Ruby Robieson Bennett - Lowry Tales #7

Chautauqua & Circus in Town

In spite of the fact that our town was very small, we occasionally had a Chautauqua, which was a gathering in a large tent and everyone in town came.

I remember sitting on a plank-like seat and watching the eager crowd watching a fast speaker sell his bottles of “cure-all” liquid. Seems like a lot of sales included taffy wrapped kisses instead of prizes we expected. Many people spent money and gained very little to show for it. I can remember telling Dad how disappointed I was in people doing this. He’d smile and tell me, “Yes, people are like that.”

Circus in Town! Yes, it really happened! I know for certain, because my brother Jim was in his glory and kept a path beaten down from home to where the circus chose to unpack.  It was a small outfit, I don’t remember for sure, but don’t think it was the genuine three-ring type. As pocket money was always scarce, I do not think any of our family attended. But we all watched the parade as the animals marched into town.

Brother Jim instantly offered his services to help out, so was a water boy and really had a workout keeping elephants well supplied. We never heard the last of how many pails he needed to carry! But he was so very thrilled just being there and it must have been one of the highlights of his life.  This was a rare event happening in our small town, and we all responded in some way or another.

The Skating Rink

The area behind our house and across the alley had been a gift to the city from a former Lowry doctor’s wife (Mrs. Ann Gibbon).  It was for many years flooded in the winter by the Lowry Fire Department to make a skating rink.  This was an excellent winter attraction for all of the town’s children. Sometimes it took several floodings to complete a good solid skating area. Often a windy, snowy night would cause a rippley surface and reflooding would be needed.

Oh, how I loved to skate on that rink. I’d skate until my legs turned blue, and remember well a small pair of black skates I wore, until they were much too small.

Living in Lowry almost all of our lives, plus raising our children there, I was overjoyed to be able to watch our own children enjoy the skating rink as they grew up. Being just a few steps from our yard, the girls would lace up their skates in the kitchen and walk over to skate until the floodlights were turned off at night.

Even in our later years, we enjoyed watching the town children skate. Some would even stop and knock at our door, asking for a drink of water (since we were one of the closest and approachable homes near the rink.) 

We were thankful to have shared for so many years in this thoughtful gift to the children of Lowry.

Ruby Robieson Bennett
2001

Thompson’s Hill

Knowing full well this report will all be strange sentences to all but my immediate family, keep reading on. It contains a precious memory to those of us who were there.

Long ago, before Highway 55 was built through Lowry, our road out of town – to Glenwood and all stations east and south – was south bound out of Lowry and eastward, to the best of my knowledge was in time called Old 55.

It still exists as a gravel road over the same area, used every day by farmers whose land is adjacent and runs for miles without too many curves or turns.

About three and a half miles east of Lowry it slopes up a little hill, (trimmed down some in recent years – but still is a prominence), which is clearly visible to the naked eye from here especially on clear days.  It is this curving, grand comma going up the hill that attracts me. This is Thompson’s Hill! Unsung and unheralded – but an important little scene in my history.

Looking at it daily on my walk-jaunts about our town, I stop at a certain spot on the corner of Maple and Bryce Avenues to send my thoughts up that way.  Here I can see and hear Dad driving our Oakland down the hill approaching Lowry. We are coming home from some errand in Glenwood perhaps having spent a Sunday in the City Park, which we often did. We are all there – except brother Jim who usually had his own schedule. Everyone’s laughing and talking all at once – Ken, Clarence, Francis, and Ruby. How Dad can concentrate on steering is something else – Mom is trying to quell the disturbance. Ken probably has been sticking his head out too far and has already lost his cap! Ruby is probably teasing the boys and creating more fuss than anybody. She was oldest and most often the ringleader when it came to nonsense and mischief!

I stand there on my walk and think about all of this, amused, truly carried back, actually making a family visit briefly and come away refreshed and renewed again. As I laugh a little, I’m delighted I, at least, am a Lowry resident and out of this whole noisy group I can every day look out there to the small gravelly comma and instantly be transported back over 70 years. Some feat!

One day Bob drove me out there, just to measure the mileage, just to see it close up, just to glimpse the beautiful view of Lowry from that vantage point. We enjoyed it.

So, on your next visit to Lowry, don’t forget to visit Thompson’s Hill and refresh your memories. Our school bus drove that route the first year I rode to high school (1931) and it would probably have lots of stories it could relate about this, as well.

P.S. Important to insert a note about Dad’s Oakland. Well, to me that car was as long, as huge, and as commanding as any modern day limo! When I view the snapshots of it in reality, I’m amazed at what shrinkage has ensued. But time does take its toll!!!

Ruby Robieson Bennett
October 18, 1994

Ruby Robieson Bennett - LowryTales #6

Memories of Lowry School

April 24, 1994

Many years have passed since I was enrolled in Lowry Public Schools, now in my 80^th year, I shall try to recall accurately.

I entered fourth grade when we moved to Lowry and Mildred Distad was my teacher. She also taught a class in Ballet Dancing, in which class I was also a student. Years were 1923-24.

1925-26 entering 5^th grade meant moving upstairs to the south room where our teacher was a chubby Mrs. Murphy. Her big achievement was assigning many selections of poetry for our memorization. We learned so many and I can still recite a portion of many of them.

My classmates in these grades were Ethel Lidstrom, Florence Engebretson, Christine Shermak, Robert Shermak, and Frank Chermak. Sixth grade we had the same room and same teacher.   And much more poetry became real to us by memorization.

Years 1927-28 were 7^th and 8^th grades when Miss Signe Erdahl (later she became Mrs. Harold Eastlund) was our teacher. She was much firmer with us, insisting we stood straight and sat up tall. We grew to appreciate the special interest she showed in her students.

I think her chief delight was announcing:  “Today we are going to have penmanship class!” Out came the Palmer Method books, our pens and ink. Down the rows of desks the proper sheets of ink paper were passed out, and we began the rhythm of “push pulls” and the “ovals.”  How we hated these exercises!  Big sighs were heard all around the room as our attempts toward at least a passing likeness was achieved. Bigger sighs of relief when we were through. A few of us were awarded a huge “Palmer Method Certificate of Achievement” for our work, suitable for framing. I was lucky enough to find one with my name on it, of which I am truly proud!

Mrs. Erdahl taught music and many students excelled in this field. She also stressed extra library reading, with awards for handed in lists of completed readings. She presented such an interesting study of South America that we actually felt we were visiting this country, and wished we could.  Without a doubt she was the teacher that affected me more than any other. She never showed partiality, could be smiling, warm, and friendly. She was always proper and quick to correct our mistakes, so we could adjust our ways.

1928-29 our 8^th grade graduation exercises meant an evening service at Lowry Town Hall, an annual event. (May 31, 1928).

Following this we were back at Lowry School for our 9^th and 10^th years (I and II of High School). Our teacher was Miss Haugen, and the Superintendent was a Mr. Selmer Braaten. Class members remained as in previous grades. Year I we took English I, Latin I, algebra and general science. Year II we took English II, Latin II, geometry and social science.

One class began right after the noon hour and our class went to a basement classroom for this. I believe it was our English class. On very nice days our steps led us out on the square cement outside the door, just big enough for us to stand awhile, waste time, enjoy the beautiful day, and vex our teacher sorely.  This happened time and time again, to our delight.  It lasted only a very few minutes, but certainly was a long, long way from our class subject interest.

After enduring our second year in Lowry’s High School a new “era” began. Busses were bought in to transfer us to Glenwood High School and these classes were phased out in Lowry. We graduated, then, from Glenwood High School in 1932. Exercises for our graduation were held in the McCauley Opera House – known as “The Theater.”

The Robieson family (8 out of 9 graduated) made up the largest family for many, many years at Lowry School. Our years there included 1923-1944.

Ruby Robieson Bennett
1994

Ruby Robieson Bennett - Lowry Tales #5

This story happened in Dooley, Montana – but the central character is James A. Robieson who was station agent in Lowry and it was written by Ruby and appeared in the Pope County Tribune.

Railroad Station Agent Heard It First

December 1, 1983

Pope County Tribune, Glenwood, MN

First Word of 1918 Armistice big news in Montana!

(Editor’s Note: In today’s world of instant communication from anywhere in the world via radio and television, most people don’t realize that as recently as 65 years ago, getting word of a major event in the “hinterlands” was quite a feat. Ruby (Mrs. Bob) Bennett of Lowry relates here how the World War 1 Armistice was relayed to a small town in Montana where her father was the depot agent.)

This account of the WW I Armistice was brought to my attention recently by a very old friend dating back to my “Montana days.” She had been my “baby sitter,” our “hired girl,” who became a schoolteacher and, now 79 years of age, is living in retirement in California.  She took part in this electrifying occasion and even this many years hence she pours spirit into the story.

The year was 1918 and the month and date Nov. 11. The hour was 10 p.m. The scene a little town named Dooley, in northeast Montana, near the county seat of Plentywood, still on the map.

The hero of the story is my father, the late James A. Robieson of Lowry, station agent in that little prairie town.  Dad excelled in telegraphy; his keen ear was ever alert to the “wire,” even when off duty. Living upstairs over his office, he’d often listen in on off-hours, and would routinely check before bedtime, especially during those war-weary times, such as we endure now.

There were no radios, nor TVs, in those days, so the “wire” was the main source of late-breaking news, Dad’s alone to hear and to convey to all people in his area. Thus it was he caught the message at 10 p.m. on that famous historical date: The Armistice has been signed at 11 a.m. European time, and the war is over!

Hastily he summoned the “dray man” and the horse-drawn “dray,” then additional helpers moved the fire bell from its original position onto the dray; from there they went up and down the town streets clanging away, waking the sleeping town, shouting: “The war is over!”

As people awakened, they realized the fire bell noise was not coming from atop the jail on the east side of Main Street. As it came nearer and nearer, they saw lots of people following the dray, banging on tin pans, wash boards – anything that would make noise. All were yelling, “The war has ended!”

People hastily dressed to join the crowd, learning the “why”, then also shouting the earth-shaking news.  They followed the bell up one street and down the other, round and round the town; repeatedly traversing the few, small streets, as excitement was boundless.

At last the whole town from old folks to babies, assembled by the pond between the drug store and railroad tracks, where kids skated and rowed boats in proper season.  Somebody commandeered a few grain doors from the railroad and build up a huge bon fire in the ring of stones on the pond shore. Forgetting rationing, the village merchants raided their own store shelves, supplying bread, buns, wieners, catsup, mustard and some butter. They even cooked up a “boiler full of coffee.” The whole town had a real picnic to celebrate.

Then began the impromptu patriotic program: prayers, singing countless war songs, hymns, and much reciting of poetry. Those days, school children memorized lots of poetry.  My friend recalls her recitation: “The American Flag” by Joseph Rodman Drake. Due to its lengthy patriotic description I shall reward you by sharing it in part:

When Freedom from her mountain height

Unfurled her standard to the air.

She tore the azure robes of night

And set the stars of glory there.

Then there was “Paul Revere’s Ride”, “Liberty Bell” and so many more. Night was far gone, only the younger, the smaller had gone home; some never moved from the scene of the joyous outburst all night long. However, it came time to get back to the work-a-day world, so weary villagers proceeded to their duties. Two schoolteachers directed the school children to the schoolhouse, all in no condition to study.

They did manage to get through arithmetic and spelling before recess time came. The two teachers and pupils then all lay their heads down on their desks, forgetting to wake up until long after noon. Even the janitor slept on the hall floor!

Ruby Robieson Bennett
1983

Ruby Robieson Bennett - Lowry Tales #4

My Most Colorful Character

He was a young man, perhaps twenty-three when we first met him.  His job was Night Operator at the railway depot, which was soon to become our home.  We’d reside upstairs in living rooms for that purpose.

Each evening around 5:00 Howard would report on duty to sweep the depot office and waiting room floors, clean out ashes from two coal burning heating stoves, then stoke the fires for the long night during the cold months of the year.  When the night passenger trains stopped at the station he had many jobs:  load on cream cans; take off empty ones; help passengers find their baggage; make certain they had lodging; take the mail bags to the local Post Office; plus keeping the station neat and clean on his shift.

Lowry Hotel in background

One early September morning in 1923, the train stopped at the station where our family ended the long trip from Montana.  We stepped onto the platform to begin our life in Minnesota.  Our first meeting with Howard came as we stepped off that night train, weary from two days and nearly two nights on the train.  Howard took us on the short walk uptown to the hotel where we spent the remainder of the night.  Certainly we were pleased with his gracious manner, and the suggestions he made to Dad as they made small talk enroute to our rooms.

At first we children were delighted that we had, as a playroom, the spacious waiting room with wood benches all around three sides for the waiting passengers.  The large coal burning stove stood somewhere near the center.  What fun to chase each other all around it, until we became quite dizzy with so much circular motion.  Then there were races across the room – and on and on went our fun.

Our family was poor, we had no quiet games to sit and play.  Whatever games we did have came out of our imagination, or ones we’d played with our friends back in Montana.  No TV to sit and watch quietly.  Mother was busy upstairs with the arrival of our new baby sister.  So she was glad we’d found a near-by place to wear off our youthful energy.  But we were to have a sudden change in all our play area plans; in fact our entire lives were going to become more regimented because of Howard.

His very dignified and stern manner gave us to know he took his job seriously.  He looked perversely at the noisy, unruly, much too playful kids from Montana who were about to receive these new orders.  “When I come down to work, you are not to enter into the office, nor are you to play in the waiting room at all.  You are to keep the platform clear of any tools, twigs or branches, baseballs or bats, or such so they’ll not be a hazard at night for train passengers.”  The list went on and on.  We felt policed at every step.  He appeared ready to pounce upon us one by one and drop us off somewhere far away.  To say he frightened us severely wouldn’t scratch the surface.

Why the office had the only pencil sharpener in the whole building!  If we did play out in back of the depot, which was really our yard, he’d soon find fault with that at some point.  Our parents requested we not be too noisy in the evenings, during our playing and working upstairs, as the noise might bother Howard, just below.

So, he filled our days with a difference of opinion about Soo Line property, which was now ours, but which was to be respected at all times, since one never knew when an inspector might “drop off” a train. Howard wanted no demerit because his efforts to keep a clean slate were disregarded.

One evening after school, before Howard came on duty, brother Kenneth had a plan!  He’d probably taken more verbal punishment from Howard than us less daring ones, and now wanted to get back at him.  Ken suggested we cut up several newspapers into small pieces, wet them down real well, and spread the contents all around the perimeter of the waiting room.  Since we weren’t supposed to play there, how could anyone suspect us of this unkind deed?  Being the oldest, I knew it was a wrong thing to do, but went along with the idea since we are felt our privileges had been too severely curtailed. 

Having done the “job”, we three waited upstairs hoping to hear loud exclamations of despair and frustration from below when Howard came on duty.  Instead, a sudden knock came on our door.  There stood the irate Howard with military stance!  “Mrs. Robieson,” he addressed our bewildered Mother in a very scolding tone.  “Your children have made a mess of the waiting room, and their presence is required down there immediately to clean it up!”

Very strange facial expressions were quickly exchanged, as we wondered how he’d EVER guessed it was us!  Mom was helpless – caught between the stern faced night operator and her three mischievous children.  True, she’d no doubt heard us complain about him so many times--his severity, never playful, never even friendly to us, only the dictatorial manner, stern face and quick tongue.  She was sorry to see he caught us in our own misdeeds, but promised Howard “it would never happen again.”  So, we cleaned up the wet paper shreds – then Howard could spread the sweeping compound on the floor, sweep it all up, and set the room to rights again.

Many more times Howard had his way about how things were to be done when he was there.  But long years passed.  Howard mellowed in time and married Mary McIver (much his senior) and their marriage seemed a happy one.

Eventually, Howard and I were the only ones of this story left living in our town.  Sometimes we’d meet on the street to talk and think back to “depot days.”  His witty tongue and mind were sharp as ever and he reminded me,  “I raised you Robieson kids!”  Howard has long since passed away now, but left a permanent scar on my life.  He was truly a colorful fellow.

Ruby Robieson Bennett

Nicollet Island

I recently attended a talk at the Apple Valley Senior Center about Nicollet Island, its history and the "shakers and movers" in its colorful past, from Joseph Nicollet down the line.  (see the Minnesota Archeologist site for a nice concise summary of the island's history, including a disastrous tunnel collapse in 1869 in an attempt to bring water power to the island. The collapse nearly destroyed the falls and took 7 years to repair. In 1893, a raging fire destroyed most of the buildings in Nicollet Island and leaped to Boom Island to burn 5 million board feet of sawed lumber - my 2015 post Minneapolis-Nordeast also covers some of this history.

Nicollet Island is the largest inhabited island in the Mississippi. It was named for the French explorer and cartographer, Joseph Nicollet. The island sits above the St. Anthony Falls of the Mississippi, across from downtown Minneapolis. The location played a pivotal role in the westward surge of white settlers and the eventual establishment of the city of Minneapolis. The Falls of St. Anthony were named after the patron saint of the early explorer and missionary, Father Hennepin, whose name adorned the first bridge across the Mississippi, as well as the county in which Minneapolis resides, a major Minneapolis thoroughfare as well as a state park and a beer.

Nicollet Island's position above the falls made it a center of the lumber and milling industry booms, leveraging the water power to create industries and jobs that led to an influx of immigrants to Minneapolis - see my Immigrant Stock post.  It also figured in the brewing industry when Nordeast Minneapolis was declared one of the few "Patrol Limits" areas of the city where alcohol could be served and the tunnels on the island served as cold storage for the beer barrels.

Before the arrival of whites, Nicollet Island area, including the falls, were sacred to both the Dakota and Ojibwa. Oral histories indicate that the island was a place for childbirth as the noise of the falls drowned out any screaming and also provided protection from enemies.

As I listened to the talk and learned tantalizing new details about the island, I realized, that although I have biked through Nicollet & Boom Island dozens of times, I had never pedaled to the northwest end of the island, the residential section.

I have now fixed that.

First, here are the standard well-known island landmarks.

St. Anthony Falls before being tamed by the Corps of Engineers

St. Anthony Falls today

Plaque on the Stone Arch Bridge

Nicollet Island Inn. Built in 1893 (before the fire) as a sash & door company. Survived the fire and is now a nice place to stay and eat in Mpls.

Nicollet Island Pavilion.  Have your next wedding there.

Merriam St. Bridge.  This is a span from the 2nd Hennepin Ave bridge, floated down river when the 3rd Hennepin bridge replaced it in 1891

DeLaSalle High School

And some hidden gems

Grove Street Flats - French Empire style row housing - survived the 1893 fire

Frank Griswold house - Queen Anne style

Love the craftsmanship on the chimney work

Copyright © 2016 Dave Hoplin

Ruby Robieson Bennett - Lowry Tales #3

Hanging the Mail

This will be an attempt to tell about the nighttime mail-hanging job, which several members of my family took part in. First I will explain exactly what is meant by “hanging the mail,” in case my readers do not know this.

At the time when our family lived in the Lowry Soo Line depot where my Dad was the Station Agent, there were two daytime trains.  No. 105 going eastward toward Minneapolis from Enderlin, ND, and the other one, No. 106 went from Minneapolis to Enderlin.  Going through our town during the noon hour, they were regularly scheduled to meet at Lowry. Night trains were scheduled differently. 

During the wee small hours of the night, the train going east was No. 109 and going west was No. 108.  These trains did not stop at Lowry, thus mail had to be hung on a crane and caught by an apparatus built for this purpose. The crane stood outdoors, a few yards away from the station, away from any nearby buildings of any sort. There, you could reach up to fasten the mailbags securely at the top and bottom. When the train sped through the station, the baggage man in readiness put out a long hook to catch the mail pouch and quickly bring it into the baggage car as the train sped on its way.

This only took a moment to complete, but much preparation went into this very important task. Different people helped at different times. Brother Jim had the job for a long time, until he left home for a job elsewhere.  Then Mom signed on for the job and the twins helped her – alternating each night, since they still had school to attend weekdays.

Pope County Historical Society

Winter days brought extreme hardships. To hang out that pouch during a winter storm, high winds, even a heavy downpour of rain was unpleasant.  Sometimes, for reasons that came up unexpectedly, the mailbag had been hung for one train – then it was reported delayed. The other train would arrive earlier, so the mailbags had to be changed accordingly! Maybe the time element was short here and the excitement grew!

Then, there was this event we all dreaded hearing about, but it did happen and we never knew who was to blame. The baggage man didn’t catch the mailbag – it went under the train wheels and was ground to tiny bits. When daylight came, Dad, my family, and crabby “I didn’t get my mail” people, crowded the sad scene but couldn’t discern any of the contents of the shredded mess. Fortunately, I don’t recall this happening very often.

My sister, Roberta, recently told me how Mom had to put on the earphones at Dad’s desk and hear the train dispatcher’s reports of the trains’ departure some stations down the line. This way, the dispatcher knew all the time where his trains were, and could give orders to proceed when necessary onto the side track, or stay on the main track and speed through town.

Roberta told me that Mom listened and when she heard the dispatcher ask for Lowry’s report, Mom would press the button and say (as we’d so often heard Dad report in the daytime) “OS Lowry” and giving the time the train departed. O, yes – Mom had depot blood in her veins, just like all of us at that place.

I must remember to mention also, that many nights when winter presented a very cold and stormy blizzard, Dad would be on deck helping the regular crew doing this job.

The wages were terrific! “Missing the mail” as they called it when they failed to hang it properly, at the right time, or for whatever reason, meant they were docked $1.00 each time! The paycheck was small to begin with, so if many misses were made, they were unhappy with the minuses.

Between usage, I can remember eyeing the mail crane near the tracks, not sure whether I liked it or not. Was it a friend or wasn’t it? It stood there so silently, almost in non-existence, but oh – the excitement it could help stir up in the wee, small hours some nights! Even we, who didn’t take part in the event, felt the ‘glory’ or the ‘gore,’ whichever was dished out on that eventful night.

Ruby Robieson Bennett
September 12, 2000

Architecture Wonk - Part 2

Another "themed" bike ride, this time to find Frank Lloyd Wright designed homes in Minneapolis - St. Paul.

Ruby Robieson Bennett - Lowry Tales #2

Railroads

Thomas Lowry

The Minneapolis-St. Paul and Soo Sault Marie railroad was completed in the village of Lowry in 1887.  This village was named after Thomas Lowry, then president of the Soo Line.  Lowry largely owed its existence to the railroad in the early days.

Hugh Bryce and Thomas Hume, who owned farms on which the town site was built, were early settlers in this part of the country.  Bryce and his brother did “freighting” for the government before railroads, using oxen to haul freight to Ft. Gary (now Winnipeg), Canada and to military posts in the northwest.

At first Lowry was the division point of the Soo Line and had the roundhouse and railroad shop.  These were later moved to Glenwood following the 1897 tornado, which badly damaged Lowry.

At one time many trains rolled through Lowry, a scene much changed these days.  Trains No. 105 and No. 106 were daily passenger trains, except on Sunday and at one time met at noon in Lowry, taking on and dispatching passengers, mail, freight, and express.  Flyers No. 3 and No. 4 came through nonstop at night except for emergencies, and flyers No. 7 and No. 8 came through nonstop during the day.  Flyers No. 3 and No. 4 were called the “Mountaineer.”  People wanting tours to see America took these trains, switching to another train at Minneapolis, or other points where they’d join yet another part of the tour and travel in a different direction.  Now we take busses or fly abroad to accomplish tours.

Daytime mail pouches were put directly into the baggage car when a “mail carrier” brought them from the Post Office.  Mail from the trains arriving in Lowry was taken to the Post Office for immediate sorting and delivery.  The non-stop night flyers would “catch” the outgoing first-class mail from a pouch that was secured to the mail crane near the tracks. The baggage man on the train would extend a metal arm out to snatch the pouch from the crane.  Again an appointed “mail carrier” was on duty to hang the mail and take a thrown-off pouch to the Post Office. 

Time and again the baggage car clerk failed to catch the pouch, or the wind caught it, tossing it beneath the fast moving train wheel, sending shredded mail far down the tracks.  When morning came, the night carrier found himself busy picking all the leftover pieces that could be located and turning them in at the Post Office.  The motto was: “The mail must go through.” 

Freight trains came through daily as well, except Sundays.  These were No. 89 and No.  90.  All even numbered trains traveled to the east, odd numbered ones were westbound.  Their daily stops in Lowry exchanged freight and express. 

A drayman with a horse drawn dray wagon picked up and delivered the shipments to whatever name and address was indicated.  He’d also bring boxed shipments to the trains to be sent away.  Later the drayman used a truck for his pick-ups and deliveries.  Gradually big truckers took over the complete job, so freight trains lost the business.  At this present writing there are still freight trains rumbling through Lowry, mostly picking up grain at the Lowry elevator to be carried elsewhere.

When in existence, the Lowry Roller Mills milled and shipped out much flour.  “Lowry Leader” and other brands were sent out and they were much in demand even out of state.  Lowry Co-op Creamery shipped out sweet cream plus many large tubs of excellent butter made here.  More than one butter maker who resided in Lowry was #1 in state competition.

The station agent in Lowry lived upstairs over the depot, working an 8-5 shift 5 days a week.  There were many times he was summoned from his own daily tasks, or a night’s sleep to be “called out for orders.”  This meant a change in train schedule, a meet at Lowry of trains, or that a certain train should take the siding track so a flyer could keep its schedule and charge through.  Often times he’d need open the freight room and deliver, to a busy farmer, something he’d ordered by freight but was unable to pick up during business hours.

Telegraphy played a great part in the Agent’s life also.  Messages sent somewhere during daytime would not reach Lowry until the wee, small hours.  Reaching a recipient by phone for a message (often death messages) ran into difficulty because not everyone owned a phone.  Sometimes a neighbor would need walk far to reach a loved one, who would get to a phone, get the message, and then likely send an answer back.  Meantime, the agent sat long hours in the night until all was accomplished.  On cold winter nights when the fires were down, this meant a most chilly wait. There is no telegraphy now.  It is all taken care of by telephone and computers.

Back in the 20s and on for a number of years, Lowry depot hired a night clerk.  He worked the “night trick”, working until night trains were gone, the office and waiting room swept out, tidied up, fires in two stoves tended during the winter season, and memos left for the day agent.

The present day picture is a mighty different scene.  Even the depot has been moved away; all the railroad people work elsewhere now.  The old mail crane is long gone, only a chugging freight train can be heard “switching” or “spotting” cars as their lonely whistles pierce the air.   Railroading in Lowry has been taken over by busses and trucks, both for people and freighting.  The era of the “Old Iron Horse” has passed on.

People would ask us, we who lived upstairs in the depot, “Didn’t the night trains keep you awake at night?”  We’d answer “no.” Maybe they did at first, but we became so used to the noise, we never even heard a whistle.  We did hear, though, and will long remember the “whine” the telegraph wires made at night, high above our windows outdoors.  This happened when the weather became intensely cold.  Hearing it, we knew we were in for a very cold, much below zero night.

Ruby Robieson Bennett

Credits and references: 

Soo Line agent, Glenwood MN

Builders of Pope County, Daisy Ellen Hughs

100 Years of Greatness in Pope County, MN

Lowry Centennial Memory Book 1886-1986.