It's decision time: here endeth the yarn. It seemed to me so incredibly unlikely that he'd stay in South Dakota. I knew something about the years--my own great-grandparents were there too, and they left, went back east to Iowa. Lots of people left. But somehow Albertus Kuypers stayed. Why? That book about South Dakota Hollanders didn't say why, so I had to take a shot at it myself. What you read is what you get.
Is it stubbornness? It just seemed to me that what I knew about this man some stijve kop. I simply couldn't imagine it was an easy decision. What might have happened on that train, and how was it that he decided what he did?
The fact is, I respected him for staying, even though my own great-grandparents left, even though many did. Don't know if that'll come through or not.
You know what's going to happen. Let me know you think.
This old tale is in Sign of a Promise, a book of stories about Dutch immigrants to the Upper Midwest. If you'd like a copy, let me know. I can take care of that.
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Albertus De Kruyf never saw George Stevenson again. He left the Pullman and the Northern Pacific as he planned at Jamestown, but searched for the dark-haired American, hoping to give some kind of farewell. But Stevenson hadn't appeared, and when De Kruyf had boarded the older Union Pacific for the long ride to Armour, he felt almost guilty that he hadn't been able to end the relationship as he would have liked.
Once off the major east-west line, he saw all quality dwindle. The cars were dark and cramped, old and worn; the rails were poorly laid and bumpy, and the train had to grind to complete stops in clapboard towns like Sydney, Millarton, Nortonville, Edgeley, and Monango in North Dakota, and Winship, Frederic, Barnard, Westport, and Gage in South Dakota, railroad towns slapped together at the whim of some businessman in some city far removed from the Dakota flatland, towns that lived only on the blackened breath of the steam locomotive, towns that stood on the naked land like rows of boxes, unsheltered from the whimsical that had, with the passing of the buffalo, people said, become sultan of the desert plains, ruling with a seasonal caress of hail or dust or snow.
But this was his land. Even the prairie grass grew thin on the long sloping hills. It was so like the ocean, he thought, remembering the joyous arrival in the new country. But he recalled, too, how some of his own group, seduced by the scurrilous land agents, had departed and broken their promise of homesteading on Dakota land. He was their leader. His plans were always Dakota. Even in the old country. The remainder had come with him to Harrison, to Overijsel, to Friesland and Nieveen, to towns built with their own hands.
But the land was dry. Drouth in ’85, crop failuire in ’96, hail-out in ’87, average years in ’88 and’89, nothing again in ’90, a good year in ’91, ’92 and ’93 were slow, nothing all this season. all this season. Too many years of dro u th , of bu gs, of to little yield. Some settlers had left, others suffered badly. He watched from his window as the Union Pacific rolled on over the Dakota grassland, brown and lifeless in the early spring. He had seen Washington now, tasted its produce. Weeks he had spent there, touching the land, pricing the land, trying to envision his own Dakota colony transplanted. Here, outside his window, stunted gray stalks barely stood upon the crusted face of the prairie, retarded and beaten by weather that seemed anathema to man and beast. Not even trees could grow in Douglas County, some had said before leaving.
But there was more, he knew. The trains were part of it, the immigrant faces, the velvet chairs, George Stevenson. The Lord had laid before him another vision of sorts, but like a man blinded by the sun, he could but dimly see the meaning behind it all.
This was his Dakota, the land of his dreams since leaving Holland, the land of horror since his arrival.
Two nights later, Albertus De Kruyf had supper with his children, and afterwards, while the women worked in the kitchen, he walked in his son's fields, his own grandson on his arm. He kicked at the soil and found it loose and dry. He saw his son's footsteps raise tufts of dust, even in the spring. He stopped a moment, cupped his hand in the soil, then poured the earth slowly from his palm. It ran in fine grains.
"Not so good today, Father," his son said, watching him. "But we are learning. There's more livestock this year--more cattle, more hogs, less reliance on crops. The Hollanders don't learn quick, but they learn. But look at this." He pointed at tiny fragile shoots poking through the dusty topsoil.
De Kruyf reached down and dug beneath the plant. He scooped up a clump of earth and searched through the dirt for the seedling. There was a root there. He broke the earth around it and saw it, soft and weak.
His grandson laid a hand over his shoulder. Albertus DeKruyf took the boy in his arms and rubbed the dirt from his hands, remembering so clearly a very clean, upturned palm. He stood, lifted the boy with a mock groan, and started walking back to his son’s house, a fine, frame house, the child laughing over his grandfather’s shoulder.
Once off the major east-west line, he saw all quality dwindle. The cars were dark and cramped, old and worn; the rails were poorly laid and bumpy, and the train had to grind to complete stops in clapboard towns like Sydney, Millarton, Nortonville, Edgeley, and Monango in North Dakota, and Winship, Frederic, Barnard, Westport, and Gage in South Dakota, railroad towns slapped together at the whim of some businessman in some city far removed from the Dakota flatland, towns that lived only on the blackened breath of the steam locomotive, towns that stood on the naked land like rows of boxes, unsheltered from the whimsical that had, with the passing of the buffalo, people said, become sultan of the desert plains, ruling with a seasonal caress of hail or dust or snow.
But this was his land. Even the prairie grass grew thin on the long sloping hills. It was so like the ocean, he thought, remembering the joyous arrival in the new country. But he recalled, too, how some of his own group, seduced by the scurrilous land agents, had departed and broken their promise of homesteading on Dakota land. He was their leader. His plans were always Dakota. Even in the old country. The remainder had come with him to Harrison, to Overijsel, to Friesland and Nieveen, to towns built with their own hands.
But the land was dry. Drouth in ’85, crop failuire in ’96, hail-out in ’87, average years in ’88 and’89, nothing again in ’90, a good year in ’91, ’92 and ’93 were slow, nothing all this season. all this season. Too many years of dro u th , of bu gs, of to little yield. Some settlers had left, others suffered badly. He watched from his window as the Union Pacific rolled on over the Dakota grassland, brown and lifeless in the early spring. He had seen Washington now, tasted its produce. Weeks he had spent there, touching the land, pricing the land, trying to envision his own Dakota colony transplanted. Here, outside his window, stunted gray stalks barely stood upon the crusted face of the prairie, retarded and beaten by weather that seemed anathema to man and beast. Not even trees could grow in Douglas County, some had said before leaving.
But there was more, he knew. The trains were part of it, the immigrant faces, the velvet chairs, George Stevenson. The Lord had laid before him another vision of sorts, but like a man blinded by the sun, he could but dimly see the meaning behind it all.
This was his Dakota, the land of his dreams since leaving Holland, the land of horror since his arrival.
Two nights later, Albertus De Kruyf had supper with his children, and afterwards, while the women worked in the kitchen, he walked in his son's fields, his own grandson on his arm. He kicked at the soil and found it loose and dry. He saw his son's footsteps raise tufts of dust, even in the spring. He stopped a moment, cupped his hand in the soil, then poured the earth slowly from his palm. It ran in fine grains.
"Not so good today, Father," his son said, watching him. "But we are learning. There's more livestock this year--more cattle, more hogs, less reliance on crops. The Hollanders don't learn quick, but they learn. But look at this." He pointed at tiny fragile shoots poking through the dusty topsoil.
De Kruyf reached down and dug beneath the plant. He scooped up a clump of earth and searched through the dirt for the seedling. There was a root there. He broke the earth around it and saw it, soft and weak.
His grandson laid a hand over his shoulder. Albertus DeKruyf took the boy in his arms and rubbed the dirt from his hands, remembering so clearly a very clean, upturned palm. He stood, lifted the boy with a mock groan, and started walking back to his son’s house, a fine, frame house, the child laughing over his grandfather’s shoulder.
_______________________
You've probably not noticed the picture at the top. It's something I took in eastern South Dakota, but I used it because of the old pair of wagon wheels, but also because that emerald sense of early spring lays right behind it.
Hope you liked the story. The Schaaps will soon be back from Honduras.
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