Roseberry
Perseverance and a Population of Two
By Amy Larson
As seen in IDAHO Magazine
As I
thumbed through a high-quality picture book of Idaho
atop a rustic coffee table at a Lake Cascade
vacation rental home, my eyes fell upon a quaint, white church. Something about
it spoke to me, although I didn’t know why. It wasn’t an intricate building.
Its lines were clean and simple. Why did I like it so much? My question was
answered by the text below the image, which said the building was in Roseberry
and had been constructed by Finnish people who settled there. My heart leaped.
Strangely enough, I knew a little something about Finland.
Twenty-five
years earlier, I had met Jari Vesterinen, the first Finn I’d known. His wife
Mona quickly became one of my dearest friends. Jari introduced me to the
Finnish language, which I still don’t pretend to understand, and Mona also
taught me a Finnish word: sisu. She
said it’s difficult to translate into English, but the best definition for it
might be someone with courage and tenacity. The Finns use the word to describe
someone who possesses strong determination, the ability to stick to something,
and who is able to keep a cool head during crises. It’s a lasting quality, not
a brief burst of courage for the moment. It’s sustainable. Being told you have sisu is the ultimate compliment.
Although
not yet the world traveler I plan to be, I did obtain a passport to visit Mona
and Jari in their new home in Finland.
Not long after stepping off the plane, I became fascinated with that country’s
craftsmanship and architecture. The act of staring at that little church in the
Idaho picture book tugged at my
heartstrings. I hadn’t known there was a place so close by that was, in part,
built by my friends, the Finns. After reading each word and looking at every
picture of the Roseberry section of that book, our vacation soon ended, and I
forgot all about it.
Many months
later, I was hunting for another Idaho
city to explore, something different, something unique. I thought it might be
fun to understand the history of Donnelly. When I looked up the town’s name on
the Internet, Roseberry also popped up, along with a photo of that same, quaint
church from the vacation home’s book. I learned that before there was a
Cascade, before there was a Donnelly, there was Roseberry. It had been the
largest town in the county at one time, sporting a population of five hundred.
It had a bank, restaurant, a mercantile
where customers could get anything they needed, schoolhouse, a soda fountain,
its own newspaper, a creamery, beautiful hotel, drug store, upholstery shop,
flour mill, harness shop, real estate company, butcher, livery stable,
veterinarian, barber shop, doctor, brick kiln, law office, two churches,
hardware store, confectionery, a
baseball team complete with uniforms, and a band shell smack in the middle of
an intersection, complete with a band that wore all matching attire when
performing.
By 1910,
Roseberry was one hopping place. The following year's Fourth of July parade was
real cause for celebration. The inhabitants of Roseberry not only assumed
they’d become the county seat, but expected the railroad to come their way, as
well.
How wrong they were. Before long, the Pacific and Idaho
Northern railroad announced it would bypass Roseberry by one-and-a-half miles,
a mere stroll's distance that would make a world of difference.
Donnelly
was established, named after a prominent railroad man. Once the railroad
announcement was made, Roseberry, formerly the county seat hopeful and largest
town in the valley, quickly began to decline. It was a church-going town that
had a staunch rule of no pool halls, bars, or any other places that would evoke
a bad reputation, which was why some folks claimed the place was "already
dead long before the railroad killed it off."
Innovative
at moving buildings, the locals relocated several Roseberry dwellings to nearby
Donnelly, where the action and commerce would be.
This wasn’t
the first time folks had cleared out of Roseberry, though. Many initially
approached Long Valley,
which contains both Donnelly and Roseberry, for a few reasons, but most wanted
to homestead. It was free, richly-earthed land, and all one had to do was work
hard enough for five years, to “prove up” the property.
The area's
first store was established by J.W. Pottenger and W. B. Boydstun in 1905. The
post office went up in 1892, and postmaster Lewis Roseberry became the town's
namesake. After H.T. Boydstun acquired the post office, he and a group of
investors began platting the town site and selling lots through their Roseberry
Commercial Club. The town’s initial population consisted of mostly
English-speaking inhabitants, with a scattering of Finns.
The Finns
were builders who took much pride in their craftsmanship. Their log cabin
building technique was so tight-fitting, it required no chinking—a handy thing
for the cold weather.
Even so, some Roseberry area homesteaders didn’t figure
on the all-out Idaho winter.
Particularly brutal was the winter of 1888-89, which provided a stark lesson on
deep and enduring snow. Short on available pasture, hay, and feed for cattle, a
large group chose to leave the valley.
The Finns,
used to the old country’s long, dark winters, weren’t scared off by the
region’s worst weather. With good land for the taking, they stayed. For many,
homesteading was a dream come true. They were accustomed to hard work and harsh
conditions. All went splendidly, until that problem arose of the railroad
track's location. Soon, building after building was loaded onto log skids and
hauled off to Donnelly, and the once-booming Roseberry became a ghost town.
When the
last commercial building finally closed in 1939, the town drew what most
thought to be its final, weak breath. By that time, very few Roseberry buildings
were left.
Enter Frank
Eld.
The son of
homesteader Albin Eld, Frank and his friends frequently walked to Roseberry as
grade schoolers. One day, they visited the Nichols family's honey processing
facility, located in the old Roseberry mercantile. Mrs. Nichols reached behind
the counter and pulled out a nice pair of high-top tennis shoes. “These are
left over from when this was a store,” she said. Frank was given a memory that
stayed with him for a long time. A seed had been planted, causing him to determine
that he would purchase a building there someday.
During the
1960 commemoration of the Idaho Territorial Centennial, Frank helped get a
temporary museum going in Donnelly at the city hall. One day, he and friend
Margaret Klient stood on the city hall's steps, talking about how nice it would
be to create a permanent museum in Long
Valley. Discussing a location, they
agreed on Roseberry, reasoning that it was very different from the three
neighboring towns of McCall, Donnelly, and Cascade.
In 1969,
the mercantile in Roseberry was put up for sale, and college graduate Frank Eld
bought the place from the Nichols family, thinking it would be a good location
for a museum.
When I
drove through Roseberry on a bright morning last summer, I didn’t see a soul,
although there was evidence of recent activity. Pulling into the parking lot by
the big red barn, I noticed an open door on a building marked as the Nell
Tobias Research Center.
Not wanting to intrude, I poked around the little town, taking photos and
exploring. There were the buildings I’d seen in the picture book, large as
life. One cabin’s sign read, “Following the end of the Spanish-American War,
four Finnish veterans, John Korvola, Jacob Kantola, Henry Harala and Nick Randa
built this cabin. They came here seeking homesteads and wives.”
There was a
schoolhouse, the Valley County
museum, the recently-moved Mahala home, a carriage house, and the famous and
picturesque white with red-trimmed replica of the bandstand, now moved to a
corner lot. All in all, there were about twenty-five buildings to pore over.
I saw two
women walking along, and thought they must be tourists like myself, but it
turned out they both worked at the research center. Gerry Wisdom and Bev Ingraham
invited
me into the building that they said was once a gas station, bar and grill in
the nearby community of Lake Fork.
They happily agreed that those celebratory vibrations were still present.
As I viewed
the cabinets full of information and walls lined with maps and county records,
I asked, “How many volunteers work here?”
“Not
enough!” was the reply, as they related that their map specialist who’d
categorized and catalogued the maps had just passed away, and was sorely
missed. They also told me they were in need of a new specialist.
“My friend Paula, there, is a captured
volunteer," Gerry said. "She came down to visit and I put her to
work.”
These
archivers and accessionists work every Tuesday from May to October, researching
and accepting historical items that are brought in for donation. The center’s
volunteers help historians with any research and family heritage inquiries. I
shook my head in admiration upon learning that the center was known in many
history circles, and has been called ‘the crown jewel of Roseberry’ by members
of the Idaho State Historical Society.”
“How do you
keep all of the information straight?” I asked.
“That’s the
job!” said Gerry.
The two
told me a little more about the Finns, although they were quick to explain that
Roseberry was not entirely a Finnish community. Many English speakers had come
from places like Kansas and Nebraska.
It just so happened, though, that the Finnish part was the part I loved, so I
kept prying them with questions, which they graciously answered.
Gerry said
during the time of the Long Valley
homesteading, people were leaving Finland
in droves. In that country, farmland was divided amongst the families’
children, which could leave little to be had. In addition, the Finns had been
subjugated by the Swedes, who enlisted them into their armed services, but
still allowed them to wear their own uniforms. For six centuries, the Finns
were under Swedish rule, but were still Finns in their hearts. Later, the
Russians took over, and made the Finns wear Russian uniforms in their Russian
army. That was the final insult. Finns came to America
by boat, looking for freedom to be, for once, exactly who they were.
Although
many Finns grew up as farmers, the money in America
at that time was in the dangerous work at the mines. Many of these immigrants
had been people of status in the old country, but now they had to answer to
mine owners and others. After ages of tyranny, the Finns weren’t going to take
it anymore. Upon hearing of free land in Idaho,
they gladly left the mines. Seeing Long
Valley's mountains, evergreens, and
rich soil reminded them of their mother land. They obtained property, and told
their friends.
The
research center staff in Roseberry joked about how they also got roped into
getting involved in their yearly ice cream social, on Saturday of Labor Day
weekend.
“If Paula
sticks around long enough, she can get help out then, too,” Gerry said.
Paula
called from a corner of the room, “I’m going back to Oregon,
where I don’t have to work!”
The two
women explained that Frank Eld did more than just buy the mercantile building.
Over the years, he and the Long Valley Preservation Society helped bring
structures back into town. For example, the Larkin House, Mahala Blacksmith
Shop, and research building were either returned or relocated.
It so happened my favorite little church was also a returnee, placed on the
same spot from which it had been taken.
Just as I
was about to ask another question, a staff member came around the corner,
displaying a book with the title, “Ladies
with Sisu,” by Floyd A. Loomis.
Unprepared to see the word that had been a kind of personal battle cry, I had a
strong emotional reaction. The center workers waited patiently for me to regain
my composure, and then I explained.
“First
off,” I told them, “You’ve got to warn me when you’re going to do something
like that. That word,” I said, choking up again, “has deep meaning for me.”
“We know,”
the woman holding the book said understandingly. I was sure they were all very
aware of the term.
“In past
years,” I said, “I’ve had to use every shred of sisu I had.” I took a breath, still trying to settle down. “Is that
book for sale? Where can I get a copy?”
“It’s
yours,” the woman said, handing me the gift.
The ladies’
shift was ending, so I wandered outside to the big red barn. I’d heard of the
Roseberry Music Festival held there each year around the third week in July. I
wanted to see the barn, but it appeared to be locked. Then, amazing luck: a
group of women, one carrying a binder labeled My Wedding, approached the barn, and their leader had a key. I
guessed one of them was planning to rent the building. Walking in behind the
group, I snapped some pictures of the interior.
When I left
the barn and entered the parking lot, a man pulled up in his ATV. I mentally
crossed my fingers and asked, “You wouldn’t be Frank Eld, would you?”
It was
Frank, the only full-time resident of the town aside from his wife, Kathy.
He opened the mercantile for me, which was arranged as
closely to the original schematics as possible.
As we talked, his friend
Delbert entered the store.
“Don’t let
me interfere,” he joked. “The longer you talk to him, the less work I’ve gotta
do.”
Frank, a
Finn, mentioned the high quality of Finnish architecture. He’d written a book
on the topic, Finnish Log Construction—The
Art. “If it fits, it’s Finnish,” he said, citing an old Finn phrase and
displaying something else that was common of the Finns I knew, a dry sense of
humor.
I listened
to him telling me the museum and its items had moved across the street to an
old schoolhouse that had come from McCall, but I was distracted by the church.
I couldn’t wait to see it. “There’s something special about that church,” I
said to my host, “It’s actually the reason I’m here.”
“Oh,
really?”
I told him
my picture book story. He had a copy of the same book at his store.
When we
entered the church, all I could say was "Wow." Frank told me his father had helped to build
the place. It had everything a historic structure should have: creaking front
door, wood that talks to you when you walk on it, mismatched pews. One pew was
an original, one that Frank said he’d most likely sat on when he attended this
church at its Donnelly location. “If you look underneath, you might still see
my gum there,” he said.
In the
chapel’s front right-hand corner stood an antique wooden organ, which Frank
zeroed in on. When he was a fifth-grader, he asked his mom if he could take a
reed to play with, from an old organ that was stored in the barn. Ella Eld told
him no, and then told him why. Her older brother, Victor, once worked an entire
summer for a farmer who gave him the organ as payment. Victor was a natural
musician who played by ear. At age twenty-one, he obtained land to homestead,
and built a cabin on it. He stayed in his cabin just one night before being
drafted into World War I. He went off to France,
and never returned. The organ was housed at his parents’ home until they passed
away, and then at his brother’s place, and finally in the Eld barn.
Young Frank
asked his mother, “Can we fix it?”
It was
winter, and the only place to work on the organ's many parts was in their
living room. His mother gave permission to move the organ there. While Frank
worked on the wood, she worked on de-mousing and cleaning out the bellows. They
got most of the keys to work again.
“Right
there,” Frank said, pointing to the old organ, “is the reason that everything
else is here. Working on that organ with my mother lit a fire in me to preserve
things. She and I were very close, and she helped me with this preservation
project for as long as she could.”
“I knew
this church was special,” I said. “I think it’s because that organ is in it.”
Once again,
Frank gave his knowing smile. “Now you understand why I like to have school
kids visit, hoping some student will do the same thing, and that someday,
they’ll take over.”
“Look what
you and the Long Valley Preservation Society have done,” I said, truly impressed,
“That must make you feel so accomplished.”
“I always
joke that it keeps me out of the bars,” he replied.
He said he often tells Donnelly
people he’s coming back for a few more buildings that "don’t belong"
there. “I admit it, I love history, I love buildings, and I’m happiest when
working on a building.” He grinned again, “I think some of my happiest moments
are during the music festival, when I see the people here. That’s why I do
this, so everybody can share this.
“My
philosophy,” he added, “is that we need our history books and original
documents, but the only place you can experience history is in a restoration.”
If you ever
need to find a little sisu within
yourself, Roseberry is the place to visit. Despite all odds, it’s quite alive,
the very essence of sustainable courage and perseverance.
“To the
Finns, sisu means tenacity,"
Frank said. "To the non-Finns, it just means stubborn.”
All I have
to say is, “Long live Roseberry.”
*For more adventures in Idaho, (with recipes between the stories!) get the
"Appetite for Idaho" book
here.
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