Medford Wisconsin

September 1, 1953

Dear Margaret,

It is about time for me to lay aside all other correspondence and start the account I promised you – to set down in writing what I remember of the history of our family.

My earliest recollections, shadowy but sweet, are associated with the home of my paternal grandfather, a small quiet village in the hilly part of Hessen, Germany. The name of the village is Michelsrombach, and it lies between Schlitz and Huenfeld, two small cities north of Fulda, that noted Catholic center with its ancient cathedral, sheltering in the crypt the tomb of the apostle of Germany, St. Boniface.

Michelsrombach has its holy associations, too. Village tradition sys that St. Boniface used to bathe his tired feet in the mountain brook when passing through the village to carry the Gospel of the barbarians of the surrounding forest. The well on the slope of the hill, from which all the town got the drinking water, was dug under his advice and the instructions of his devout companions, Benedictine monks.

Village tradition further says that the name of the hamlet was Michelsruhebach, because Michael, a messenger of St. Boniface, always rested there on the banks of the bach (brook) [Ruhe=rest, bach=brook] In the archives of Marburg, the above name is for the first time mentioned with the year 738, and again in 801 and 852. Michelsrombach was raised to a parish in 1174. The very fact that St. Michel is patron of the parish shows that it is a very old place. Its parish church is under government protection because of its old history. It has three periods of building. The oldest part, the former sanctuary, dates to the 15^th Century, the exact year can no longer be determined. The middle part, the chief part, was erected in 1747. In the autumn of 1947, the parish celebrated the 200^th anniversary of this addition.

The newest addition was erected in 1935-39 as an absolute necessity because of the influx of Catholics driven from Schlesien by the Poles.

I recall that I, at the age of six, was in this church, saw the many candles at Christmas, and again when Tante Brigitte carried our new baby – my first sister, born May 11, 1879 – to be baptized in church. I was allowed to accompany her, and thus witness the baptism of little Bertha. Tante Brigitte, my father’s youngest sister, acted as godmother. Another recollection: I saw a big pile of green twigs on Grandpa’s threshing floor, and around it many women busy tying wreaths and garlands. For that? Under the advice and direction of my father, Conrad Kress, the people had decided to erect an arch, decorated with green, leafy garlands, and a sign, "Wilkommen. "I remember the people gathered to the spot where this arch was spanned across the road close to the village. I was allowed to accompany my parents and the three Tanten: Victoria, Maria, Brigitte. And what did I see? The people stood waiting in respectful anticipation; the men with cap in hand. And then a horse-drawn coach halted under the arch. A shout of "Wilkommen" arose.

A tall man in black arose, spoke some words, then lifted his hand to bless the crowd, now on its knees. Their beloved pastor had returned from his term of imprisonment of four weeks, sentenced upon him by the Bismarck regime under the infamous laws known as the "May Laws. "And for what evil act? It had been reported to the government that this priest had admonished his flock from the pulpit, previous to an election, "beware of those who go about in sheep’s clothes but at heart are howling wolves," etc. For this text, he was imprisoned.

Of course, I was too young to understand the significance of this event. But in later years, when we were settled in the woods of Wisconsin, this event and many similar ones occurring in all Catholic parts of Germany, and of which our parents were informed through letters and Catholic papers, where the subject of much conversation, leaving our young hears the impression that as Catholics, we were subjects of persecution. No, not here in America, we added to the thought.

The village of Michelsrombach, in spite of its venerable Christian past, had its Judas, the keeper if the tavern on the hill, who posed as a liberal, and he had a few followers supporting him.

Now let me tell you what I know of Conrad Kress, my father. He was the oldest of seven children, and had one brother and five sisters. These seven are recorded in the parish books as follows: Konrad, Urban, Januaria, Afra, Victoria, Maria, Brigitta.

Konrad was born January 13, 1843. His father was Johannes Kress and his mother, Maria Elizabeth Becker. They were married on August 24, 1841. Of Konrad’s grandfather, I will speak later.

At the age of 15, Konrad Kress left his home to live with an uncle on his mother’s side, who had settled down as a blacksmith in the industrial section of Westfalen. There, Konrad Kress learned his trade of blacksmith.

At the age of 21, he was drafted into the army of the Prince of Hessen (Kurfurst), who was legal ruler of that part of Hessen, and whose capitol city was Kassel.

I recall that when we were sitting around a smudge fire, before our log house in Wisconsin, to drive off the mosquitoes, he related to us how his father had accompanied him on his march to Kassel to military headquarters. Konrad said they might have boarded a train at a brand-new railroad station a few miles from Kassel, but they did not, for his father distrusted that entirely new invention, and preferred to reach Kassel on foot – about four to five hours steady marching. Later, Germany built a most-perfect system of railroads.

Konrad Kress, upon reaching Kassel, because of his unusual height, was assigned to a regiment made up of the tallest men the prince could find among his subjects. They were cavalry men with long saber (ensheathed), white uniform trimmed with red, brass buttons, brass cuirass over breast, helmet with symbols and feather tassel. When the prince later gave up his rights, under pressure of war in 1886, to the King of Prussia to avoid slaughter, these gala uniforms were disposed of. Konrad Kress brought two home to his native village. I recall seeing all the above-mentioned trimmings; yes, even more, the two uniforms were later packed into the trunk that we took along to Wisconsin. Our mother ripped them and from the stout cloth made clothing for the boys. They proved a God-send in the bitter cold winters of 1882-84.

And so Konrad Kress was transferred from Kassel to Berlin as a consequence of the war of 1886 (sic). There, he had to serve until his three years’ training were full. In later years, in Wisconsin, he often spoke of it – that shifting his allegiance to Prussia did not come hard to young men. They were treated well by their new masters. In fact, his Hessian cavalry regiment became the bodyguard (Guarde du Corps) of His Majesty the King of Prussia. Twice a week, they were ordered on gala parade before the King’s palace, Under den Linden, in their flashing uniforms and on their spirited horses – an equestrian show for the public.

Father claimed that the horses knew more about the music than the rider. His own steed would change the motion of its feet to the tune of the band music.

His military duty done, he went back to Westfalen to his own trade, that of blacksmith in the great iron works there. Let me add that he did not learn to shoe horses or perform similar country jobs. His was all the heavy work of railroads and steamships.

Now I will relate what I know of the family of our mother. Her maiden name was Maria Eva Moeller (Möller). Born December 26, 1841, in Wehrda, a Lutheran village about three hours’ walk from Michelsrombach. She had one brother, Karl, and two sisters, Carline and Catherine.

Karl followed the trade of his father, Adam Möller. Katharine died early. Carline married a railroad guard, Zeno Metzung, and lived near a tunnel where he was a switchman. I recall that on our return trip to Westfalen from Hessen in 1880, we stayed overnight at Tante Carline’s house. The next night, Zeno Metzung, with a lantern, led us through the tunnel to a station, where we boarded the train for Ruhrart and the industrial center in Westfalen.

Tante Caroline had three sons and two daughters. One son, Benedict Metzung is 82 years old at the time of this writing. Still alive, he was a railroad conductor for 50 years. He draws a pension on that service and free living quarters. A daughter, Elsa, cares for him. I am still corresponding with both (in 1953).

The other son, Carl, died three years ago [approx 1950], also 80 years old. The third son, Heinrich, was killed by bombs on the city of Köln (Cologne). One daughter, Anna, is a widow who lives on Fulda. I sent her a letter in September (1953).

The other daughter, Maria, joined the Holy Cross order, whose motherhouse is Ingenbohl, Switzerland. She became the saint of the family. I was in correspondence with her until her heath in 1951. I will tell later of her life.

To return to our mother: her birthplace, Wehrda, being Lutheran, had no Catholic church or school. There was a beautiful large church build by the parish shortly before the preaching of the apostate, Luther. Mother said this church had very thick walls and both outside as well as inside bore all the characteristics of Catholic churches. But it was bleak and bare inside, the walls whitewashed, with no altar at all. In place of it, there was a table with a black cloth on it with ah gilt fringe. On this table were a bible and a crucifix. That was the strict Lutheran style at that time, which is being considerably modified in the United States.

Mother told us that her family had to go to Langenschwartz, where there was stationed a Franciscan Pater from the big convent (Frauenburg) in Fulda.

An old building, a former storing place for grain, had been turned into a chapel for the convenience of the few stray Catholics among the solid Lutheran village in this valley. So, this village, Langenschwartz, was really a mission station of the Franciscan convent at Fulda.

Any Pater sent there by his superior two offices: priest and teacher. The children of the stray Catholic families had to go to Langenschwartz for their schooling. Mother often spoke to us children of the piety of the Paters and their methods of instruction. She claimed she knew more geography and church history than her husband, but she readily admitted that he could claim better penmanship and spelling.

It is true these Franciscan Paters left a deep mark on our mother’s character. From her, we children learned about Bonifatius, his associates Lullus & Sturmius, the Donar Oak that to the heathen people of Hessen was a sacred tree dedicated to Donar, one of their gods. She told us about the annual pilgrimages, June 5, the feast of St. Boniface. Under the leadership of their priest, the congregations would carry their banners to the tomb of the saint, praying and singing hymns to God. Both our parents received the sacrament of Confirmation in the crypt chapel sheltering the tomb of St Boniface.

Next year on the fifth of June 1954, Fulda will be the scene of great festivities – the 1200^th anniversary of the death of the Apostle of Germany. A horde of Friesian heathens murdered him and his 50 companions on June 5, 754. Aside from this, Fulda will be the meeting place of an all Catholic day (Katholiken Tag), such as was held two years ago in Berlin in defiance of the communists. It is to be hoped that the Catholic schools in the United States will find there material for study.

Our mother was a friendly, sociable person. During the long winter, when we were snowed in, she tried to keep us contented by relating to us the hardships of her childhood days, the difficult march in the wintertime to the chapel in Langenschwartz (a full hour’s walk).

She also told us how Adam Moeller came to find Annelies. The mother of Annelies (our mother’s grandmother) was a widow. She supported herself and her daughter by working in the harvest fields for the better-situated farmers in their region. Aside from that, she was a vendor of the vegetable oil struck from beechnuts and grape seeds. This she bought of, or sold to the farm wives in the different hamlets. She came from a Catholic village in the hills, but preferred to offer her ware to the people of the Lutheran villages that lay on the level ground of the rich soil valley, where there were no hills to climb. Her grown daughter accompanied her at times.

And so it came about that they often came to the village Wehrda. There they met the young carpenter, Adam Moeller, who was also Catholic, the only one there. In his travels looking for work, he was offered by the village leaders to stay with them and settle there, for they sorely needed a mechanic. Their village carpenter had died of too much brandy, and seeing this sober young man, they offered to give him work. They needed such a craftsman to mend their doors, windows and cradles, and to make their coffins, last but not least.

And Adam Moeller stayed and found in the person of Annalies Sauer, the daughter of the oil vendor, a good Catholic wife. That was the beginning of the first Catholic family in Wehrda and, as I know from correspondence, the fourth generation is still the only one there.

In 1922, after World War I, I helped a 19-year-old grandson of Annalies Moeller to America. He found a home in Milwaukee.

When mother was out of school, she found employment as a house servant for a few years. Later she followed other girls who found higher wages and better living conditions in the province of Westfalen. There Conrad Kress met her and they got married on November 1, 1872 in the chapel of the Redemptorist convent in Bochum, where they settled down for a few years. They then moved back to Hessen, but stayed only one and one-half years. It is from this visit that I have my recollections of my father’s native village, Michelsrombach.

Johannes Kress of Michelsrombach, born in 1815, my grandfather, died in 1886, the fourth year of our stay in Wisconsin. I can recall his figure – a tall, lean man, clad in the style of George Washington (three-cornered hat, breeches and all that, buckle shoes and long stocking, a row of shiny big buttons on his vest). This outfit was his well-preserved wedding suit, which he donned when getting ready for Sunday mass. He was one of a few old men in the village who would not change to the modern form of male apparel.

His wife, whose maiden name was Maria Elizabeth Becker, born March 7, 1819, was a native of the village (of Michelsrombach). She died of a heart stroke in 1872. I will relate the touching circumstances of her death. One Sunday morning, after a week of slight illness, she was compelled to stay away from mass and remain home while the others of the family went to church; only her youngest daughter (Brigitte), aged 11, stayed with her.

It was the custom in Catholic villages for those at home to watch for the signal of the bell in the church tower, announcing the moment of the consecration. Then they will kneel in adoration of Christ in the church.

And so this good woman and her daughter knelt against the bench before the window that faced the church, in pious adoration, remaining so for a little while.

Brigitte arose from her knees, but her mother did not. Her head had fallen on her folded hands, resting on the bench. She was dead.

My father, when later relating this sad event to us children, always showed his sorrow.

It was a great shock to the family. They found consolation in the fact that she had been to Holy Communion the Sunday before. And the pastor, knowing her pious soul, had for his sermon at the grave the text, "Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints. "

Of Tante Anna Januaria, the oldest of the five Kress sisters (and sister to my father) in Michelsrombach, I can relate this: she joined a group of emigrants bound for Texas, where they intended to join another group of Hessian people, including several cousins, children of Sebastian Kress, the only brother of Johannes Kress. These migrations were absolutely necessary. There was not enough food in their native land to keep them alive. This sister (Januaria), was in correspondence with my father, Konrad Kress. She described the hard life for these Germans there, the killing work in the cotton fields and the annual attack of malaria. But because my father described to her the hardships of the woods of Wisconsin, she offered to help him bring his family out of the cold Wisconsin to sunny Texas. My father answered, "no, I will stay here. If I have to work with grub hoe, I can do that here in a healthful climate. "

Thank God for this sensible resolution. This Tante among a group of relatives, all emigrants from Hessen. Her address was Seguin. She must have died in the 1880s, for no more letters came from her.

We know the name, Kress, is very common around San Antonio and Seguin. They must be descendants of Sebastian Kress, the only brother of my grandfather Johannes. This uncle of my father had six sons "all big fellows like myself," our father would add when he related of life in his homeland.

Let me now relate what I know of Uncle Urban Kress, my father’s only brother. He, too, left his home village and found employment in the great iron industry in Westfalen. He, too, after his military career got married in the same city and same church as my parents, having found a young lady for his wife, who hailed from Fulda, Hessen.

Urban later moved his family to his wife’s native town where they came in closer contact with the relatives in his old home. He did not reach a high old age, but died in 1907.

Uncle Urban had two sons and several daughters. The oldest son, Joseph, was killed in 1914. The other survived the war. With him, Ferdinand Kress, we were in constant correspondence from 1914 to the time of his death in 1949. To him and his large family, we sent uncounted relief packages during that time; that is, during the time that mail could be sent to Germany. Ferdinand had learned the trade of printer, starting as an apprentice in the Catholic Printing and Publishing House and working there all his life, over 50 years. He died in 1950 [?].

Shortly before the collapse of the Hitler regime, while the powers in Washington were waiting for "unconditional surrender," one more attack by a row of airplane bombers struck the city of Fulda, pouring death and destruction on civilian streets. That was in April 1945.

Ferdinand’s home was struck. It killed his 18-year-old daughter, Maria. He himself was in the printing shop when the alarm came, his sick wife was in the hospital. He wrote in his letter that he worked 14 days with pick and shovel before they reached her crushed body in the ruins. They identified her by her shoes.

Comes the thought: of what good was this bombing of civilian homes to the glory of the Allies – to Uncle Sam? And now we here in America have reason to fear bombs thrown by our worthy allied. Oh the irrevocable law of retribution!

Ferdinand Kress of Fulda, Hessen, had a sister, Christine (my first cousin). She found employment in England, got married there to an Austrian, Gustave Riedel. When WW1 broke out, her husband was put in a prison camp on the Isle of Man. She and her children were sent to German in exchange for British prisoners.

They began correspondence with us here in Medford. We helped them get across by signing affidavits of support and advancing the money for ocean passage. They arrived between 1922 and 1926. And they are all at home in Milwaukee, where they all found employment. The mother of the family Riedel, who was Christine Kress, died last spring (1953). Her husband died years before. The family paid us back all the money advanced by us. This I say to their honor.

Tante Brigitte, my fathers youngest sister, died like her mother of a heart stroke after she was married, leaving two children.

Tante Maria marred a farmer, F. Hohmann, of Michelsrombach. Her youngest son lives in Bochum, Westfalen. From him I received many highly interesting letters and data which I used in this writing.

I have told much of grandfather Johannes and his seven children. They have long been gathered in eternity. Now let me reach a generation further into the past and relate what was known to my parents about Peter Kress, the father of Johannes Kress. Peter was not a native of Hessen, but an immigrant from Bavaria – or in reality a political fugitive from there. The boundary between Hessen and Bayern is a crooked line of hills and brooks.

History books report that from about 1800 to the fall of Napoleon, all Germany was under the heel of Napoleon. The people chafed under this foreign government. A rash of uprising and minor rebellions against the tyranny of the French army supporting Napoleon, crushing them with heavy taxes and contributions of men, took place in both middle and north Germany. All these uprisings were cruelly put down by the usurper Napoleon.

In one of these uprisings, Peter Kress took part and, because of defeat, his party was severely, yes cruelly, punished. Many fled for their lives, crossing into the hilly parts of Hessen.

History books tell us of the cruel treatment the victor Napoleon dealt out to the captives. The leaders of such uprisings against the French were branded on the arm with a hot iron, leaving the letters T. F. (traveaux forces), which labeled them as galley-slaves for France, a cruel fate.

And so Peter Kress had to flee from his home region in Bayern, seeking safety in the hilly parts of Hessen.

From Tante Victoria, who seems to have been the chronicler of the family, my parents learned the circumstances of his life. At the age of 26, he marred a young lady in Marbach near Fulda, and found it wise to settle in the obscure village Michelsrombach. There he bought a plot of land at the edge of the village and built the house which still exists there.

He was the first Kress in that village, according to records in the Church. He had two sons, Sebastian and Johannes. The latter inherited the little farm. Sebastian found a home in a neighboring village. He is that uncle of whom I heard my father say, "he had six sons, all big fellows like myself. "

Tante Victoria said also that Peter Kress was not content in this lonely village, which did happen often in those days. Of course, with the fall of Napoleon all danger passed. Aside from the fact Peter Kress was a fugitive from adjoining Bavaria and that the French victors considered him dangerous to their victories as a leader, nothing was known.

Later when Konrad Kress was in the Hessian army in Kassel, some light was thrown on the family descent of his grandfather. As I said before, Konrad Kress was drafted into the Hessian arms and assigned to a cavalry regiment of the tallest men the Prince could find. He knew little of his grandfather who died in 1843 [in parenthesis, 1821]. What we did know is what his father and the family as a whole had down in their memories and told by the village people and the records of the parish church.

While in Kassel, he applied to his Lieutenant S for the job of Bursche, that is, the personal servant of his lieutenant. During his free hours, it was his task to wait on his master, get meals from the Kaserne to his rooms, keep his house in trim and occasionally wait on visitors.

And so it happened that Lieutenant S had two army officers from Bavaria come to visit him in his quarters. The host, Lt. S. , ordered his Bursche to bring in some refreshments. When Konrad came in loaded with wine flasks and goblets, the two visitors stared at him in surprise. They asked him his name. He answered, Konrad Kress. Upon hearing it, they showed more surprise. Then came the question, are you related to Lieutenant Von Kress in Bayern? You resemble him so much. Are you related?

Konrad Kress answered, not that I know of. I only know that my grandfather came from Bayern, a political refugee. He died in 1821 and I did not know him.

Later Lieutenant S informed his Bursche that his grandfather was a member of a noted family, Kress Von Kressenstein, of Bavaria noted for its military spirit. That the two friends, lieutenants from Bayern, upon investigating in their Bavarian circles, had found it to be a fact.

As I said before, Konrad Kress had learned in his youth the trade of blacksmith and found employment in the great iron works of Westfalen and the Rheinland. His work there was all on heavy pieces for railroads and ocean liner – much of it for export to Africa needed by the Boers in defense against the British. Since years, he had been contemplating to cross the Atlantic in search for a promising place to settle in a new home. His father, after the death of his wife, kept urging him (his eldest son) to come back to Michelsrombach and take over the little farm. Twice, Konrad Kress took his family there, but upon seeing the ever-decreasing fertility of his father’s hilly acres he realized that it would be a hard struggle to make a living. Because his brother, Urban, in Fulda could not take it either, he advised his sister, Victoria, to take it. She did, got married to Sturnius Moeller and raised a large family, but often by scant living.

Our mother, later when [in the] U. S. , used to tell us children what a hard life would have been our lot had we stayed in Michelsrombach. Some years later letters came to my father telling him that since the government supplied them with Kali (a kind of lime), they had a good harvest. The Prussian government was progressive in agriculture, forestry and soil preservation. The Hessian government was not, as I said, before it abdicated to Prussia in 1886. Father Konrad Kress, with his wife and three children (Anna, Joseph and Bertha), said goodbye to his old Hessian home and returned to the banks of the Rhine.

At that time, much propaganda literature was being distributed by the Wisconsin State Board of Immigration – newspapers, booklets, pamphlets, all in German, describing the healthful climate, fertile soil, magnificent forests and last but not least, the pure water of central and northern Wisconsin. Not only that, but the friendly invitation to the German laborers in the factories of the Rheinland to come and settle there, promising them liberty and protection, inviting them to become citizens of the U. S. and owners of land.

My father was not interested in politics. He saw that Europe was over populated. Besides, he had a great love of Nature. During summertime, he would rise early, turn his back on the smoky city and walk miles to come convent chapel for early mass, then tramp into some patch of woodland, and there enjoy Nature, no doubt dreaming of the future home in Wisconsin. Upon his return, he would tell us of the nightingales, finches and larks he heard singing, and the carrier pigeons he saw in the air.

I will mention it here that he belonged to a club of carrier pigeon breeders. He had a flock in the house we lived in, and took part with some of his birds in organized contests – flying races – to find out the best birds in the flock. Some special birds would be taken to some distant city, let fly there at a given hour. The owner would watch at the door of his dovecote, catch the bird on its return and hasten with it to headquarters for registration and possibly a prize. It is claimed that such birds come back from hundreds of miles, over sea and mountains. This sport was my father’s hobby. He took a pair along to America. I will say more about it later.

It was middle of August 1882. I recall the commotion of getting ready for America. Our father did not go to the factory, but was busy repairing two trunks, putting iron bands on them for strength. We children watched him printing on them his name, Bremen, North German Lloyd, Baltimore, Milwaukee.

People came to buy our furniture, or to say farewell and Gluckliche Reise. A man with a cart took the trunks and satchels to the railroad station. We followed afoot the next day and boarded the passenger train to take us north to the great seaport, Bremen. My mother wept. She carried the 1-1/2 year old baby, Benedict. Father carried three-year-old Bertha. Joseph and I each had some burden. Joseph had his school bag strapped to his back, and I carried the wooden box in which two pigeons were confined. The box had a wire cover on the top, and a strap around as a handle; it was not heavy. The dear birds evidently somewhat used to much shipping, did not make much fuss. I was declared responsible for the safety of the birds. It was a dreary ride – long stretches of level ground covered with heather, not even scrub brush. Later years, we heard from travelers that the government had succeeded in turning this wasteland into a fine forest of Tannen (pines) by having millions of carloads of soil from the hills mixed with the peat soil there.

When we arrived at seaport Bremen, we were taken by horse streetcar to a hotel. Our father expected we would board the ship, Cimbria, the next day. Alas, this ship was gone! It had just left that morning. We had to wait in that hotel three or four days for the next ship.

That delay cost our parents much, and yet as we saw later, it was a blessing. We boarded the sister ship of Cimbria, the America. It brought us safely to our port, Baltimore. The Cimbria did not reach it. In the list of the ships lost at sea, you can find recorded, "Cimbria, September 1882. " Not a soul was saved to tell what caused the disaster.

I don’t remember anything pleasant about our trip across the ocean. It was a very stormy one and lasted 16 days. Everything was rough and tough on board steamers then, over 80 years ago. Everybody was sick – that is the lasting impression I have.

In later years, we forgot the evils on the ship, called it a good ship, and thanked God for selecting it to carry us to America. When the news of the tragic end of the Cimbria spread to America, our relatives and friends counted us, the Kress family, as lost. They said prayers for the repose of our souls.

We reached Baltimore on [September 7, 1882] the 16^th day of our departure. After our trunks had been searched through by the Revenue Officers, we were herded to the Emigrant train close by, where we boarded a dirty coach with seats make of perforated tin. If the sea voyage had been full of hardships, this land trip was more so. We were poorly provided with food, and could obtain nothing but apples and oranges at exorbitant price.

Three days after leaving Baltimore, we arrived at Milwaukee. Again we, with many other immigrants, were herded to some hotel. There, a land agent persuaded our father to look for a good piece of forest land in Taylor county.

Again we boarded a train of the Wisconsin Central and got off at Dorchester, where seven miles east a family (Rohlmann) lived, who were old acquaintances and with whom father had corresponded. These seven miles on a lumber wagon without springs I cannot forget. The roads in those days were only makeshifts. Our father was very much disappointed with what he say. While mother and we children stayed with this family for two weeks. He looked for a place to settle on. The land agent again took him to places for sale. He was hard to please, for his eye was not so much on timberlands as on the nature of the soil, avoiding the kind on his father’s farm.

The agent finally said to him: "Now, I have one more place for you. " Then he led him to an 80 acre lot touched by the Black River, 4-1/2 miles west from the Medford Railroad station. On it was a new log home and a second log hut, which had been the first shelter on the place, while the owner, a Norwegian, was building the other house. Around these primitive log structures was a clearing of about three acres.

Our good mother had been praying while father was away looking for a suitable piece of hand, that God would lead him to a place where a sheltering log cabin would be found. Here it was; their prayers had been granted.

This 80 acre lot, which the Norwegian owner had first settled, was sold to Konrad Kress for 600 cash. The land agent claimed $150 of this sum. The location of the new place was desirable from several points of view: it was but 4-1/2 to 5 miles from the Medford Railroad station and only a few yards from the adjacent Norwegian settlement, where there was a little log schoolhouse. The Black River, then an important stream on account of the floating of logs down to the Mississippi, could be seen close by, and a new road had been dug, hewn in two directions.

When our father, upon joining us in the shanty near Dorchester, described to us what he had at last found, our joy knew no bounds. Early next morning, we again climbed that lumber wagon to take us back to the RR Station Dorchester, from which the Wisconsin Central took us to Medford. There, while mother and children had coffee and bread, father met the proper officer to take out his first citizen papers. (Six years later, he took out his second. ) Then came another ride on a lumber wagon on the road west from town, at present known as highway 64. At that time, it was cut only 2-1/2 miles. That was as far as the driver could take us. He had a log house and a barn there where the road ended. He offered us hospitality for the night, which we were glad to accept, and so that night we slept on the hay in this log barn, covered with bedding pulled from the two trunks.

That night was September 28-29 in the year 1882. The night was cold, a white frost on our baggage in the yard, still on the wagon. Then came something new. A new team, big-horned oxen, drawing a sled-like contrivance known as a jumper. No wheels, just two runners with poles and planks across. On it our effects – trunks, a cook stove, some iron and tin utensils, stove pipes and a barrel of provisions, were loaded. It was a precious load in our opinion, for all our belongings were on it. The driver, a friendly man, turned his oxen toward south into the woods following an ox track indicated by blazes on trees. Soon we entered the true primeval forest in all its untouched beauty and the glory of autumn.

Slowly, the ponderous oxen dragged the squeaking jumper over the narrow winding road while we followed afoot. The woods became darker, solitude reigned, interrupted only by hammering of a read-headed woodpecker and the monotonous "gee, whoa" of the driver. The sun was low when our father declared that we had reached "our own soil. " He called our attention to the towering elms and birches. I recall how we rested awhile as he discussed with the driver the fertile nature of the soil as it was exposed to sight by a windfall – a loamy layer between humus and sandy undersoil.

Soon we came within sight of the little clearing with the log house that was to be our home. Before the jumper reached the door of the cabin, it broke down. It became necessary to carry the load by pieces into the cabin. On a quickly made litter, the two men carried everything to the house, set up the cookstove with the pipes out the roof. I recall that mother made potato soup in the dishpan for want of a clean kettle. All utensils were of tin or iron, the latter very rusty.

Oh the poverty of those days! Upon unpacking the trunk, mother found but two coffee cups, one china plate and a small milk pitcher and one glass unbroken. Luckily we had a few tin cups and bowls from the ship, everything of the poorest kind and meant to be thrown into the sea upon arrival at the port. Our condition was not worse than that of the other new settlers that surrounded us. Some had even less. Compare this with the outfit the great-granddaughters of these first settlers require, yes demand, when they start housekeeping. Cups, plates, pails, cast iron stove of the poorest inefficiency.

And picture us: it was the end of September 1882. We had not supplies of food for the winter. Everything had to be bought somewhere by the great influx of new settlers at a high price, for the demand caused by them was greater than the supply. Our father carried flour, lard and peas on his back from town, and bought potatoes, turnips rutabagas from the Norwegians south of us, who were 5-7 years ahead of us, and did harvest these products in plenty on the newly cleared land of rich virgin soil.

He did what he could in preparation for the long bitter winter, filled cracks between the logs on the four walls of the cabin, and laid a double ceiling to keep the cold out. Then the big crosscut saw was set into play, father at one end and mother at the other, cutting firewood for the stove; [he] made an agreement with neighbors to supply us with more firewood as needed.

Then he decided to try getting employment in some railroad ship in the southern part of the state. He took the train to Stevens Point, where in a boarding house, he was told a blacksmith was wanted in a R. R. shop in Fort Howard, near Green Bay. He went there and found what he wanted – God’s providence.

He came back in March to his family and labored clearing land for a potato field. In the fall, he again went to Fort Howard upon their call. This was his program for six years – work on the farm during summer, blacksmith in winter. That was better for his family and him than working in a logging camp, because of the much better pay.

…

The Cimbria was built by Caird & Co, Greenock, Scotland for the Hamburg America Line in 1867. She was a 3,037 gross ton ship, length 339. 9ft x beam 40ft, one funnel, two masts (rigged for sail), iron construction, single screw and a speed of 12 knots. There was accommodation for 58-1st, 120-2nd and 500-3rd class passengers.

The Norddeutscher Lloyd steamship Amerika, was also built by Caird & Co, although earlier and for another line. Launched in November 1862. 2,752 tons; 96,92 x 12,19 meters (318 x 40 feet, length x beam); clipper bow, 1 funnel, 3 masts; iron construction, screw propulsion, service speed 11 knots; passenger accommodation: 76 1st-, 107 2nd-, and 480 steerage-class. 25 May 1863, maiden voyage, Bremen-Southampton-New York. 1871, engines compounded by Day, Summers & Co, Southampton. 27 January 1894, last voyage, Bremen-New York-Baltimore. 1894, sold to an Italian company and renamed ORAZIO. 1895, scrapped at Spezia [Noel Reginald Pixell Bonsor, North Atlantic Seaway; An Illustrated History of the Passenger Services Linking the Old World with the New (2nd ed. ; Jersey, Channel Islands: Brookside Publications), vol. 2 (1978), p. 545. Pictured in Michael J. Anuta, Ships of Our Ancestors (Menominee, MI: Ships of Our Ancestors, 1983), p. 6, courtesy of the Peabody Essex Museum, East India Square, Salem, MA 01970. For additional information on the AMERICA, including pictures, see the following: 1. Arnold Kludas, Die Seeschiffe des Norddeutschen Lloyd, Bd. 1: 1857 bis 1919 (Herford: Koehler, c1991). 2. Edwin Drechsel, Norddeutscher Lloyd Bremen, 1857-1970; History, Fleet, Ship Mails (2 vols. ; Vancouver: Cordillera Pub. Co. , c1994-c1995).