, felt dance hall proprietors should do more to stop the sale of moonshine before moonshine stopped the dance halls. Closing dance halls was a social and economic issue. Some felt every quart of moonshine drove in one more nail in a dance hall. Others said moonshine was a deadly poison and one as fatal as opium or morphine. The righteous saw dance halls as dens of iniquity.

In February 1923, Joseph Hlinak, owner of the Valley Inn at Bruemmerville, complained about drunk men and women from Algoma pounding on his doors while carrying bottles of moonshine. Mr. Hlinak said the folks brought their moonshine from Algoma because it could not be gotten from him. Algoma’s Mayor McGowan blamed Valley Inn when he complained about the “pickled” young couples who ride around the Algoma after dances. In a war of words, Hlinak told the mayor to clean up his back yard first. Hlinak said his dances were as respectable as any in Wisconsin and what happened in Algoma was not his concern. It doesn’t appear that McGowan followed up on Hlinak’s suggestion.

Revenue Agents raided Algoma establishments in February 1923 and found moonshine in Soucek’s saloon, and drug store whiskey at Damman’s. Several other places were raided but agents failed to find evidence. It was rumored that the pop man tipped off others about the revenuers. That prompted the paper to question the pop man about being a party to an offense, thus he would be morally guilty. The paper opined the man running a clean saloon was placed at a disadvantage by the bootleggers and deserved protection.

Caroline Soucek continued to operate the saloon after the death of her husband about three years earlier. Dammen operated his saloon in Fred Kirchman’s hotel building on the northeast corner of 4^th and Clark. In a certain sense, Mrs. Soucek and Dammen made Algoma history. They were found out in the first raid in Algoma and made the 13^th and 14^th persons to be arrested on liquor charges in Kewaunee County.

Mrs. Soucek and Henry Damman were taken into custody by federal agent Thomas Martin. Soucek had a bottle of moonshine and Damman had had a pint bottle half full of prescription whiskey. Both plead guilty to charges of intoxicants on the premises. The appearance before Judge Cowell in county court took place about 10 days before they had to appear for sentencing. Those found guilty for a second offense would be jailed for not less than 30 days and a $200 fine.

Folks were surely laughing while reading the papers in February 1923. Two Kewaunee men – Ben Olszwski and Roy Borkovitz – stole moonshine from a Green Bay bootlegger’s sleigh and were bound over on a charge of possession of intoxicants. They might never have been caught had they not been so free with the product. As it was, they sold to a 15-year-old boy who was found drunk on the streets of Kewaunee. When he revealed his moonshine source, the jig was up. While the bootlegger left his sleigh unguarded, each stole a jug. They also managed to get some shine a few weeks earlier when the bootlegger made his rounds in the county. The two men were arrested and bound over to circuit court.

A sink stopper was all it took for Agent Martin to nab John Rentmeister in Forestville in July 1923. When Martin began his inspection, Rentmeister broke a filled container in his sink. The stopper was in place and thus the evidence and container pieces were right there. The next place raided appeared to be tipped off. Places in Brussels were searched but there was nothing. Raids in northern Kewaunee County, however, yielded the best results.

Martin was back at it when he and Sheriff Webb found one of the largest stills to be found in Kewaunee County. Barney Wahl’s Kewaunee saloon yielded 2 quarts of moonshine. At Gust Rohr’s residence, the men found a still and mash.  Joseph Koralewsky’s home, also in Kewaunee, produced a still, mash and 15 gallons of fresh corn. When the men raided Montpelier and Luxemburg the following day, they hit the jackpot. Bernard Duescher was arrested at his Luxemburg farm, and his large still was taken. Duescher was under a $500 bond and did something unusual: he took his own still to Kewaunee. Duescher’s still was said to be a large box-like copper tank with about a barrel capacity. Coils of pipe ran through it, prompting those who saw it to call it unique.

When Agent Thomas Martin paid an unexpected visit to Charles Hopp’s Kewaunee saloon in September 1923, he arrested Hopp for having a liquid over 1 ½% alcohol back of his bar. Martin visited other “thirst parlors” but came up empty handed until he found the real stuff when he descended on William Haack’s farm a mile and a half north of Rio Creek. Haack had a 10-gallon still, a barrel of mash and several gallons of shine. Both men were placed under $500 bonds.

During February 1924, bootleggers of all stripes were learning about the hearings on penalties for offenders of the prohibition laws. Even the smallest bootlegger could see fines of $3,500 plus $6.40 for each gallon of liquor. Then there would be income tax assessed on the earnings as well as penalties for negligence in paying the taxes.

The August 28, 1925 Algoma Record Herald suggested energies should be directed toward getting beer. It said moonshine got away from the beer goal which was really what county populace wanted. The thing about the moonshine, though, was that it was so profitable and yielded such big returns that its traders were beginning to think they were above the law. The paper went on to say the “traders” cracked their whips, expecting the law to cringe and apologize for that law. The paper further said the situation was intolerable, however it “no doubt” grew out of “fuddled, misplaced sympathy.”

In another edition, the paper called attention to the substantial investments in the illegitimate businesses that law enforcement had to deal with. It said that “to pinch a man’s profits” means even well-meaning persons become “tools of interests they do not know.” It was the paper’s opinion that Kewaunee County was at a point were most citizens were ashamed to denounce moonshining as illegitimate traffic.

Respectable citizens by the thousands felt prohibition deprived them of liberty. But, said the paper, selling moonshine, etherized beer and “yeast-belching home beer” for more than 5 cents a glass was undisguised banditry. Besides that, moonshiners were at their trade for 5 or 6 years and never improved the quality of the product. No moonshiner wanted beer to break into the profits. The paper felt saloon men were leading the populace which was aiding and abetting them.

Moonshiners applauded by the fed? Henry Stelzer of Mishicot was. After raiding Stelzer’s in November 1928, agents praised his operation, saying it was the cleanest, most sanitary still that was ever operated in Wisconsin. They continued their praise saying Stelzer took pride in his work which had neatly arranged barrels of moonshine arranged with date of manufacture, condition of color, taste, and quality. Unfortunately, Stelzer was arrested and his outstanding whisky was destroyed. Barta Shefchek was arrested after his still and moonshine were destroyed in Franklin. Shefchek claimed he had no knowledge of his house and its contents thus declined to give any information.

When agents were unable to find evidence in the other 8 places, they felt the operators closed knowing they were being watched. Perhaps federal court in Milwaukee was not as busy as the agents would have liked.

Pastors generally had something to say, and in February 1929 Rev. N.L. Bess of the Methodist Episcopal Church said it and left Algoma agog. Bess used his sermon to attack city and school leaders and the American Legion. Could Rev. Bess go any higher than that? The sermon was one his flock remembered after they left services and before the day was out, the harangue made it to just about everyone in town. The reverend targeted moonshine traffic and said every person with “the smell of liquor on his breath” was a criminal deserving of jail.

According to Rev. Bess,  about 50 thousand dollars were spent promoting education and religion yearly in Algoma. He thought the amount testified to what the community felt was essential, but said the community lost its values in a single night when the Band Mothers and Fireman co-sponsored a dance at the Dug-Out. It was not clear where Rev. Bess got his information, but he told his congregation that there was “a dreadful amount of drunkenness” among dance goers which included teenagers. He continued saying that in a recent civics class, most students said moonshine and lack of parental authority were great societal dangers.

Bess condemned Dug-Out management saying members of the Ernest Haucke Post were responsible. But that wasn’t all. Bess directed his attack toward the police department while charging city officials with drunkenness. School leaders were attacked because of the Junior prom, a profitable activity that brought in money for other school activities. Rev. Bess felt that for earnings of $100, or even $500, Algoma was taking its youth to the Dug-Out to be ruined in one night. If Algoma’s young people had such serious drinking issues, it does not seem to have been recorded in any other issue. Was Rev. Bess overzealous?

Editor Heidmann had a note at the end of the paper’s coverage. He said two requests had been made for the paper to run a complete text of Bess’ sermon, however that would not happen because there were statements bordering on libel.

In the nearly 13 years Prohibition was in existence, there was always news, some serious, some that raised eyebrows, and some that was hilarious. When the shoe was on the other foot, J. Edgar Hoover’s G-men were sued. 

To read the papers early in 1932, animals were victims in the production of moonshine. Kewaunee Enterprise in January 1932 reported about a St. Croix County farmer suing a federal agent because of moonshine. The farmer lost 5 cows after they ate the mash that the agent dumped on the ground following a bust. It wasn’t the first time. Cows entered the moonshine world during March 1921 when a “jag” caused the death of several head of cattle in DePere. As the DePere Journal-Democrat reported the story, a farmer engaged in moonshine manufacturing when prohibition went into effect. Being tipped off that he’d be raided, he destroyed the still and fed the fermented mash to his stock. The mash didn’t agree with several animals.

There was another connection with animals – race horses to be specific. Ten years earlier in August 1922, even the Kewaunee County fair sported moonshine. Ironically, the fair article was headlined with the number of children who were in attendance. But the moonshine in the article referenced  “Moonshine Gano,” a horse owned by Louis Saams of DePere. The four-legged Moonshine was a pacer that came in 3^rd.

Louis Opicka’s $1,000 bond was one of the largest in the county for violating the prohibition laws. He was running Bill’s Inn at Casco when he was raided in August 1932. Waiving his preliminary hearing at Green Bay, he was bound over to federal court in Milwaukee.

On February 24, 1933, the paper reported Henry Zahn and Arnold Wagner of Maplewood being bound over in a curious twist of events. Their bond cost them $1,000 each, but for what? Federal Agent Paul Golz had visited Wagner’s place a week earlier to see Zahn acting as a bartender. A dance was in progress and the agent returned a few days later to make the arrest. It was reported that some beer was found in the basement, however there was no brewery in operation. The defense attorney said Wagner should be released since there was no proof if illegal activity. The commissioner did not agree.

Temperance movements began well before 1900 in efforts to regulate alcoholic beverages  and their adverse effects, however Prohibition didn’t work.  Too many Americans preferred some alcohol. There were not enough officers to enforce the law and law enforcement was often corrupted by organized crime. Law enforcement had its hands full trying to prevent the manufacture and sale of alcoholic beverages, and organized crime flourished.  

Most of Kewaunee County and the country had it with Prohibition when President Franklin D. Roosevelt issued Proclamation 2065 in early December 1933. The 18^th Amendment was repealed with ratification by 36 or the 48 states the same year.

Prohibition was both a social and political failure. It was an unenforceable policy that led to an increase in violence as criminals took advantage of a large black market. Thousands died because of Prohibition, some because of violence and some because of unregulated booze. Prohibition failed to reduce drinking. Wikipedia says alcohol consumption fell to about 30% of pre-Prohibition, but then it began rising to a level of 60-70% of the pre-Prohibition levels within a few years.     

Prohibition’s consequences included a rise in organized crime associated with the production and sale of alcohol. It also led to speakeasies, smuggling increases, and a drop in tax revenue, although people had a little more money to spend on consumer goods. Unintended consequences put Al Capone, Baby Face Nelson, John Dillinger, and others in the history books, and glorified in TV, movies, and theater. First performed in June 1975, the musical theater production Chicago – a story of the era - remains among Broadway’s longest running productions. The musical puts glamour into the Depression which brought to so much tragedy.

It has been said that if the U.S. kept alcohol legal and raises taxes, at least 10,000 deaths would have been prevented and the country would have taken in more tax money. Prohibition was a 13 year long attempt at social engineering that didn’t work.

Sources: Algoma Record Herald, Kewaunee Enterprise, Wikipedia.

Graphic sources: The poster comes from a picture I took at the Hoover Presidential Library in West Branch, Iowa, while the still equipment picture was taken in at Washington Island Farm Museum.

Kewaunee County & the Great Fire of October 8, 1871

 

In  the decades leading to this year’s 150^th anniversary of Great Fire - a.k.a. the Peshtigo Fire -  far more about the origins, deaths and manner of death, and extent of the fire have become well-known, however there are many who continue to believe the “old wives' tales” handed down over the years. With the passage of time, other large area fires were “lumped in” to the Great Fire. The weather patterns responsible for Wisconsin’s greatest natural disaster wrought havoc in other states and after 150 years, there still remains much to be learned.

Wikipedia says, "Occurring on the same day as the more famous Great Chicago Fire, the Peshtigo fire has been largely forgotten, even though it killed far more people. Several cities in Michigan, including Holland and Manistee and Port Huron, had fires on the same day."

The Midwest was dry in 1870-71, and, in northeast Wisconsin, the slash from ruthless destruction of the forests baked in the hot dry air for months. It was the weather forming over the middle of the country that created the winds aimed at Wisconsin on October 8, 1871. Massive temperature changes created strong winds that fanned fires into conflagrations, creating walls of flame as much as 5 kilometers wide (a little over 3 miles) and 1 kilometer high. Firestorm at Peshtigo authors Denise Gess and William Lutz discussed vitrification and the sand transformed to glass, indicating that temperatures reached over 1,000 degrees.

In a 2020 interview, Peter Leschak, author of Ghosts of the Fireground, told Minnesota Public Radio listeners that air temperatures during the fire were “likely between 260-370 degrees C, or 500-698 F. To put that into perspective, cookies generally bake from 350-400 degrees F while a pizza is perfect at 400-425 degrees F. Leschak further says that temperatures of 260-370 degrees C are hot enough to combust hair. And they did.

The great fire was quenched by rain beginning the night of the fire, October 8, and into the next day, and by the decrease in wind velocity. Temperatures in the 80s on October 8^th plummeted to 41 degrees after the fire went through, leaving survivors to freeze in the elements. Some survived the fire only to die of exposure within a few days. Survivors were without food and water. Wells, rivers, and streams had mostly dried up, however, where there was water, there were dead bodies. Water was unfit to drink.

Long before the 1871 fire, there were often ignored early warnings about lumbering and the destruction of Wisconsin’s magnificent forests. Our immigrating ancestors knew they had trees to last a lifetime, but what they needed was food and the desire to grow prosperous. The thick forests stood in the way.

The year 1871 was one of fire in the northern mid-west, the eastern states and in Canada. For years, the fire was known as the Peshtigo Fire in Wisconsin’s peninsula. Door County’s Belgian-populated towns saw unspeakable horrors, but so did Kewaunee County. That’s a story few know. The Night It Rained Fire: Kewaunee County and the Great Fire of 1871 is at the publisher now.  While the compilation touches southern Door and eastern Brown Counties, its purpose is the largely unknown and untold story of Kewaunee County in the Great Fire. 

In October 1871, populace of the county’s northern towns knew the end of the world was coming. People died of suffocation or burned like candles. Heads and limbs were burned to a crisp and separated from bodies. Plowed ground burned. Fires burned underground. After came graft and fraud. If there was an angle, more than likely somebody thought of it. Insurance companies even foreclosed on those whose policies they carried. Those lawsuits went on for 25 years. The stories go on.

The fire was far greater than imagined 150 years later. Every 1871 Kewaunee County resident experienced the fire or its aftermath in one way or the other. If your ancestors were in 1871 Kewaunee County, they experienced the fire. Some survivors could never bring themselves to ever mention the day they felt was the end of the world. The horror and the terror were unspeakable.

When the Night Rained Fire will be released about August 1.

Note: The book is available thru Yardstick Books, 317 Steele St. Algoma, 920-487- 8174, and Algoma Public Library, 406 Fremont St., Algoma.

Rio Creek: A Once Vibrant Kewaunee County Community

 

Rio Creek was photographed for this picture postcard sent in 1910. Detjen’s store is the second building on the left, barely visible behind the trees.      

                                                                                  Courtesy Kannerwurf, Sharpe, Johnson Collection

Wisconsin Gazetteer, 1901-1902, says Rio Creek - originally called Kirchmann’s Place - was a post office in Kewaunee County, 19 miles from the judicial seat in Kewaunee and 6 miles from Ahnapee, the nearest banking and shipping point. Rio Creek was never 19 miles from Kewaunee, so 120 years ago, somebody was a long way off. At the turn of 1900, a population of 35 was receiving mail daily. 

Rio Creek post office had a long history, opening on June 18, 1888, and discontinuing on June 18, 1976, when mail service was due to come from Algoma, Zip Code 54201. The following day, however, it was reestablished as a Community Post Office (CPO) of Algoma. Per the Algoma postmaster, the CPO was discontinued on December 30, 1994, and officially discontinued on January 4, 1997. Although its place name continued, its 54231 Zip Code was retired. Since the office was discontinued and re-established twice before, some wondered if it would come back. It did not.

Rio Creek post office was discontinued for the first time on October 31, 1904, with an effective date of November 30, 1904, the first official day of Rural Free Delivery in Kewaunee County.  Then it was reestablished as one of 6 county post offices on December 29, 1908. Once again, on October 27, 1934, the office was to be discontinued with an effective date of July 14, 1934. In an odd twist of events, before it had a chance to close, the order was rescinded on June 30, 1934. At that point, Rio Creek became a station of Algoma.

August Kirchman’s store, which was sold to his son Albert Kirchman and then to Edward W. Detjen, was likely the site of the post office. Rolls of 1888 tax records for the Town of Casco describes Kirchman’s property as “all of the NE, NE except one acre on the NE corner” of Section 2, Town 24N, Range 24E.  Kirchman also owned 40 acres in the SE ¼ of th2 SW ¼, 40 acres in the SW ¼ of the SE ¼ and 40 acres in the SE ¼ of the SE ¼ of Section 25, Town 25N, Range 24E. Another Kirchman - Fred - was a Rio Creek mail carrier for ten years when on January 17, 1902, the Algoma Record told its readers that he had traveled 7,042 ½ miles during the ten years. The paper marveled that the road was “not worn down.”

Interestingly, August Kirchman served as postmaster of Pierce as well as Rio Creek. Pierce post office was less than a mile from what became Rio Creek. Albert Kirchman served as postmaster at Rankin in addition to serving at Rio Creek. Interestingly, what was called Pierce was known as Royal Creek before that. That leads to all kinds of stories about the naming of Rio Creek, but it is also another story.

On January 28, 1888, Ahnapee Record announced the following: “On last Monday morning August Kirchman received from the Post Office Department at Washington the blank bond and other papers pertaining to his appointment as postmaster at Kirchman’s Corners, which will be known as Rio Creek. The papers were filled out and returned to Washington on the same day and Mr. Kirchman expects they will be approved and that he will receive his commission by the end of July.”

When the Post Office Department was planning to close the Rio Creek office in 1934, it rescinded the order due to the protests received. Algoma Record Herald reported: “RIO CREEK-According to information received Saturday by Carl Fabry, cashier of the Bank of Rio Creek, a recent order by the United States Post Office department discontinuing the post office here, was rescinded. The original order provided for the closing of the post office in this village July 14 and mail service would be obtained here by rural mail carrier through the Algoma post office. Business interests in the village immediately entered a protest when the announcement was made. Protest was registered with Congressman J.A. Hughes who was interviewed by a committee including John Prokupek, Walter Sell, Carl Fabry and Joseph F. Konop.”

Delores Sell Fett wrote about her grandfather Postmaster Charles Sell sometime after his death in 1940. In describing his postal career, she noted that the train from Green Bay went through Rio Creek, stopping at towns along the postal route. Each day Mr. Sell would pick up the mail bag that was dropped off on a platform alongside the tracks. The platform held a roofed shed that served as the depot which was located at the corner of what was then the Gaulke building. Mr. Sell pushed a two-wheeled cart, with help from his son Walter who helped him collect the mailbag. Mrs. Fett said the job was especially bad during the winter. Later, mail was carried by truck.

In an undated interview, but possibly about 1960, Mrs. Bertha Gaulke reminisced about running the Rio Creek post office for 42 years with her husband Walter. Mrs. Gaulke said they had “built up the post office and (it) almost became a number one post office.” She said her husband walked to the post office and then to put the mail on the train, something he did every day but Sunday. Wages came from selling stamps and money orders.

When former Rio Creek postmaster Don Walters, right, was interviewed on August 12, 2005, he told the authors that the post office had been located in Gaulke’s store, which was standing in 2008 though looking substantially different than it did when it served as the post office. The post office was moved to the location held by Walters’ Body Shop in 2005.

Rio Creek Postmasters and Dates of Appointments

                           August Kirchman                January 18, 1888

                          Albert M. Hoppe                 December 13, 1898

                                                  Herbert C. Kirchman           July 21, 1900

Office discontinued October 31, 1904, effective November 30, 1904.

Office reestablished December 29, 1908.

                          Albert C. Kirchman              December 29, 1908

                                                  Edward W. Detjen               July 12, 1912

                                                  Fred F. Johnson                   July 27, 1927

                                                   Carl Fabry                          January 24, 1923

                                                   Charles J. Sell                     October 27, 1924            

                                                                                                        Retired February 29, 1940

Office discontinued on June 13, 1934, effective July 14, 1934

Order rescinded June 30, 1934; classified as a 4^th class post office

                                                 Walter H. Gaulke                  March 1, 1940    

                                                                                                        Deceased July 15, 1963 

          Advanced to 3^rd class post office

          ZIP Code 54231 established, July 1, 1963

                                                      Donald Henry Walter          September 28, 1963

Postmasters' compensation varied depending on business. They did not receive a pre-arranged stipend. Albert Kirchman made $34.09 in 1889 while Albert Hoppe made the most - $203.43 - in the years before the advent of Rural Free Delivery in 1904.  $34.09 is not much money in 2021 although using a variety of online inflation calculators, it would have been some bucks in 2021 in terms of numbers or purchasing power. Having a post office at one's business site meant customers because folks came for mail. Drawing folks into a business meant significant opposition to RFD - Rural Free Delivery - when local businesses lost the opportunity to make money as mail was delivered directly to rural families.

Rural Branches of Wisconsin Post Offices, Bulletin #21, Wisconsin Postal History Society, reports that in 1989 Rio Creek was Kewaunee County’s only rural post office. One might argue Stangelville was also a rural office, but the language nitty-gritty makes the difference. A rural branch is defined as a postal subunit outside the corporate limits of the parent post office. Rio Creek was a personal unit which did not postmark mail. On September 19, 1976, the Enterprise described a personal unit saying that it did accept, dispatch, receive and deliver mail and issue money orders and sell stamps.

At left is an example of a registered letter mailed from Rio Creek on April 6, 1899. It appears to be the second such letter mailed that year. It has both a 2-cent stamp and a 10-cent stamp. Cancels are bull’s eyes. Finding such an example in pristine condition will bring you more than Albert Kirchman took in during 1889.

Rio Creek has changed in the last 100 years and is no longer a postal community nor the vibrant community it once was, but it is an important part of Kewaunee County that continues to reflect its predominantly German immigrant population.  

 

Sources: Information comes from Here Comes the Mail: Post Offices of Kewaunee County, Kannerwurf, Sharpe and Johnson c. 2010.