The Observer: Letters from Oklahoma Territory

Rhinehardt.

I.

Humble Beginnings

I’ve spent most of my life as a reporter and editor, reporting everyone else’s news. I was but a teenager the first time I printed the words R.H. Wessel, Editor. Looking back, I believe that my own life has been interesting enough to report.

I found my place in life as editor and publisher of the Frederick Press, in Frederick, Oklahoma. I’d like to tell, in these pages, of my adventures in coming to Oklahoma Territory in its heyday; O.T. being one of the last wild frontiers in these 48 states.

As for reporting my story, I suppose I should go back to the beginning, as I know it, and give a little prehistory to set the tone for telling my tale, just as it happened. Of course, as any good reporter knows, any story worth telling is worth improving a little.

My papa, Karl Wessel, came from a well-to-do family in Mecklenburg, Germany. After attending school and serving a two-year apprenticeship to become a miller, Papa became the caretaker of his father’s farmlands. As eldest son, he was destined to inherit the family properties according to German tradition. For reasons I’ll not ever know, Papa was not going to inherit fully as he’d expected. Disappointed and disillusioned, he decided to come to America, as many of his friends in Mecklenburg were doing at that time. Together,with his brother Otto, he immigrated in 1860.

Life in the new world was difficult at best for the first year. Having had barely enough money to make the voyage, the pair moved about frequently in search of work. They settled in New Ulm, Minnesota, in 1861, where Papa met and married Mama, Louisa Wieche, who had also emigrated from Germany with her family.

Mama and Papa settled in together with papa working at the trade he’d been trained for—milling. Work for a miller was plentiful in this thriving farm country and Papa did well for himself.

All was not easy for the German immigrants of New Ulm. The country was still wild, and in 1862 the Santee Sioux rose up against the government and the people of New Ulm. The Civil War had caused the Indians’ annuities from the government to be late, with rumors that Congress had spent all their money on the war. The Indians were starving and getting none of the help that the treaties had promised. With most of the soldiers having gone east to fight, the Sioux saw this as an opportunity to drive the white men out of their country. They raided farms, killing and capturing many of the people in the outlying areas. The Indians weren’t quite as successful with their attacks on the towns and Fort Ridgely. The townspeople and soldiers there were better prepared to defend themselves than the Sioux had figured. Still, a lot of the German folks suffered and died in that uprising, many of them known to Mama and Papa.

When all was said and done, the Sioux that hadn’t been hanged, or sent to prison, were moved off to the West beyond the boundaries of Minnesota. Life in the Minnesota River Valley settled back down and new farms spread out rapidly on the land where the Indians had been removed.

Mama and Papa stayed on at New Ulm for a time, where my oldest sister, Mattie, was born in 1866. Papa’s father died about that time, and Papa inherited a goodly sum of money after all was sold off and divided up between him and his four siblings. With a newfound fortune, Mama and Papa set off to find new opportunities for their life in America. Their first move was to Marysville, Kansas. My first brother, Hugo, was born there; but as quite often happened in those days, he lived only a few short months. This was the first of Mama’s series of sorrows.

Papa learned of an opportunity in Richardson County, Nebraska, for a water-powered grist and flour mill on the Nemaha River, so they were off and moving again. With Papa’s inheritance, he planned to build the mill for himself, to be the owner and proprietor. His dream of a mill never materialized. It came to light that some fast-talkin’ American was trying to swindle Papa out of his small fortune. Fortunately for Papa, he uncovered this plot before he’d turned over his money. The family stayed on for a while, and my sisters Flora and Alvina were born there.

By 1874, Papa and Mama had discovered that living with each other wasn’t much of a picnic, and Papa took off, leaving Mama with three girls and another child on the way. Mama didn’t much care for staying in Nebraska, and picked up and moved back to Kansas, where she had a number of friends to help her along.

Well, I suppose that would be enough prehistory to set the tone for telling my tale.

My sister and I were born in November of 1874 in Marysville, Kansas. I’m not sure how mama came to name us. Daisy was a nice name, plain and simple, but quite a contrast to the name given me—Rhinehardt Harmon Wessel, or R.H. as most came to know me.

Those were hard times for a woman alone raising five children, and we depended on the help of friends to get by those first four years of my life. Wasn’t much work a woman with five children could do to earn money, and Papa wasn’t as generous a man as one of his standing ought to have been. Still, we had a decent place to live, and Mama planted a garden to help keep us fed; kept a garden most of her life, in fact. It was just her way, wherever she lived.

In 1878, Mama met a man named William Triloff. He was a painter who’d had his difficulties in life. He suffered from a wound he’d received in battle with the Ohio volunteers in the Union Army. Seems he’d found relief from his wound through intoxicating drink, a habit which would send him to the soldiers home many times through the years. In spite of this unpleasant habit, he was a loving man. He loved Mama, and loved us children as though we were his own. He was more a father to me than my own flesh-and-blood father would ever be. He wasn’t what you could call a successful man, but true and loyal to the new family he’d taken on. Mama and Mr. Triloff would later have a son, Willie, born in 1881. Willie lived only two years and eight months before Dyptheria took him from us.

I started school at about age six. The teacher had never heard my name before and I had to spell it for him. Seemed like a fine way for me to start my learning experience, having to spell for the teacher. Regardless, I did have much to learn, and took to it well. I continued my education at each place we lived, and would eventually finish up the lower grades at the Wallace Public School.

William Triloff.

R.H. Wessel as a young boy.

Louisa Wieche Wessel Triloff with grandchildren, Louise and Harlod (Daisy’s children), 1902.

Wallace Public School, 1892.

There wasn’t a whole lot of excitement for a small boy in the region where we lived, but long about 1885, I had a chance to see the soldier trains come through filled with young men going out to fight the Indian Wars. I’d heard a lot of stories from passers through about the Indians, buffalo hunters, and the cowboys that drove the cattle up from Texas to the Kansas stockyards. It’s the kind of thing most every young boy dreams about, especially when there’s not much going on in his own back yard.

How I longed to be able to join those soldiers and ride out to see the frontier. That started me dreaming about my own future, and where my dreams might lead me. But, at age 11, I knew it would be a while before I could do anything serious about those dreams.

Mr. Triloff had moved us off to western Nebraska long about 1886, in order to find work in his trade. We’d moved to a little town called Kain’s Corner. In 1887, when the railroad came through, it had missed Kain’s Corner by a half mile. A new town was plotted called Wallace, and one by one, the buildings in Kain’s Corner were picked up and moved off a half mile north to the new townsite ‘til there was not a trace left of the old town.

Mr. Triloff bought a small farm near Wallace, and with help from a neighbor, built a sod house for our new home. The neighbor had a plow that would plow to just the right depth for cutting sod. The sod strips were cut 1 foot wide and stacked in a staggered fashion as one would stack bricks or building blocks. The back of the house was cut into the side of a hill as to be partly underground, then the sod was stacked to form the rest of the walls. The roof had a support system made of wood with sod laid on top. This house was warm in the winter and cool in the summer. Winter heating came from buffalo chips burned in a stove. As with every place we lived, Mama had her garden, as well as chickens and a milk cow. This was about the best we ever lived during my youth.

R.H. Wessel, age 13, at the Wallace Herald, with owner Norman Jackson and his sister Clara Jackson, 1887.

At age 13, I landed my first real job. Mr. Triloff had sent me into town to fetch the latest edition of the newspaper. The printing office of the Wallace Herald was in quite a messy state due to a lack of help, and the owner, Mr. Norman Jackson, asked if I would like to come and work for him. Of course, I said, You bet I would. My salary was set at $2 a week and I began immediately. I had always had an ear for news, and the newspaper seemed a natural place for me to invest some time. Little did I know then that this would be my life’s calling.

I learned the art of printing and became quite an accomplished typesetter. Printing was a good bit slower in those days, nothing automatic, so it was real important to be quick at one’s job. I learned the layout of the typecase drawers, where each letter was located, and developed a rhythm for pulling each one from its place and putting it into a stick. There were all different sizes of type to choose from, depending on its purpose. The smaller type pieces were made of metal, and the larger, headline type, was made of wood. As the form was being filled, small wood blocks would be inserted to hold the sticks in place. Screw locks would be inserted, and before tightening, the type would be tapped down gently with a wooden block to assure that the surface of the type was level for a good, clean, legible print. After the page was prepared, the rack would be placed into the printer, where the type would be inked up by a rubber roller, and the imprint made onto paper. At the Herald, this was all done by hand, one slow sheet at a time. In later years, of course, all this became much more automated.

The Herald was published in a small wooden building on the main street of town. The building had squeaky floorboards, decorated with the stains of the trade, the same stains that made the printer easily identified. A man who printed for a living always had black ink under his fingernails and on his clothing; stains not easily removed.

During my first three years at the Herald, Mr. Jackson had sold the paper to J.G. Beeler, and moved to Lincoln and became a leading attorney there. While in Wallace, Mr. Beeler became involved with the Populist Party. This left him in a rather unpopular position with the citizens of Wallace, and he was forced out of town by boycott. Rather than see the newspaper, and my job, come to an end, my stepfather leased the paper for me for the sum of $2 a month. I then became the youngest editor anywhere around.

A draught brought on hard times in Nebraska, causing me to finally close the shop. I had wanted to continue my education, and circumstances provided the time to return to school.

I found an opportunity to live with the Beeler family in Table Rock, where I could attend the Table Rock Public School. Money saved over the previous three years allowed me to pay my room and board.

Upon graduating the eighth grade and moving on to Table Rock High School, my own family relocated to Table Rock. I was able to once again live at home, with Mama and the rest, until I graduated in June, 1894.

I shortly thereafter returned to Wallace to reopen the Herald. However, I was not finished with my education, and by the fall of 1895 was enrolled at the university at Lincoln.

Lincoln was the first real city I had ever seen. Being in a big city brought me closer to the news and affairs of the world. My studies in journalism kept me in touch with world politics, as these were the subjects I would be writing about throughout my school career, and life beyond graduation.

The eighth-grade class, Table Rock Public School, 1892.

The Table Rock High School graduating class of 1894, R.H. Wessel standing center.

The graduation program for Table Rock High School, 1894.

In 1898, at the forefront of world news was the tension between the United States and Spain. Seemed as though we were headed for a major conflict with the Spanish, and just waiting for the final heated moment when that conflict would erupt. That moment came when a United States warship, the Maine, exploded in Havana harbor. We were at war, and the call heard throughout the nation was Remember the Maine.

On April 25, 1898, President McKinley asked our governor, Silas A. Holcomb, to furnish two regiments of infantry for the war with Spain. Our boys rallied to the cause, and on May 2, 1898, I enrolled with Company F, of the First Regiment of Nebraska Volunteers. We were mustered in on May 12, and were soon boarding a train bound for the west.

Our destination was San Francisco, California, where we established Camp Merritt, near the military reservation and Presidio. Here, we drilled intensively for a month, eventually boarding the transport Senator to carry us to our position at Manila, in the Philippine Islands.

Commodore Dewey had already whipped the Spanish navy in Manila Bay on May 1, 1898. It was a brief, one-day battle, with most of the Spanish fleet sunk, and the rest captured. About all that was left was for Spain to make a formal surrender. This took place on August 13. With the war at an end, we figured to be heading home soon. After all, we’d been certain from the beginning that we’d be here only a few months, at most.

Seems that the Philippino people had been acting under the notion that the United States had come to help them win their independence from Spain. They were free of Spain all right, but these islands offered a good place for an American stronghold in the pacific. Next thing we know, we’re fighting a war with the native people. This kept our regiment on the islands for more than a year.

Upon returning to San Francisco in August of 1899, our boys were greeted with great receptions, and more celebrations at Lincoln and Omaha. After a week of parties, I returned to Table Rock to see my family. It had been nearly