Part IV

Letters sent to people “back home” were used to encourage others to come to the crop-growing potential and livability of the Great Plains. These letters were more trusted to truly describe the area than the journals and/or newsletters distributed by promoters, seed sales men and journalists. The following are portions of a letter written by a man who was a doctor, a farmer and a postmaster.

As settlers began living in the Great Plains they found that the excitement of arriving and living in this place was quickly replaced by a feeling of isolation, loneliness and homesickness. Neighbors were few and far between — and those who were there might not even share the same language. Men viewed this experience as an economic opportunity while the women longed for family, friends, conversation and social interaction. Sitting alone in a sod house with the ever-present wind in their ears they sometimes suffered emotional breakdowns. In the book, “History of North Dakota,” by Elwyn B. Robinson we read: “A booklet proclaiming the virtues of Dakota Territory to would-be settlers offered a perhaps unintended twist on the promotional efforts of the region’s boosters when it featured a sketch of the ‘Insane Asylum’ in Yankton immediately adjacent to the new state house in Bismarck.”

In 1858 Harriet Carr writes a letter from Lawrence, Kansas, to her parents: “‘It certainly is the most beautiful country my eyes ever beheld — but still no spot on this Earth seems so sweet and home like as your hills with their white villages clustered in their sheltered nooks. I love old Massachusetts and if ever we are able to do so, I mean that there shall be my home. The prairie is vast, magnificent and grand – but we miss the dear old trees, the gardens, the flowers and birds those pleasing and home like scenes which make the heart soft and happy. Oh how I long for such a home — for a little cottage with the grand elms waving over it and the birds singing their joyous anthems amid the branches. I never could be content to call this land my home beautiful though it may be. I wake oft times on a Sabbath morn as the sun shines brightly through my window and listen to the clamor, drunkenness and awful profanity which we hear in these streets. And then I think of the sweet quiet home of my youth — the cool pleasant parlor — the fresh morning air scented with the fragrance of the blooming fruit trees or the garden flowers — stealing in at open windows — the dear brother and sisters strolling in the garden or reading in the shade and the white haired kind father with the Bible on his knee and my heart grows sick with longings and my eyes dim with tears.'”

(Continued next week)