Rick Just's Blog, page 94
May 30, 2022
The First Medal of Honor in WWI (tap to read)
One hundred men received the Medal of Honor for heroism in World War I. The first of them to receive that medal was from Idaho. He was the first native-born Idahoan to receive that honor and was the first member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Days Saints to be so honored. He was the first U.S. Army private to receive the medal. And, he may have also been the first to return a Medal of Honor.
Private Thomas Neibaur was born in Sharon, Idaho, a tiny community north of Paris, and grew up in Sugar City. The actions for which he was awarded the Medal of Honor sound like those of a cinema super hero.
Wounded four times, Neibaur was captured by German troops after falling unconscious from his injuries. Awakening, he saw that the Germans had taken cover from heavy fire. He also saw that they had dropped his semi-automatic pistol on the ground nearby. He crawled to retrieve it. Enemy soldiers saw what he was doing and charged him with bayonets. He killed four of them, then captured the remaining 11 German soldiers, escorting them back across the American line.
General John J. Pershing presented Private Neibaur the Medal of Honor—often incorrectly called the Congressional Medal of Honor—at the request of President Woodrow Wilson.
In addition to the Medal of Honor, Neibaur held the French Croix de Guerre, the French Legion d’honneur, the French medaille militarie, the American distinguished service cross, the Italian La Croce al Merito di Guerra, and a Purple Heart.
Neibaur was treated as a hero, of course, when he returned to his home in Idaho. Governor D.W. Davis was on hand when Sugar City celebrated their favorite son on May 27, 1919. Some 10,000 people came out to honor him on “Neibaur Day,” proclaimed so in Idaho by Davis.
Neibaur, who would carry a German machine gun bullet in his hip until his dying day, lead a life that contained much trauma. His four bullet wounds led the list, joined by the pain of losing three sons to accidents, then having his arm mangled in a sugar factory accident.
Those pains were not all he endured. As the Great Depression was winding down, Neibaur found that the small pension he received along with his Medal of Honor and the $45-a-month paycheck he received for working as a clerk in the Works Progress Administration office in Boise were not enough to feed his large family. His income in 1938, including a $300 disability pension, was $900. Frustrated, he mailed his Medal of Honor to Senator William E. Borah with a note that said in part, that he “couldn’t eat it.”
Years earlier, Borah had proposed that Congress enact a measure promoting Neibaur to the rank of major and awarding him $2,200 in annual retirement pay. The bill failed that time, and again in 1939 when the Senate committee where the bill was introduced rejected the motion.
Three days after the story appeared in local papers Neibaur was given a job at the Idaho statehouse as a night security guard, helping his financial situation.
Thomas Neibaur died from tuberculosis in 1942 at the age of 44 at the Veteran’s Hospital in Walla Walla. His medals were returned to his wife, who in turn gave them to the Idaho State Historical Society.
Thomas Neibaur wearing his medals. Photo courtesy of the Idaho State Historical Society physical collection. 
Neibaur memorial in Neibaur Park, Sugar City.
Private Thomas Neibaur was born in Sharon, Idaho, a tiny community north of Paris, and grew up in Sugar City. The actions for which he was awarded the Medal of Honor sound like those of a cinema super hero.
Wounded four times, Neibaur was captured by German troops after falling unconscious from his injuries. Awakening, he saw that the Germans had taken cover from heavy fire. He also saw that they had dropped his semi-automatic pistol on the ground nearby. He crawled to retrieve it. Enemy soldiers saw what he was doing and charged him with bayonets. He killed four of them, then captured the remaining 11 German soldiers, escorting them back across the American line.
General John J. Pershing presented Private Neibaur the Medal of Honor—often incorrectly called the Congressional Medal of Honor—at the request of President Woodrow Wilson.
In addition to the Medal of Honor, Neibaur held the French Croix de Guerre, the French Legion d’honneur, the French medaille militarie, the American distinguished service cross, the Italian La Croce al Merito di Guerra, and a Purple Heart.
Neibaur was treated as a hero, of course, when he returned to his home in Idaho. Governor D.W. Davis was on hand when Sugar City celebrated their favorite son on May 27, 1919. Some 10,000 people came out to honor him on “Neibaur Day,” proclaimed so in Idaho by Davis.
Neibaur, who would carry a German machine gun bullet in his hip until his dying day, lead a life that contained much trauma. His four bullet wounds led the list, joined by the pain of losing three sons to accidents, then having his arm mangled in a sugar factory accident.
Those pains were not all he endured. As the Great Depression was winding down, Neibaur found that the small pension he received along with his Medal of Honor and the $45-a-month paycheck he received for working as a clerk in the Works Progress Administration office in Boise were not enough to feed his large family. His income in 1938, including a $300 disability pension, was $900. Frustrated, he mailed his Medal of Honor to Senator William E. Borah with a note that said in part, that he “couldn’t eat it.”
Years earlier, Borah had proposed that Congress enact a measure promoting Neibaur to the rank of major and awarding him $2,200 in annual retirement pay. The bill failed that time, and again in 1939 when the Senate committee where the bill was introduced rejected the motion.
Three days after the story appeared in local papers Neibaur was given a job at the Idaho statehouse as a night security guard, helping his financial situation.
Thomas Neibaur died from tuberculosis in 1942 at the age of 44 at the Veteran’s Hospital in Walla Walla. His medals were returned to his wife, who in turn gave them to the Idaho State Historical Society.
Thomas Neibaur wearing his medals. Photo courtesy of the Idaho State Historical Society physical collection. Neibaur memorial in Neibaur Park, Sugar City.
May 29, 2022
Idaho History on Wake Island (Tap to read)
The 1940 Fourth of July headline in The Idaho Statesman was about a contract local construction company Morrison-Knudsen had just won. “Boise Company Builds Bases,” the headline on page 3 read. No one knew how quickly that story would move to the front page, impacting Idaho families for years to come.
Harry Morrison, president of MK, had just returned from Washington, D.C. with the good news that the company had been awarded a substantial portion of construction under the National Defense Program, building air base facilities in the South Pacific. Midway and Wake Islands were mentioned in passing.
The story moved to page 2 in the Statesman on March 20, 1941, when it was announced that 150 workers, many of them from the Boise area, would sail from San Francisco for Wake Island. The company would be sending men “from engineers to dishwashers” to help build the air base.
Another page 2 article a couple of weeks later told that “several Canyon County young men (had) been given draft deferments to go to Wake Island where they would be employed by Morrison-Knudsen Construction.”
Over the course of the next few months there followed many articles about individual men on their way to build the air base in the South Pacific.
On September 19, 1941, the newspaper ran a story about the impressions of O.O. Kelso, from Caldwell. Headlined, “Idahoan Finds Wake Island ‘Crazy Place,’” it quoted Kelso as saying “rocks float; wood sinks; fish fly, and we have a bird here that runs but can’t fly.”
It got much crazier. On December 8, 1941, the day after that “Day of Infamy” at Pearl Harbor, there was a report the Japanese had taken Wake Island. This caused great concern in the Boise area, of course, because of the MK project there.
The family of 19-year-old Joe Goicoechea was on tenterhooks. He was among the civilian employees of MK on Wake Island. His dream job there—paying $120 a month—would turn into a nightmare as he and other Morrison-Knudsen employees took up arms alongside soldiers. They held off the attackers from December 8 until Christmas Eve, when he and hundreds of others were taken prisoner.
The Japanese forced the prisoners to build bunkers and fortifications against an American counter-attack. That flightless bird that O.O. Kelso mentioned, was hunted to extinction by the Japanese when the blockade by American forces brought their garrison to the point of starvation.
Goicoechea and others captured ended up spending 46 months in captivity, which included a starvation diet, inadequate clothing against the cold, and torture.
There were 1,100 Morrison-Knudson men on Wake Island on December 7, 1941. Only 700 made it home. Forty-seven died defending the island. Ninety-eight were executed by the Japanese. About a third of the men died in captivity under harsh conditions.
Joe Goicoechea made it back to Idaho. He lived until January, 2017. The Idaho Statesman reported upon his death that Goicoechea was thought to be the last of the Morrison-Knudson men who had experienced the battle on Wake Island and subsequent imprisonment to die.
The "98 Rock" is a memorial for the 98 U.S. civilian contract POWs who were forced by their Japanese captors to rebuild the airstrip as slave labor, then were blind-folded and killed by machine gun Oct. 5, 1943. An unidentified prisoner escaped, and chiseled "98 US PW 5-10-43" on a large coral rock near their mass grave, on Wilkes Island at the edge of the lagoon. The prisoner was recaptured and beheaded by the Japanese admiral, who was later convicted and executed for war crimes. (U.S. Air Force photo/Tech. Sgt. Shane A. Cuomo)
Harry Morrison, president of MK, had just returned from Washington, D.C. with the good news that the company had been awarded a substantial portion of construction under the National Defense Program, building air base facilities in the South Pacific. Midway and Wake Islands were mentioned in passing.
The story moved to page 2 in the Statesman on March 20, 1941, when it was announced that 150 workers, many of them from the Boise area, would sail from San Francisco for Wake Island. The company would be sending men “from engineers to dishwashers” to help build the air base.
Another page 2 article a couple of weeks later told that “several Canyon County young men (had) been given draft deferments to go to Wake Island where they would be employed by Morrison-Knudsen Construction.”
Over the course of the next few months there followed many articles about individual men on their way to build the air base in the South Pacific.
On September 19, 1941, the newspaper ran a story about the impressions of O.O. Kelso, from Caldwell. Headlined, “Idahoan Finds Wake Island ‘Crazy Place,’” it quoted Kelso as saying “rocks float; wood sinks; fish fly, and we have a bird here that runs but can’t fly.”
It got much crazier. On December 8, 1941, the day after that “Day of Infamy” at Pearl Harbor, there was a report the Japanese had taken Wake Island. This caused great concern in the Boise area, of course, because of the MK project there.
The family of 19-year-old Joe Goicoechea was on tenterhooks. He was among the civilian employees of MK on Wake Island. His dream job there—paying $120 a month—would turn into a nightmare as he and other Morrison-Knudsen employees took up arms alongside soldiers. They held off the attackers from December 8 until Christmas Eve, when he and hundreds of others were taken prisoner.
The Japanese forced the prisoners to build bunkers and fortifications against an American counter-attack. That flightless bird that O.O. Kelso mentioned, was hunted to extinction by the Japanese when the blockade by American forces brought their garrison to the point of starvation.
Goicoechea and others captured ended up spending 46 months in captivity, which included a starvation diet, inadequate clothing against the cold, and torture.
There were 1,100 Morrison-Knudson men on Wake Island on December 7, 1941. Only 700 made it home. Forty-seven died defending the island. Ninety-eight were executed by the Japanese. About a third of the men died in captivity under harsh conditions.
Joe Goicoechea made it back to Idaho. He lived until January, 2017. The Idaho Statesman reported upon his death that Goicoechea was thought to be the last of the Morrison-Knudson men who had experienced the battle on Wake Island and subsequent imprisonment to die.
The "98 Rock" is a memorial for the 98 U.S. civilian contract POWs who were forced by their Japanese captors to rebuild the airstrip as slave labor, then were blind-folded and killed by machine gun Oct. 5, 1943. An unidentified prisoner escaped, and chiseled "98 US PW 5-10-43" on a large coral rock near their mass grave, on Wilkes Island at the edge of the lagoon. The prisoner was recaptured and beheaded by the Japanese admiral, who was later convicted and executed for war crimes. (U.S. Air Force photo/Tech. Sgt. Shane A. Cuomo)May 28, 2022
Taking Aim at Farragut. (Tap to read)
Time for one of our occasional then and now features.
Farragut Naval Training Station (FNTS) on the shores of Lake Pend Oreille, was a key facility in World War II. It went up fast. Construction began in March, 1942. By September of that year, the “boots” were already training.
The barracks, drill halls, and other facilities weren’t designed for long-term use, so few of them exist today. The only major building left on site from the base, the concrete brig, is a museum today at Farragut State Park.
One facility, though, is still in use. It’s not a building. It’s the station’s rifle range.
During rifle training, 100 men could fire their rifles at a time on the FNTS range. During the peak of training, about 12,000 rounds of ammunition were fired every day. Both the lead and the brass were salvaged and recycled into new ammunition.
The 50-, 100-, and 200-yard rifle ranges still exist and can be rented for practice and special events. They are operated by the Idaho Department of Fish and Game.
Farragut Naval Training Station (FNTS) on the shores of Lake Pend Oreille, was a key facility in World War II. It went up fast. Construction began in March, 1942. By September of that year, the “boots” were already training.
The barracks, drill halls, and other facilities weren’t designed for long-term use, so few of them exist today. The only major building left on site from the base, the concrete brig, is a museum today at Farragut State Park.
One facility, though, is still in use. It’s not a building. It’s the station’s rifle range.
During rifle training, 100 men could fire their rifles at a time on the FNTS range. During the peak of training, about 12,000 rounds of ammunition were fired every day. Both the lead and the brass were salvaged and recycled into new ammunition.
The 50-, 100-, and 200-yard rifle ranges still exist and can be rented for practice and special events. They are operated by the Idaho Department of Fish and Game.
May 27, 2022
Frozen Dog This and That (Tap to read)
Frozen Dog Road in Gem County does not lead directly to Lake Wobegon, Minnesota. Or does it? Lake Wobegon is the fictional town where Garrison Keillor told us all the children are above average. His weekly News from Lake Wobegon segment on the program Prairie Home Companion introduced us to the antics of many imaginary Minnesotans. Frozen Dog, Idaho had him beat by about 80 years.
A reader asked me where the name Frozen Dog Road came from. I’m not sure which came first, the road or Frozen Dog Ranch, but the ranch was the source of a lot of interesting stories. Frozen Dog Ranch was named after Frozen Dog, Idaho, which doesn't exist.
Colonel William C. Hunter invented Frozen Dog, Idaho, as the setting for a series of stories he told about its residents, Grizzly Pete, Jim the Stage-Driver, Mormon Ed, Half-Hung Simon, and others.
Commissioned a colonel and given a job by Governor Frank W. Hunt, Hunter also served Idaho governors, John A. Morrison and Frank R. Gooding. How he served them and why he deserved the appellation "colonel" is a little unclear. He seemed to be an Idaho booster, even though he lived mainly in Chicago, serving on the Idaho delegation to this and that conference.
His real job was that of a writer and publisher. He wrote about how to succeed in business and self-help books. His columns appeared in a scattering of papers across the country. PEP, billed as "A book of how's not why's for physical and mental efficiency," was published in 1914 and went through several editions. PEP was an acronym for Poise, Efficiency, Peace.
In 1905 Hunter gathered some of his humorous columns and many pages of doggerel into a book called Frozen Dog Tales and Other Things. The tales took place in Frozen Dog, Idaho, which, he claimed, had taken a different name when the town got a post office. However, he would not tell readers the "real" name. Frozen Dog, despite the ranch and road's location in Gem County, was said to be in Idaho County along the Clearwater River. He wrote:
"The town is full of life. There are few laws to govern. Horse thieves are promptly lynched, and the Golden Rule is the unwritten law of the country. No stranger is asked where he came from; no one is asked his back history. Everyone tends to his own business. Men are judged by their individual worth, and a man's word is as good as his bond, and the man who doesn't 'make good' is run out of the country."
Several stories involved quirks in what little law there was. For instance, a local man drowned while crossing a swollen stream. He was swept off his mule, which survived. When authorities found the body, they also found a six-shooter in one of his pockets. Concealing a weapon was a violation of the law. Hence, the sheriff, who was also the coroner, fined the corpse $50 and confiscated the mule and gun in payment.
The newspaper in Frozen Dog was called the "Howling Wolf." It ran frequent aphorisms such as "There are two times in a man's life when he discovers he cannot understand a woman: the first is before he is married, and the second is after he is married." That passed for humor in 1905.
One more example from the book will give you the gist: "The Horse Show at Frozen Dog, Idaho, was a great success. Grizzly Pete's mustang got first prize in the cayuse class, and Joe Kip got first prize in the driving class. He owned the only horse in Idaho County that could be hitched to a rig. The gate receipts of $12 for the week were divided equally between the two prominent citizens above referred to. Grizzly Pete was judge for the cayuse class and Joe Kip for the driving class."
Most of Col. William Crosbie Hunter's books are still available in online archives and as cheap reprints. Frozen Dog and Other Things was lavishly illustrated for its time, featuring woodcut graphics on every page.
On March 18, 1917, Hunter died in Emmett at age 50, leaving behind a legacy of books and a road called Frozen Dog.
The first page of Frozen Dog and Other Things, with a photo of Col. William C. Hunter inset. Every page of the book features a woodcut illustration along with the stories, poems, and songs.
A reader asked me where the name Frozen Dog Road came from. I’m not sure which came first, the road or Frozen Dog Ranch, but the ranch was the source of a lot of interesting stories. Frozen Dog Ranch was named after Frozen Dog, Idaho, which doesn't exist.
Colonel William C. Hunter invented Frozen Dog, Idaho, as the setting for a series of stories he told about its residents, Grizzly Pete, Jim the Stage-Driver, Mormon Ed, Half-Hung Simon, and others.
Commissioned a colonel and given a job by Governor Frank W. Hunt, Hunter also served Idaho governors, John A. Morrison and Frank R. Gooding. How he served them and why he deserved the appellation "colonel" is a little unclear. He seemed to be an Idaho booster, even though he lived mainly in Chicago, serving on the Idaho delegation to this and that conference.
His real job was that of a writer and publisher. He wrote about how to succeed in business and self-help books. His columns appeared in a scattering of papers across the country. PEP, billed as "A book of how's not why's for physical and mental efficiency," was published in 1914 and went through several editions. PEP was an acronym for Poise, Efficiency, Peace.
In 1905 Hunter gathered some of his humorous columns and many pages of doggerel into a book called Frozen Dog Tales and Other Things. The tales took place in Frozen Dog, Idaho, which, he claimed, had taken a different name when the town got a post office. However, he would not tell readers the "real" name. Frozen Dog, despite the ranch and road's location in Gem County, was said to be in Idaho County along the Clearwater River. He wrote:
"The town is full of life. There are few laws to govern. Horse thieves are promptly lynched, and the Golden Rule is the unwritten law of the country. No stranger is asked where he came from; no one is asked his back history. Everyone tends to his own business. Men are judged by their individual worth, and a man's word is as good as his bond, and the man who doesn't 'make good' is run out of the country."
Several stories involved quirks in what little law there was. For instance, a local man drowned while crossing a swollen stream. He was swept off his mule, which survived. When authorities found the body, they also found a six-shooter in one of his pockets. Concealing a weapon was a violation of the law. Hence, the sheriff, who was also the coroner, fined the corpse $50 and confiscated the mule and gun in payment.
The newspaper in Frozen Dog was called the "Howling Wolf." It ran frequent aphorisms such as "There are two times in a man's life when he discovers he cannot understand a woman: the first is before he is married, and the second is after he is married." That passed for humor in 1905.
One more example from the book will give you the gist: "The Horse Show at Frozen Dog, Idaho, was a great success. Grizzly Pete's mustang got first prize in the cayuse class, and Joe Kip got first prize in the driving class. He owned the only horse in Idaho County that could be hitched to a rig. The gate receipts of $12 for the week were divided equally between the two prominent citizens above referred to. Grizzly Pete was judge for the cayuse class and Joe Kip for the driving class."
Most of Col. William Crosbie Hunter's books are still available in online archives and as cheap reprints. Frozen Dog and Other Things was lavishly illustrated for its time, featuring woodcut graphics on every page.
On March 18, 1917, Hunter died in Emmett at age 50, leaving behind a legacy of books and a road called Frozen Dog.
The first page of Frozen Dog and Other Things, with a photo of Col. William C. Hunter inset. Every page of the book features a woodcut illustration along with the stories, poems, and songs.
May 26, 2022
Negative Point Seven (Tap to read)
Harry Potter fans are familiar with platform 9 ¾ where students on their way to Hogwarts would walk through a wall to catch the train. Idaho has a trail marker on an old railroad route that is every bit as strange. It’s going to take a little history to explain how that came about.
At the peak of mining activity in Idaho’s Silver Valley, countless carloads of ore came out of the ground and travelled by rail between Mullan and Plummer, a 72-mile stretch of train tracks operated by the Burlington Northern Railroad in North Idaho. Those railroad cars were open so it was inevitable that dust and ore particles blew and jostled out onto the tracks beneath those steel wheels.
The railway crossed land owned by the Coeur d’Alene Tribe. Concerned that years of extraction of heavy metals had severely contaminated mining areas and the routes along which the ore travelled for processing, the Tribe sued Union Pacific Railroad and several mining companies to provide funding for a cleanup.
It became clear that cleaning up all the metal contaminants scattered along the old railway would be all but impossible.
In 1995 the federal government, Coeur d’Alene Tribe, and the State of Idaho agreed on a plan to cap the contaminated railroad bed to help contain the contamination. Under the plan the Coeur d’Alene Tribe and the Idaho Department of Parks and Recreation share ownership and management of a paved pathway on top of the old Mullan to Plummer line. Union Pacific built the pathway and continues to provide major maintenance. The company also created an endowment fund to help pay for trail needs into the future.
This is a sow’s-ear-to-silk-purse story if ever there was one. The Trail of the Coeur d’Alenes now attracts tourists from all over the world bringing business to bike rental shops, ice cream sellers, restaurants, and lodging establishments along the smooth route of those rattly old trains. It winds across lakes, beside rivers and streams, and between stands of timber where bicyclists can ride without a thought about traffic.
It’s 72-miles long. Plus a tad more. After all the trail markers were in place, the Coeur d’Alene Tribe built a beautiful park in Plummer in honor of Tribal members who lost their lives fighting for the United States. A new section of pathway there leads to the Trail of the Coeur d’Alenes, and serves as the start of the trail on the western end. So, yes, there is a mile-marker negative point seven. Start your ride on the Trail of the Coeur d’Alenes there and you’ll find it every bit as magical as a Harry Potter adventure.
At the peak of mining activity in Idaho’s Silver Valley, countless carloads of ore came out of the ground and travelled by rail between Mullan and Plummer, a 72-mile stretch of train tracks operated by the Burlington Northern Railroad in North Idaho. Those railroad cars were open so it was inevitable that dust and ore particles blew and jostled out onto the tracks beneath those steel wheels.
The railway crossed land owned by the Coeur d’Alene Tribe. Concerned that years of extraction of heavy metals had severely contaminated mining areas and the routes along which the ore travelled for processing, the Tribe sued Union Pacific Railroad and several mining companies to provide funding for a cleanup.
It became clear that cleaning up all the metal contaminants scattered along the old railway would be all but impossible.
In 1995 the federal government, Coeur d’Alene Tribe, and the State of Idaho agreed on a plan to cap the contaminated railroad bed to help contain the contamination. Under the plan the Coeur d’Alene Tribe and the Idaho Department of Parks and Recreation share ownership and management of a paved pathway on top of the old Mullan to Plummer line. Union Pacific built the pathway and continues to provide major maintenance. The company also created an endowment fund to help pay for trail needs into the future.
This is a sow’s-ear-to-silk-purse story if ever there was one. The Trail of the Coeur d’Alenes now attracts tourists from all over the world bringing business to bike rental shops, ice cream sellers, restaurants, and lodging establishments along the smooth route of those rattly old trains. It winds across lakes, beside rivers and streams, and between stands of timber where bicyclists can ride without a thought about traffic.
It’s 72-miles long. Plus a tad more. After all the trail markers were in place, the Coeur d’Alene Tribe built a beautiful park in Plummer in honor of Tribal members who lost their lives fighting for the United States. A new section of pathway there leads to the Trail of the Coeur d’Alenes, and serves as the start of the trail on the western end. So, yes, there is a mile-marker negative point seven. Start your ride on the Trail of the Coeur d’Alenes there and you’ll find it every bit as magical as a Harry Potter adventure.
May 25, 2022
Root Hog, Idaho (Tap to read)
Root hog, or die, was a well-known phrase in the United States as far back as the 1830s. It was common to turn out hogs and let them fend for themselves, and the phrase became synonymous with fending for oneself. You can do a search on the phrase and find several songs from the Civil War era and earlier with that title.
The phrase popped up often in newspapers of the 1880s and 1890s in Idaho. The Lewiston Teller on February 17, 1887 had an article rich in opinion that went like this: “Tramps are a great nuisance, and should never be left at liberty. It is unjust to the industrious portion of society that they should be compelled to support a horde of strong and healthy idlers. The out-and-out tramp hates work, and never was known to sing that Negro melody, ‘Root hog, or die.’”
In an 1887 opinion in the Idaho Statesman about the Indian “problem,” the author suggested that they be left to “root, hog, or die.” Perhaps he had forgotten that Indians had been the definition of self-sufficient before the idea of land ownership came along with white settlers.
More important to Idaho history, there was a stage station called Root Hog, or Die built in 1887 near the Big Southern Butte by Alexander Toponce. The route it was on started in Blackfoot and served the copper mines near Mackay and north to Challis. Like the phrase it was a reference to, the stage stop was named because they let pigs roam about and fend for themselves on the site, allegedly to keep the rattlesnakes in check. Its name eventually became shortened to Root Hog.
The Wood River Times in 1882 mentioned a road crew grading from Root Hog toward Hailey, and “advancing about 20 miles per day.” The Ketchum Keystone gave us a clue about where Roothog (one word in that article) was located. They reported in 1886 that a salesman for the Lorillard’s Climax Tobocco (sic) Company had an odometer on his buggy. He measured “Blackfoot to Roothog, 24 miles; Roothog to the Buttes, 14 1/2.” An 1890 Blackfoot News article mentioned a surveying effort that might bring irrigation to the area between Root Hog and Blackfoot. That never came about.
In June, 1887 the Idaho News had a single cryptic line from their Challis correspondent reporting that “Root Hog is as lively as ever.”
The original Root Hog stage station was near what today is Atomic City. But the name later became attached to a stage station further north at Kennedy Crossing. Residents of the area were, for some reason, not wild about the name Root Hog. They decided on a fancier name, more in tune with their sophistication, when they applied for a post office. They wanted to call it Junction, because it was at a junction of a couple of roads. Creative as that was, the Postmaster General thought there were already enough Junctions.
Some tellings of the tale of Arco’s origin say that the Postmaster General suggested the community be called Arco, in honor of Georg von Arco. Arco was an important inventor in the field of radio transmission, though his contributions didn’t come to light until many years after the name Arco was attached to that post office in Idaho.
John Parsons of Idaho Falls has made a study of where the name came from. He believes it was more likely named after Louis Arco, an early pioneer in the area. That seems like a logical to me.
The phrase popped up often in newspapers of the 1880s and 1890s in Idaho. The Lewiston Teller on February 17, 1887 had an article rich in opinion that went like this: “Tramps are a great nuisance, and should never be left at liberty. It is unjust to the industrious portion of society that they should be compelled to support a horde of strong and healthy idlers. The out-and-out tramp hates work, and never was known to sing that Negro melody, ‘Root hog, or die.’”
In an 1887 opinion in the Idaho Statesman about the Indian “problem,” the author suggested that they be left to “root, hog, or die.” Perhaps he had forgotten that Indians had been the definition of self-sufficient before the idea of land ownership came along with white settlers.
More important to Idaho history, there was a stage station called Root Hog, or Die built in 1887 near the Big Southern Butte by Alexander Toponce. The route it was on started in Blackfoot and served the copper mines near Mackay and north to Challis. Like the phrase it was a reference to, the stage stop was named because they let pigs roam about and fend for themselves on the site, allegedly to keep the rattlesnakes in check. Its name eventually became shortened to Root Hog.
The Wood River Times in 1882 mentioned a road crew grading from Root Hog toward Hailey, and “advancing about 20 miles per day.” The Ketchum Keystone gave us a clue about where Roothog (one word in that article) was located. They reported in 1886 that a salesman for the Lorillard’s Climax Tobocco (sic) Company had an odometer on his buggy. He measured “Blackfoot to Roothog, 24 miles; Roothog to the Buttes, 14 1/2.” An 1890 Blackfoot News article mentioned a surveying effort that might bring irrigation to the area between Root Hog and Blackfoot. That never came about.
In June, 1887 the Idaho News had a single cryptic line from their Challis correspondent reporting that “Root Hog is as lively as ever.”
The original Root Hog stage station was near what today is Atomic City. But the name later became attached to a stage station further north at Kennedy Crossing. Residents of the area were, for some reason, not wild about the name Root Hog. They decided on a fancier name, more in tune with their sophistication, when they applied for a post office. They wanted to call it Junction, because it was at a junction of a couple of roads. Creative as that was, the Postmaster General thought there were already enough Junctions.
Some tellings of the tale of Arco’s origin say that the Postmaster General suggested the community be called Arco, in honor of Georg von Arco. Arco was an important inventor in the field of radio transmission, though his contributions didn’t come to light until many years after the name Arco was attached to that post office in Idaho.
John Parsons of Idaho Falls has made a study of where the name came from. He believes it was more likely named after Louis Arco, an early pioneer in the area. That seems like a logical to me.
May 24, 2022
Myrtle Enking (Tap to read)
Idaho has a long history of women in the position of state treasurer. Julie Ellsworth (R) is Idaho’s current treasurer. Seven have held it previously, including, in reverse order, Lydia Justice Edwards (R), 1987-1998; Marjorie Ruth Moon (D), 1963-1986; Ruth Moon (D) (Marjorie’s mother), 1945-1946, and 1955-1959; Margaret Gilbert (R), 1952-1954; Lela D. Painter (R) (who died in office) 1947-1952; and Myrtle P. Enking (D), 1933-1944.
Enking was Idaho’s first female treasurer and the second female treasurer in the nation. Myrtle Powell graduated from high school in Avon, Illinois in 1898, and came to Idaho in 1909 to take a position as a bookkeeper at the Gooding Mercantile Company. She married William Enking in 1911. He passed away in 1913 leaving Myrtle with a son to raise.
Mrs. Enking was the first librarian of the Gooding Public Library and served as the Gooding County Auditor for 15 years before her successful run for state treasurer. In 1943, UPI Correspondent John Corlett called her “the greatest vote-getter in Idaho history.” There was speculation at that time that she might take on Congressman Henry Dworshak, but she did not. She was known for wearing tall hats, possibly because she stood only four foot eleven inches.
Myrtle Enking passed away in Boise in July, 1972 at the age of 92.
Enking was Idaho’s first female treasurer and the second female treasurer in the nation. Myrtle Powell graduated from high school in Avon, Illinois in 1898, and came to Idaho in 1909 to take a position as a bookkeeper at the Gooding Mercantile Company. She married William Enking in 1911. He passed away in 1913 leaving Myrtle with a son to raise.
Mrs. Enking was the first librarian of the Gooding Public Library and served as the Gooding County Auditor for 15 years before her successful run for state treasurer. In 1943, UPI Correspondent John Corlett called her “the greatest vote-getter in Idaho history.” There was speculation at that time that she might take on Congressman Henry Dworshak, but she did not. She was known for wearing tall hats, possibly because she stood only four foot eleven inches.
Myrtle Enking passed away in Boise in July, 1972 at the age of 92.
May 23, 2022
Mascot Mania (Tap to read)
There are 155 schools in the state that have mascots. I can’t name them all without a little help from my friend Google. You know who you are.
There are several unusual ones, i.e., the Bonneville Bees, the Malad Dragons, the American Falls Beavers, etc. The Soda Springs Cardinals? Really? Has anyone ever spotted one in Soda Springs?
According to Maxpreps.com, a website about high school sports, there are seven schools in Idaho that have unique mascot names. That is, no one else in the U.S. uses that mascot. They are the Orofino Maniacs (is anyone surprised?), the Kamiah Kubs (thanks to the spelling), the Kuna Kavemen (ditto), the Maranatha Christian Great Danes, the Cutthroats of the Community School in Sun Valley, the Shelley Russets, and the Camas County High School Mushers.
I would have thought the Clark Fork Wampus Cats might be unique. Nope. There are at least five other schools that use that name. The one in Conway, Arkansas has a claim to being unique among Wampus cats, though. Their mascot has six legs.
What is a Wampus cat? Clark Fork High School has its own legend. It’s also a half-dog, half-cat in Appalachian folklore. But I digress.
Back in Idaho we need to spotlight the Shelley Russets for their brave use of a vegetable as a mascot, albeit one wearing a crown. I couldn’t find another high school using a vegetable mascot, but Scottsdale Community College is proud of their Fighting Artichoke. There’s also a Fighting Okra at Delta State.
You will, no doubt, share your favorite mascot and/or vegetable observations.
The much maligned mascot of Orofino High School.
There are several unusual ones, i.e., the Bonneville Bees, the Malad Dragons, the American Falls Beavers, etc. The Soda Springs Cardinals? Really? Has anyone ever spotted one in Soda Springs?
According to Maxpreps.com, a website about high school sports, there are seven schools in Idaho that have unique mascot names. That is, no one else in the U.S. uses that mascot. They are the Orofino Maniacs (is anyone surprised?), the Kamiah Kubs (thanks to the spelling), the Kuna Kavemen (ditto), the Maranatha Christian Great Danes, the Cutthroats of the Community School in Sun Valley, the Shelley Russets, and the Camas County High School Mushers.
I would have thought the Clark Fork Wampus Cats might be unique. Nope. There are at least five other schools that use that name. The one in Conway, Arkansas has a claim to being unique among Wampus cats, though. Their mascot has six legs.
What is a Wampus cat? Clark Fork High School has its own legend. It’s also a half-dog, half-cat in Appalachian folklore. But I digress.
Back in Idaho we need to spotlight the Shelley Russets for their brave use of a vegetable as a mascot, albeit one wearing a crown. I couldn’t find another high school using a vegetable mascot, but Scottsdale Community College is proud of their Fighting Artichoke. There’s also a Fighting Okra at Delta State.
You will, no doubt, share your favorite mascot and/or vegetable observations.
The much maligned mascot of Orofino High School.
May 22, 2022
Rooms for Let, Fifty Cents
There seems to be one indisputable fact about Roger Miller’s hit “King of the Road.” He wrote it. But where did he write it? That this would even be a question of interest is somewhat puzzling. Sure, it was a big hit. But why would people argue about its provenance?
Miller’s concert chat seems to have been the reason for the confusion. He would often toss out a line about where he wrote the song, or where he first saw the sign that became the first line, “Trailers for sale or rent.” He mentioned seeing it in Chicago; Kitchener, Ontario, and Indiana. He bought a little statue of a hobo someplace that is said to have inspired him. One of those places where he claimed to have purchased the little hobo was the Boise airport.
Miller often said from the stage that the song was written in Boise, Idaho. I like that version because I heard it first from a man who claimed to have been there when it was written.
Bob Weisenberger was the manager of KGEM radio in Boise, where I worked for about six years. At was the leading country music station in the valley for many years. Weisenberger told of sitting in a hotel room listening to Roger Miller jam with Boxcar Willie following Miller’s performance at the Snake River Stampede in Nampa. Boxcar Willie became a concert draw himself over the following couple of decades, especially in Europe, and he even had a minor hit with a cover of “King of the Road.” He became a Grand Ole Opry member and was one of the first country artists to open a theater in Branson, Missouri. At the time this took place, probably 1964, Boxcar Willie was a disc jockey at KGEM, using the name Marty Martin.
Many reports about the genesis of “King of the Road” say it was written at the Idanha. It’s such an iconic Boise hotel that those reports just seem right. Maybe not. Miller himself reminded the crowd gathered for a press conference in 1972 to promote another appearance at the Snake River Stampede that he had written the song while staying at the Hotel Boise, which is now the Hoff Building. Weisenberger also recalled that it was at the Hotel Boise.
Wherever he wrote it—and it was probably written over a period of at least weeks, perhaps coming together finally in Boise—Miller would never need to work “two hours of pushin’ broom” for his accommodations after its release. The song won 1965 Grammy awards for Best Contemporary Rock 'N Roll Single, Best Contemporary Vocal Performance, Best Country & Western Recording, Best Country Vocal Performance, and Best Country Song.
And to think it all started in Boise. Probably.
Miller’s concert chat seems to have been the reason for the confusion. He would often toss out a line about where he wrote the song, or where he first saw the sign that became the first line, “Trailers for sale or rent.” He mentioned seeing it in Chicago; Kitchener, Ontario, and Indiana. He bought a little statue of a hobo someplace that is said to have inspired him. One of those places where he claimed to have purchased the little hobo was the Boise airport.
Miller often said from the stage that the song was written in Boise, Idaho. I like that version because I heard it first from a man who claimed to have been there when it was written.
Bob Weisenberger was the manager of KGEM radio in Boise, where I worked for about six years. At was the leading country music station in the valley for many years. Weisenberger told of sitting in a hotel room listening to Roger Miller jam with Boxcar Willie following Miller’s performance at the Snake River Stampede in Nampa. Boxcar Willie became a concert draw himself over the following couple of decades, especially in Europe, and he even had a minor hit with a cover of “King of the Road.” He became a Grand Ole Opry member and was one of the first country artists to open a theater in Branson, Missouri. At the time this took place, probably 1964, Boxcar Willie was a disc jockey at KGEM, using the name Marty Martin.
Many reports about the genesis of “King of the Road” say it was written at the Idanha. It’s such an iconic Boise hotel that those reports just seem right. Maybe not. Miller himself reminded the crowd gathered for a press conference in 1972 to promote another appearance at the Snake River Stampede that he had written the song while staying at the Hotel Boise, which is now the Hoff Building. Weisenberger also recalled that it was at the Hotel Boise.
Wherever he wrote it—and it was probably written over a period of at least weeks, perhaps coming together finally in Boise—Miller would never need to work “two hours of pushin’ broom” for his accommodations after its release. The song won 1965 Grammy awards for Best Contemporary Rock 'N Roll Single, Best Contemporary Vocal Performance, Best Country & Western Recording, Best Country Vocal Performance, and Best Country Song.
And to think it all started in Boise. Probably.
May 21, 2022
Corporal Punishment (Tap to read)
Corporal punishment is defined as “physical punishment, such as caning or flogging.” Often the discussion about corporal punishment centers on whether it should be allowed in schools. Paddles and strops commonly hung on nails in schoolrooms across Idaho.
In 1890, the Idaho Statesman editorialized on the subject, saying “…we are prepared now and always shall be to oppose corporal punishment in the public schools. Boys’ bodies were not fashioned in their God-like form to be whipped. There are other ways to reach the hearts and minds of American boys to compel obedience.”
A stacked headline in the same paper six years later read:
REBELLION IN SCHOOL
Professor Wood Has Trouble
With High School Boys
SCENE OF GREAT EXCITEMENT
The Pedagogue Downs Rus Bryon and
Precipitates a Riot—Girls
Stampeded It seems that the professor Wood, who was known to inflict frequent physical punishments in his classes at Central School, demanded to see a note one of his students tried to pass in class. The student, Rus Bryon, refused to give it to him. Wood made a grab for the note and Bryon bolted down the aisle. They struggled over the note, with Wood finally throwing the youngster to the floor, putting his knee in the lad’s stomach, and reportedly choking him. When the student got up, he again refused to relinquish the note, instead tearing it up.
Meanwhile, fellow students surrounded the teacher and encouraged him to cease manhandling Bryon. At that he released the boy.
The kerfuffle resulted in several upset girls leaving school early that day.
Trustees investigated the incident. They found Bryon insubordinate, but also judged the professor’s “method of disciplining unruly scholars was harsh, undignified and unnecessary.” They passed a resolution prohibiting such punishment.
One objection to paddling was that its severity was dependent on the strength of the paddler and, perhaps, their anger. In 1899, there was news of an invention that would solve those problems, though it was probably meant for lawbreakers, not students. One Newton Harrison had created a mechanical appliance that could administer corporal punishment at the touch of a button. His “electric whipping post” was presented as a vast improvement. You be the judge from the description of the device.
“The victim is first lashed securely to the post with his arms above his head. The whipper is a large wheel which turns freely on an upright. The whip or thong is attached to the rim of the wheel and as the wheel revolves it is swung violently around. The wheel is lowered or raised to bring it on a level with the victim’s back. The wheel is revolved by a small motor at the base of the upright, connected with the axle by a rear wheel.”
Bonus: The administrator of punishment need not even be in the same room as the person being punished. He could press a button somewhere out of sight and sound while he administered “mathematically correct justice.” That the person receiving the punishment was referred to even in the glowing article as “the victim” seems telling.
By 1900, Dr. Black, president of the Albion State Normal School, where many of the Idaho’s teachers learned their profession, was speaking out against corporal punishment in schools as a crime.
Over the next several decades debate about the subject of corporal punishment in public schools flared up from time-to-time in Idaho and the United States. In 1977, the matter came before the U.S. Supreme Court in Ingraham v. Wright. The argument against the practice was that it was against the Cruel and Unusual Punishments Clause of the Eighth Amendment.
The Supreme Court ruled that corporal punishment is constitutional, leaving it to states to decide whether to allow it. Idaho is one of 19 states that still allows corporal punishment. Four of those states (not Idaho) ban it for students with disabilities.
In 1890, the Idaho Statesman editorialized on the subject, saying “…we are prepared now and always shall be to oppose corporal punishment in the public schools. Boys’ bodies were not fashioned in their God-like form to be whipped. There are other ways to reach the hearts and minds of American boys to compel obedience.”
A stacked headline in the same paper six years later read:
REBELLION IN SCHOOL
Professor Wood Has Trouble
With High School Boys
SCENE OF GREAT EXCITEMENT
The Pedagogue Downs Rus Bryon and
Precipitates a Riot—Girls
Stampeded It seems that the professor Wood, who was known to inflict frequent physical punishments in his classes at Central School, demanded to see a note one of his students tried to pass in class. The student, Rus Bryon, refused to give it to him. Wood made a grab for the note and Bryon bolted down the aisle. They struggled over the note, with Wood finally throwing the youngster to the floor, putting his knee in the lad’s stomach, and reportedly choking him. When the student got up, he again refused to relinquish the note, instead tearing it up.
Meanwhile, fellow students surrounded the teacher and encouraged him to cease manhandling Bryon. At that he released the boy.
The kerfuffle resulted in several upset girls leaving school early that day.
Trustees investigated the incident. They found Bryon insubordinate, but also judged the professor’s “method of disciplining unruly scholars was harsh, undignified and unnecessary.” They passed a resolution prohibiting such punishment.
One objection to paddling was that its severity was dependent on the strength of the paddler and, perhaps, their anger. In 1899, there was news of an invention that would solve those problems, though it was probably meant for lawbreakers, not students. One Newton Harrison had created a mechanical appliance that could administer corporal punishment at the touch of a button. His “electric whipping post” was presented as a vast improvement. You be the judge from the description of the device.
“The victim is first lashed securely to the post with his arms above his head. The whipper is a large wheel which turns freely on an upright. The whip or thong is attached to the rim of the wheel and as the wheel revolves it is swung violently around. The wheel is lowered or raised to bring it on a level with the victim’s back. The wheel is revolved by a small motor at the base of the upright, connected with the axle by a rear wheel.”
Bonus: The administrator of punishment need not even be in the same room as the person being punished. He could press a button somewhere out of sight and sound while he administered “mathematically correct justice.” That the person receiving the punishment was referred to even in the glowing article as “the victim” seems telling.
By 1900, Dr. Black, president of the Albion State Normal School, where many of the Idaho’s teachers learned their profession, was speaking out against corporal punishment in schools as a crime.
Over the next several decades debate about the subject of corporal punishment in public schools flared up from time-to-time in Idaho and the United States. In 1977, the matter came before the U.S. Supreme Court in Ingraham v. Wright. The argument against the practice was that it was against the Cruel and Unusual Punishments Clause of the Eighth Amendment.
The Supreme Court ruled that corporal punishment is constitutional, leaving it to states to decide whether to allow it. Idaho is one of 19 states that still allows corporal punishment. Four of those states (not Idaho) ban it for students with disabilities.
