Esther Domke's License Plates

Caroline C. Morris

Catalog Number: 1988.053.01

Before there was a Wisconsin DMV, there was a County Clerk. For about half of the twentieth century, Esther Domke filled that position for La Crosse County. Among other responsibilities, her office oversaw distribution of hunting, marriage, and car licenses, which is why she was able to amass this license-plate collection that she reportedly displayed in the basement of the old La Crosse County Courthouse. The plates, which she arranged chronologically from top to bottom, cover the period from 1916 to 1957. In the early 1960s, when the La Crosse office was only one of three in Wisconsin that could issue plates, Domke estimated she and her deputy issued about 25,000 plates a year.  

Esther Domke began working as a Deputy County Clerk in 1923. In Sept. 1927, her boss, County Clerk Hubert Staats, was shot by friendly fire while trying to stop a jailbreak at the courthouse. The La Crosse County Board voted 19-12 a few weeks later to appoint Domke to the rest of Staats’s term, though with implied reservations about a woman’s ability to fill the post. She must have done a decent job because when she ran for County Clerk in her own right in 1928, she became the first woman officially elected to public office in La Crosse. She remained an undefeated incumbent until her retirement in 1972.

As a woman in a man’s world at midcentury, hers was a mixed bag. Records indicate that Domke made a good salary for the time, for a man or a woman. In 1940, for example, her salary of $2,230 was close to double the average national salary of $1,368. She worked hard for that salary, attending after-hours public meetings, and opening up the office on nights and weekends for hunting or marriage license “emergencies.”  Despite her hard and conscientious work, the historical record suggests she was not entirely accepted as one of the boys. When she ran for re-election in 1934, for example, a radio newsman for WKBH suggested that Domke “present a fan dance as part of her campaign,” and the La Crosse Tribune Leader-Press printed the request. Hardly the kind of attention her fellow running mates received.

In recognition for her many years of service, Domke was selected as the first-ever Maple Leaf Parade marshal in 1961, among other honors.  After fifty years of service, she retired on Jan. 1, 1973.

This article was originally published in the La Crosse Tribune on August 10, 2015.

This object can be viewed in our online collections database by clicking here.

Benefits of a Bugle

Caroline C. Morris

Catalog Number: 1984.100.27 

Brass bugles can make a racket.  This one may be a diminutive eight inches, but there is nothing diminutive about its sound.  J.W. York & Sons of Grand Rapids, Michigan, made thousands of brass instruments at the turn of the century, including this one.  Markings on the bell indicate this instrument was manufactured according to military specifications for a “Trench bugle” in B flat in 1917, and was probably issued to an infantryman, though bugles were common in all branches of service.  The triple-twist bugle has eyelets for a leather strap that is now lost, as is the mouthpiece.

Bugles have played a role in the military for centuries.  They are especially useful for signaling the daily routine to large groups of people – think “Reveille” and “Taps” – or to coordinate troop movements.  The “Trench bugle,” however, was not well-adapted to the style of warfare for which it was named.  For troops in the trenches, priorities included being invisible, being silent, and being unpredictable. The bugle made all three objectives difficult.

If this bugle has seen action, it is more likely that a Boy Scout wielded it than a soldier.  The Army sold or donated thousands of surplus bugles to civic groups in the years during and after the First World War.  The Boy Scouts, founded in 1910 in the United States, placed a premium on military-style discipline and scout uniformity, so bugles were a natural accessory.  Instrument manufacturers came to this realization as early as 1916, and began running ads for bugles such as this one in Boys’ Life, the official Boy Scouts magazine. For $5.50, a Boy Scout could make “martial music” to express “the spirit of VICTORY – to LIBERTY,” according to an ad in Boys’ Life in Oct. 1918. The bugle was not particularly useful to a soldier in the trenches perhaps, but in a kid’s hands it could serve its patriotic duty nonetheless.

This article was originally published in the La Crosse Tribune.

This object can be viewed in our online collections database by clicking here.

Rose Street Viaduct Connects City

Caroline C. Morris

Catalog Number: 1980.033.06

Traveling from downtown La Crosse through the marsh to the former village of North La Crosse was an adventure in the early 1910s.  Then as now, Rose Street was the main artery, but there was no bridge over the La Crosse River on the south end, and the road was not entirely paved until 1929.  Despite these inconveniences, the most dangerous part might well have been the viaduct over the Chicago, Milwaukee, & St. Paul Railway Company tracks.  The wooden structure was built in 1883 so pedestrians and wagons could safely cross the railroad tracks, but it was rotting by the 1910s.  Alarmed by its condition, the state’s Railroad Commission condemned the viaduct in 1912, effectively closing the north-south artery and making life difficult for the residents of North La Crosse.  In 1913, the Railroad Commission ordered the railroad and the City of La Crosse to split the cost of replacing it.  Much haggling ensued between the two parties, but eventually they cooperated enough to build the viaduct pictured above.

The replacement viaduct was much sturdier – it lasted until 1979 when the present-day concrete bridge was built – but it came at a cost for some residents of Rose Street.  The 1883 viaduct had had short, steep inclines on each side.  The new viaduct had safer gradual inclines, but they extended a good deal beyond the footprint of the original inclines.  Homes that once had unobstructed views across the street now had a road level with their second-story windows.  Property owners filed lawsuits and held public meetings, but the Supreme Court of Wisconsin ultimately ruled against their claims in Henry v. City of La Crosse, et al (1917).  The ruling disappointed the affected residents, but it did not surprise them.  In the early twentieth century, railroads and “progress” had few formidable opponents.

This article was originally published in the La Crosse Tribune on July 25, 2015

This object can be viewed in our online collections database by clicking here.

Norwegian Church Subscription Quilt

Caroline C. Morris

Catalog Number: 1970.007.01

Schools, service organizations, and churches all know how to raise money for worthy causes.  Marching band needs new uniforms? Carwashes every Friday night.  Time to spruce up the community garden? Bake sale.  In 1898, Norwegian Evangelical Lutheran Church in North La Crosse made a subscription quilt.

This red and white cotton quilt is comprised of 42 squares that were sewn separately and then stitched together in a style known as “potholder construction.”  Each square contains many names, often arranged artistically such as in the circle above.  Typically, donors paid a small sum or “subscription” – perhaps 10 cents – to have their or their loved ones’ names immortalized on the square.  Look closely and the Norwegian roots of the congregation become apparent, with names such as Borressen, Nordgaard, Bakke, Pederson, and dozens of Olsens.  The church would receive all signature proceeds, as well as any proceeds from the sale of the quilt at a raffle or bizarre. With hundreds of signatures, the quilt probably raised at least $40-$50, which was significant money – more than an average working man’s monthly wages at the time.

We cannot know for sure how much money the quilt raised, or its ultimate purpose. Subscription quilts of the late nineteenth century often raised money for new buildings such as schools or hospitals, for mission work, or for war.  All three are likely causes for the Norwegian Evangelical Lutheran Congregation in 1898, given the church’s civic involvement and the abrupt escalation of hostiles between the Americans and the Spanish in Cuba.

The quilt was a fundraiser, but it also documented the lives and work of the women who made it.  At the turn of the century, women in La Crosse were largely excluded from the most visible positions of public service; they were not pastors or mayors or high school principals.  And yet, the family and social networks they cultivated and nurtured were the city’s bedrock.  As Peggy Derrick, Executive Curator for the La Crosse County Historical Society explains, “these textiles remain as testaments to the engagement of women in public life even when they did not vote or often hold public office.”  Derrick suggests subscription quilts such as this one honor friendships and family and social connections that might otherwise remain invisible to the historical record.  The quilt is far more than a blanket; it’s an account of women’s everyday lives and work, “written” by the women of Norwegian Evangelical Lutheran Church more than a century ago. 

This article was originally published in the La Crosse Tribune July 18, 2015.

This object can be viewed in our online collections database by clicking here.

The Friendship Program

Mai Xiong

Catalog Number: 2015.014.012

For many, this t-shirt is merely another walking advertisement, a boxy green t-shirt with “The Friendship Program” printed in thin white font running across the chest with Hmong and Lao translations below it. For others, however, the advertisement on this t-shirt brings back memories associated with Christ Episcopal Church and the Hmong in the La Crosse area.

In the summer of 1988, Christ Episcopal Church started The Friendship Program (TFP) to respond to “the rapidly growing Southeast Asian population in La Crosse.” TFP’s goal was to “encourage intercommunication in a friendly atmosphere to facilitate blending a foreign culture into American society.” In its first year, TFP offered three main programs: literacy skills in both Hmong and English; life skills, which focused primarily on sewing and cooking; and an early childhood program. In its latter years, it incorporated citizenship and tutoring programs.

TFP permeated the lives of various members in my family: my brother and sister attended Hmong literacy class; I attended the early childhood education program; and my father and mother participated in their English literacy and sewing classes.

I vaguely recall at the age of four going with my mother to a church across from the La Crosse Public Library. She would drop me off at what I thought then was “school,” and she would disappear for the next eight hours. At “school,” the highlight of my day was the mid-morning snack where my peers and I would get two graham crackers with a cup of milk.

In hindsight, I know now that the early childhood education program allowed my mother to participate in TFP’s sewing program, where she acquired many sewing skills, including quilting, that, as a child, I thought was natural to her. I still remember the hot summer afternoons where I anxiously awaited for my mother to complete her quilt so she could sew shorts for me.

For the ten years that TFP existed, many Hmong families in the La Crosse area at one point or another undoubtedly participated in it—the program’s existence was well known in the Hmong community, and many, if not all, non-Hmong TFP volunteers learned about the Hmong beyond the surface level material.   In this vein, although TFP’s core values were fraught with culturally deficient views of the Hmong, the program fulfilled its bigger mission of building friendships across race, class, and citizenship. 

This article was originally published in the La Crosse Tribune on July 11, 2015.

This object can be viewed in our online collections database by clicking here.

Meet the Polaroid Swinger

Caroline C. Morris

Catalog Number: 1985.025.01

Sparklers, faded Coke signs, red-checked tablecloths; these are all treasured pieces of Americana that we pull out for the Fourth of July.  This year, consider adding the Polaroid Swinger to your table decorations, and let guests snap a few candid shots at your back-yard barbecue.  After all, what could be more American than a self-developing instant camera? 

Fifty years ago in 1965, the Polaroid Swinger Camera changed the way people documented their lives.  The white plastic box had rounded edges, a large black viewfinder with a rubber eye shield on top, and the instructions molded into the back panel if you forgot how to operate it.  Among the camera’s novelties was a low-pixel screen on the back that flashed “YES” if the light exposure was right.  But the best part was the slot on the side, from which the camera ejected your undeveloped film.  Peel off the front and watch your photo come to life, like the advertisement promised: “From snap to finish in just 10 seconds!” 

Anyone could use a Swinger, but the Polaroid Corporation worked hard to sell them to young people in particular.  At a suggested retail price of $19.95, it was more affordable than most cameras, and the plastic case meant it was also lightweight.  Television advertisements featured a young Ali MacGraw – who would later become a box office star in the 1970 film Love Story – in a two-piece bathing suit carrying her Swinger in the ocean, taking pictures of her friends.  While Ali MacGraw walked through the surf, Barry Manilow crooned, “Meet the Swinger, the Polaroid Swinger!”  With marketing like that, it’s no wonder that the Swinger went on to become one of the best-selling cameras in American history.

This article was originally published in the La Crosse Tribune on July 4, 2015.

This object can be viewed in our online collections database by clicking here.

Louis Vuitton Receipt

Caroline C. Morris

Catalog Number: 1965.001.03

One of the best parts about summer road-tripping is accumulating flotsam and jetsam from everywhere you visit.  Gideon and Ellen Hixon knew something about that, as evidenced by the incredible collections now on display in the Hixon House.  But perhaps they accumulated a few too many novelties during their first European vacation in the summer of 1884, because they found themselves at no. 1 Rue Scribe, the Parisian address of Louis Vuitton.

By the time the Hixons needed his services, Louis Vuitton had mastered the twin arts of creating finely-crafted luxury luggage, and making wealthy clients want to pay high prices for them.  His trunks, with aged poplar frames and hand-stretched leather, were the gold standard among wealthy travelers.  It appears as though Gideon Hixon paid 60 francs for the trunk and 10 francs for a strap to haul it.  The porter who lugged the trunk around didn’t make that much money in a month.   Wanamaker’s department store, the only purveyor of Louis Vuitton goods in the United States in the late nineteenth century, advertised the item as “rather a high-priced trunk, but worth every cent that is asked for it.”  If the Hixons’ European treasures made it home in one piece in their new trunk – and there’s no evidence to the contrary – they would probably have agreed.

This article was originally published in the La Crosse Tribune on June 6, 2015.

This object can be viewed in our online collections database by clicking here.

Little Skyscrapers in Riverside Park

Caroline C. Morris

Catalog Number: 2015.fic.339

Plan on heading to Riverside Park for a concert this summer?  Have a seat at the bandstand and admire the handiwork of local architect and visionary Otto Merman.  In 1930, the people of La Crosse acquired the thoroughly modern bandstand for the considerable sum of $30,000.  The band stand, initially known as the Wendell A. Anderson Memorial, was paid for by a large private donation from the late Mayor Anderson’s family, as well as money raised by local civic groups and schoolchildren.  “While simple in design, it is neat and very attractive,” declared the La Crosse Tribune and Leader Press on Jan. 1, 1931.

Otto Merman produced the gouache painting above as part of his bid for the project.  Local officials ultimately selected his plan, which featured the soaring vertical lines and prominent geometry of New York City skyscrapers.  In the 1920s, American business and optimism had reached new heights, which skyscrapers seemed to embody.  The same summer that workers built the bandstand in Riverside Park, a different team of workers was erecting the Empire State Building in New York, an architectural statement that electrified the country.  By designing the bandstand in a similar Art Deco style, with miniature “skyscrapers” at the rear of the stage, Merman was bringing a piece of the excitement to La Crosse.

This article was originally published in the La Crosse Tribune on June 22, 2015.

This object can be viewed in our online collections database by clicking here.

La Crosse Marks 150th Anniversary of Juneteenth

Image Courtesy of Murphy Library Special Collections at University of Wisconsin-La Crosse

Caroline C. Morris

As we prepare to celebrate the 239th anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence, let’s also take a moment to commemorate the 150th anniversary of “Juneteenth,” arguably the most poignant declaration of freedom in our nation’s history. 

“The people of this country had gone on for years compromising with sins that were becoming so powerful that Freedom and Slavery were brought into conflict for national supremacy,” wrote the La Crosse Daily Republican on April 18, 1865.  Slavery ended abruptly in the spring of 1865 at the end of the Civil War, and newly-freed men and women celebrated spontaneously all over the country as news reached them.  The celebrations became an annual event, and gradually took on the name “Juneteenth,” the term used by enslaved Texans who were among the last to be emancipated in June 1865.

Roughly four million people in slave-holding states became free between 1861 and 1865.  Some emancipated themselves by running to free states or Union Army encampments during the war.  Union soldiers emancipated others as they fought through and occupied the Confederate states.  La Crosse resident Nathan Smith, pictured above, fell into the first category.  He and his wife Sarah left Tennessee around 1863, ultimately settling on a farm just north of La Crosse.  The war officially ended April 9, 1865, but the surrender had ambiguous implications for the future of these formerly enslaved Americans.  Freedpeople like Nathan and Sarah Smith had a relatively bright future in Wisconsin, legally speaking.  They could enter into contracts to buy property, for example.  The future was not as bright for the freedpeople still in the South, who had no clear legal status, and whose former owners were trying to prevent them from becoming full citizens.

The federal government had been unclear about the legal status of the freedmen and freedwomen, even during the war.  President Abraham Lincoln’s “Emancipation Proclamation,” which went into effect on Jan. 1, 1863, emancipated a portion of the enslaved men and women of the Confederate states, but stopped well short of emancipating all enslaved individuals.  And as every enslaved person could attest, there was no direct link between legal words and the reality of everyday experience.  What would the freedpeople’s world look like?  They would no longer be property, but would they be citizens?  Observers of all stripes – northern and southern, black and white, Congressmen and farmers – had widely different answers to this question in spring 1865. 

Newly freed Americans took matters into their own hands by asserting their freedom and advocating for their citizenship from the earliest days of Reconstruction.  Annual observances of Juneteenth celebrations were an important way for African Americans to remind one another of the hardships they had survived and to reinforce the community’s resolve to push for equal rights as citizens. 

This article was originally publised in the La Crosse Tribune on June 13, 2015.

Lemon Pie and Roach Poison

Caroline C. Morris

Mrs. Ellen Pennell Hixon, the affluent mistress of 429 North 7th St.  La Crosse, liked her sweets.  She hand-wrote dozens of recipes, many of them for desserts, into a composition book some time in the 1880s or 1890s.  Page 93 of her book provides a glimpse of Victorian housekeeping at its finest, with recipes for “Lemon Pie” and “Roach Poison.”

By serving lemon pie, Hixon was making somewhat of a political statement in the late nineteenth century.  The pie became popular around the mid-nineteenth century in America, particularly as cooks began experimenting with a whipped egg white topping known as a “meringue.”  The piled-high lemon pies had the perfect combination of sweet and sour, and dense and airy.  Victorian Americans, known for their collective sweet tooth, were enchanted.  But by the 1880s, the lemon pie was under attack as being unhealthful, largely because the eggs were not cooked long enough to kill bacteria.  “Its glories have departed, its sun has set, and it no longer holds its proud position on the bills of fare on the land,” the Boston Globe proclaimed in 1881.  But in La Crosse, the lemon pie survived in the Hixon home.  Ellen Hixon would not be put off by East Coast domestic science.

Sprinkled among the recipes for cakes and puddings were other handy household “recipes,” such as the one at the bottom of this page for “Roach Poison.”  Pyrethrum, an extract of the chrysanthemum, is still used as an insecticide.  It’s not toxic to humans, but be careful not to mix it in with the egg whites for the pie; the meringue might fall.

The Hixon home is now an historic house museum. Copies of Ellen Hixon’s recipes are available for sale in the Hixon House gift shop.  Come take a tour and go home armed with recipes for new Victorian confections.  Just be sure to cook the eggs thoroughly.

This article was originally published in the La Crosse Tribune June 6, 2015.

La Crosse Country Club Postcard

Caroline C. Morris

Catalog Number: 1981.007.49

Tee time, anyone? Golf has been a popular warm-weather pastime in La Crosse for more than 100 years. This undated postcard, most likely from the late 1930s or 1940s, shows off the clubhouse for the La Crosse Country Club, the area’s premier location at the time for a day on the links. The club, originally located on land just east of Losey Boulevard that it leased from the city, was a swirl of social activities and athletic tournaments in the early to mid-20th century.

The La Crosse Country Club hosted weekly golf and tennis tournaments, including several regional tournaments that drew competitors from all over the state. Competition for tee times was fierce enough that by 1936, club rules restricted women and children from playing during certain coveted hours, such as Saturday afternoons and Sunday mornings. Presumably the club’s executive committee thought that men’s access to the greens was important enough to require special protections.It was not just about the golf and tennis, though. From May 31 through Oct. 31 of each year, the club also scheduled a full social calendar with weekly bridge parties and luncheons, monthly dinner dances and a special after-church dinner served promptly at 1 p.m. each Sunday.

Membership was open to any resident of La Crosse who was willing to pay the initiation fee and yearly dues. In 1936, a family membership cost $50, with a one-time initiation fee of $30. Greens fees were $1 daily, and a caddy would set you back 25 cents for nine holes. The prices sound good now, but $50 was nearly a month’s salary for La Crosse’s working-class folks in 1936.

In 1994, the La Crosse Country Club moved to Onalaska, and the golf course on Losey Boulevard reopened as a municipal golf course named Forest Hills, which is open to the public.

This article was originally published in the La Crosse Tribune on May 30, 2015.

This object can be viewed in our online collections database by clicking here.

'Mod' Look Comes to La Crosse

Caroline Morris

Catalog Number: 2001.025.06

“Women’s hats may be coming back,” wrote Isadore Barmash for the New York Times in 1967.  For two decades, women had been buying fewer hats as bouffant hairstyles made them harder to wear.  But the “mod” look of the mid-1960s demanded cheerful, fashion-forward head apparel, as well as fresh new colors.  In February 1967, Mrs. Arthur Weideman of Lucille’s Fashions in Oshkosh predicted that “color’s the thing,” and the Oshkosh Daily Northwestern reported that the Oshkosh Spring Style Show was a “riot of hot pinks, orange, yellow, green and blue.”

Color was also “the thing” in 1967 at Herberger’s Department store in La Crosse, which had just opened at 426 Main Street.  This hat, purchased by Mrs. Willa Gowlland of La Crosse for $12.00, has the hallmarks of the era: an unconventional shape, bright orange trim and netting, and cheerful yellow tulips on top.  The cone-shaped, woven, white hat was designed to perch atop teased “beehive” hair, and one imagines its wearer would have looked equally at home on the streets of London or La Crosse.

This article was originally published in the La Crosse Tribune on May 23, 2015. 

This object can be viewed in our online collections database by clicking here.

War Eagle Possibly Succumbed to 'Murderous Oil'

Caroline Morris

Catalog Number: WE.2010.1.654

Lanterns like this one, pulled from the wreckage of the steamboat War Eagle, were a welcome improvement over candles in the 1860s and 1870s.  If you had gone to a La Crosse store to buy some kerosene for your lantern at that time, Danforth’s Non-Explosive Petroleum Fluid would have been one of your choices.  Its packaging declared that the fluid “gives a whiter, larger, and more brilliant light,” and “is the poor man’s blessing” due to its low price.  But it turned out that, while not technically “explosive,” the lamp oil would spontaneously ignite at room temperature without provocation. 

In the wee hours of May 15, 1870, a railroad depot, several warehouses, a loading dock, nine train cars, and the War Eagle caught fire and turned an area just north of downtown La Crosse into a conflagration.  At least six people died trying to escape it.  We can never know for certain what happened, but in later years a source familiar with the events claimed that barrels full of “Danforth’s Non-Explosive Petroleum Fluid” were at the root of the tragedy.

An article in the La Crosse Evening Democrat on May 16, 1870, described the blaze as “sufficiently brilliant to cast a shadow, for miles, directly towards the moon.  The Mississippi River presented the appearance of an immense sea of blood.”  Unsurprisingly, there was a great deal of speculation about the origins of the fire, and about whom to blame.  Early accounts focused on the actions of a carpenter and his assistant, who had been repairing a leaking barrel of kerosene when the fire started.  The carpenter claimed that he had just completed his task when the lantern he was holding spontaneously burst into flames, igniting the leaked kerosene on the War Eagle’s deck, as well as the barrels themselves.

In spring 1870, Danforth’s oil was a relatively new product in an unregulated marketplace.  Without safety testing, manufacturers could experiment with and sell highly flammable, unstable oils.  New York City’s Board of Health conducted a review of Danforth’s Non-Explosive Petroleum Fluid the same year that the War Eagle burned, and concluded that the New York-based product was no less than a “murderous oil.”  The people of La Crosse would have agreed.

This article was originally published in the La Crosse Tribune.

This object can be viewed in our online collections database by clicking here.

La Crosse's Mothers

Caroline Morris

Catalog Number: 2011.001.01

In the 1950s, if you bought your mother a bouquet at Lund’s Flower Shop at 521 Main St., where Full Circle Supply is now, you may have seen this portrait of Barbara Mohn Guentner in the window.  Mathilda Guentner Lund hung the photo every year to honor her own mother, as well as all the mothers of La Crosse.    

Barbara Guentner had a history similar to many of La Crosse’s early-twentieth-century women.  Born Babet Mohn in Munderkingon, Germany, she immigrated to the United States as a teenager in 1880 or 1881 after the death of her parents.  A few years later, she married Wendelin (“Wenzel”) Guentner, also a German immigrant, and the two new Americans set down roots in La Crosse.  Wenzel worked for the railroad and Barbara took care of their growing family, becoming active members of the large German-American community here.  They had nine children between 1886 and 1910, and lived in La Crosse for the rest of their lives. 

This photo, taken by her son-in-law on the occasion of her 90th birthday in 1951, was intended to capture Guentner’s maternal spirit.  Her granddaughter, Anita Froegel, described her as “lovely lady who loved knitting socks, mittens, and hats for all of us.  She talked with a mixture of German words and was very charming to everyone.”  Whatever hardships Guentner faced in her life – and as an immigrant in a strange land, she must have faced a few – Guentner was a steadfast presence for her family until her death in 1955 at age 94.

The La Crosse County Historical Society wishes a Happy Mother’s Day to Barbara Mohn Guentner, and to all the ladies of La Crosse who work hard for their families every day.

This article was originally published in the La Crosse Tribune on May 9, 2015.

This object can be viewed in our online collections database by clicking here. 

The SK IV Sanitation Kit

Caroline Morris

Catalog Number: 2014.fic.139

Last week we discussed the La Crosse area’s proliferation of fallout shelters in 1971.  Local civil defense officials designed a plan in which every citizen could reach a shelter within 30 minutes in case of nuclear threat.  But after the doors were shut, then what?  What would it be like to live in a church basement with several dozen people for a week or two?

The “La Crosse Community Shelter Plan,” mailed to every resident and business in the La Crosse area in 1971, recommended that people bring a bare minimum of supplies to the shelter: prescription medications, a flashlight, and an extra change of clothing, for example.  The shelters themselves were supposed to be stocked with those items that come in handy during an apocalypse, such as food, water, “radiological instruments,” and the SK IV Sanitation Kit.

The SK IV Sanitation Kit was distributed by the Department of Defense, and contained 1 can opener, 80 cups and lids, 1 pair plastic gloves, 1 can waterless hand cleaner, 1 can odorless chemicals, 1 plastic toilet liner, 10 rolls of toilet paper, 60 sanitary napkins, and 1 toilet seat.  Once opened and emptied of its contents, the cardboard barrel became a toilet with the addition of the plastic liner and the toilet seat pictured above.  These supplies were supposed to be adequate for 50 people for 1 to 2 weeks, but one wonders just how long a single cardboard toilet would have held up.  Nuclear waste, indeed.

This article was originally published in the La Crosse Tribune on May 2, 2015.

This object can be viewed in our online collections database by clicking here.

Community Shelter Plan

Caroline Morris

Catalog Number: 2014.fic.135 

“A major emergency affecting a large number of people may occur anytime and anywhere.  It may be a peacetime disaster such as a tornado, flood, fire, blizzard, or earthquake. It could be an enemy attack on the United States. … If you and your family take action as recommended in this plan, you will have maximum chances for survival.” 

So began the “La Crosse Community Shelter Plan,” an instruction manual and map mailed to every household and business in La Crosse, Bangor, West Salem, Holmen, and Onalaska in 1971.  As tensions between the United States and Soviet Union mounted in the 1950s, the Department of Defense began coordinating “civil defense” initiatives, designed to drill Americans in the arts of survival and recovery during and after a nuclear attack.  If you attended school between about 1952 and 1970, there’s a good chance you watched Bert the Turtle “duck and cover” when he saw the flash of a nuclear bomb.  The same Federal Civil Defense Administration that brought you Bert the Turtle also helped coordinate local civil defense plans, such as the one here. 

The instructions assured city residents that “an enemy attack on the United States probably would be preceded by a period of international tension or crisis,” so the 3- to 5-minute siren – similar to our tornado sirens now – most likely would not take anyone by surprise.  Once you heard it, you were to move calmly but quickly to the nearest fallout shelter.  “Fallout” was the government’s term for the radioactive particles that would fall back to earth after the initial blast.  The goal was to get as much stone, brick, and cement between you and the fallout as possible.

If you found yourself in the City of La Crosse when nuclear war started, you could choose from 140 fallout shelters around town; mostly churches, schools, and government buildings.   If you got caught downtown, you could shelter in St. Joseph’s, the La Crosse Tribune building, or the Rivoli, among others.  The University of Wisconsin-La Crosse (then Wisconsin State University) had no fewer than 23 shelters around campus.  But as fans of Shaun of the Dead will know, the best place to ride out an apocalypse is a pub.  Fortunately, many of La Crosse’s breweries also had fallout shelters, including 5 at G. Heileman Brewing Company alone.

So what would life be like in a fallout shelter?  Stay tuned for next Saturday’s “Things that Matter.”

This article was originally published in the La Crosse Tribune on April 25, 2015. 

This object can be viewed in our online collections database by clicking here.

Heileman Cookbook

Catalog Number: 1988.059.20

Caroline Morris

Ladies, beware.  G. Heileman Brewing Company of La Crosse wants you to know that “more homes are wrecked by the daily menu…than by the ‘Other Woman.’”  The solution?  To keep men happy and faithful, you will need to make better sandwiches and serve more beer, and luckily Heileman’s can supply you with the tools to do both.  At least, according to Heileman’s marketing campaign in 1945.

Heileman’s was one of many beer companies at mid-century who targeted women because they were becoming the family’s chief consumers.  The cold ones didn’t just magically appear in the fridge, after all.  This cookbook was a promotion intended to win the loyalty of the lucrative housewife demographic.  Amid the recipes for “Sportsman’s Stag Sandwiches” and “Tomato Jelly Sandwiches” (supposedly a Wisconsin favorite) were images of blonde women looking adoringly at the men they were serving. 

The ads are cartoonish, and were intended to be over-the-top.  But they were part of a much broader debate about the role of women in post-war America.  On March 13, 1946, the La Crosse Tribune ran an article titled “Rosie Doing a Fadeout.” The iconic image of Rosie the Riveter -- the strong, hard-working American woman who had been so vital to war work -- was coming into conflict with many Americans’ expectations that servicemen would return to their old jobs and women would return to their pre-war roles.  In the article, Department of Labor official Frieda Miller described the transition as a “back-to-the-home” campaign, and she implied that women would fight it. 

So as America entered the post-war years, what did the women of La Crosse think about the vastly different models of womanhood that Rosie the Riveter and the Heileman's cookbook represented?  Ask the women in your family and let us know.

This article was originally featured in the La Crosse Tribune on April 18, 2015.

This object can be viewed in our online collections database by clicking here.

Brew "Wholesome as Sunshine"

Caroline Morris

Catalog Number: 2011.014.138

The weather’s been gloomy, college basketball took a turn for the worse, and taxes are due next week.  Perhaps it’s time for an elf party where the libations are “Wholesome as Sunshine.”

Elfenbrau, or “elf beer,” was the most popular beer that C. and J. Michel Company brewed in the years before Prohibition, bringing prestige and profit to La Crosse. 

“There is something attractive about the new beer,” wrote a reporter for the La Crosse Tribune in Sept. 1908 – “a dainty appropriateness to its label which leaves as good a taste in the mind as the fine brew it announces leaves in the mouth.” 

You will have to decide for yourself whether this lithograph from the La Crosse County Historical Society’s collection is “daintily appropriate,” but I think we can agree that elf parties in brewery basements look intriguing.  Peer closely at the print and you will see elaborate beer steins, pretzels, turnips, a four-piece band, and a sign on the wall encouraging party-goers to “Play, Drink, Love, Sing.” 

What do turnips have to do with beer and elves?  We’re stumped; share your thoughts in the comment section online. 

This article was originally published in the La Crosse Tribune on April 11, 2015.

This object can be viewed in our online collections database by clicking here.

Easter Honeycomb Decoration

Caroline Morris

Catalog Number: 2014.fic.1030

If you’re preparing to lay a table for Easter dinner tomorrow, you’ve probably got the ham in the fridge, and maybe you’ve even gotten dessert put together.  But how’s that tablescape coming along? 

In early- to mid-twentieth-century America, having an elaborately decorated dining table was becoming a serious business for women of all income levels.  The advent of household appliances and the conveniences of city living often meant that women spent less time on housework than their mothers had done.  An army of homemaking “experts” stepped in to keep women busy, urging them to create more beautiful dining spaces for their families.  By the 1920s, women not only needed an Easter ham; they also needed an Easter centerpiece.

A 1945 New York Times article counselled homemakers to seek out “spring flowers, [and] bunnies and chickens made of plaster, clay, or wax” for their Easter table.  But the more budget-minded homemaker might instead have opted for a less-expensive option: the honeycomb paper fold-out, such as this one from the La Crosse County Historical Society’s collection.  The paper centerpiece could be folded up and easily stored from year to year, brightening up the Easter table for a fraction of the cost of fresh flowers. Though made of inexpensive materials, mid-century Americans tended to see these honeycomb decorations as collectible rather than disposable, and many have survived.  

This centerpiece, with its bright colors and relatively complex design, is similar to those manufactured after World War II by the Beistle Company in Shippensburg, PA.  In the 1920s, Beistle Company had introduced America to “honeycomb” paper products, such as large red bells that unfolded for Christmas, or pop-up turkeys to grace the table at Thanksgiving.  During World War II, they retooled their machines to make parachutes rather than paper turkeys, but after the war the honeycomb decorations returned with bolder colors and sharper images.  Despite being 50 to 70 years old, the bright colors on this centerpiece have hardly faded, and the little bunny could still hold his own on anyone’s Easter table.

This article was originally published in the La Crosse Tribune on April 4, 2015.

This object can be viewed in our online collections database by clicking here.

John A. Salzer Seed Company Advertisement

Caroline Morris

Sleet and snow notwithstanding, there are irrefutable signs that spring is on its way: brave little bulbs peeking out over the dirt, birds building new nests, and big-box stores setting out pallets of potting soil in their parking lots.  About a hundred years ago, La Crosse used to “export” spring to the world, in small paper packets.  In the 1920s, the John A. Salzer Seed Company, which occupied an entire square block on S. 7th St., claimed to be the largest mail-order seed company in the world.  And even if that were a slight exaggeration, it was certainly the largest in the Upper Midwest.  The company was renowned for its catalogs and advertisements, such as this postcard, for innovative use of imagery.  Elegant, colorful drawings suggested tantalizing possibilities, and sometimes even had a sense of humor.

John A. Salzer, born in Wurttemberg, Germany, arrived in New York City in 1846, ready to make his way in a new country.  Like most immigrants, he had a few bumps in the road -- “when I reached America, I got in with Godless companions,” he lamented in his autobiography – but he overcame both spiritual and financial challenges and ultimately launched a seed company in 1868 that grew into one of La Crosse’s most famous brands by the early 20th century.

Thousands upon thousands of pounds of seeds flowed from the buildings and greenhouses on S. 7th St. to gardeners and farmers all over the U.S. for 90 years, until the company closed its doors in 1958.  During those years, La Crosse sent cheerful nasturtiums, buttery corn cobs, and juicy fat tomatoes to millions of Americans, one packet of seeds at a time.

This article was originally published in the La Crosse Tribune March 28, 2015.