Category: Director’s Musings

As one of the first residents of the Deerfield area, Samuel Harrison Corbett was deeply interested in the welfare of Deerfield and its citizens. A highly respected and a prominent member of the agricultural community, Sam was widely and favorably known as a man of sterling worth and a worthy representative of the courageous pioneers who settled the county. In fact, Corbett was once referred to as the number one citizen of the Deerfield Community by Foster Eskelund, a life-long Kearny Countian and former president of the Kearny County Historical Society. Born at Baltimore, Maryland in 1859, he was but 12 years old when his father died unexpectedly. Sam went to Boonsboro, Maryland to live with an uncle and remained in his home for a year. Later he spent two years at Sharpsburg where he rose at 4 a.m. every day to do chores and repeated them each evening after school. In return, Corbett received his board and clothes and $30 a year.

In 1877, Sam left to seek his fortune in Kansas and lived in both Lincoln and Graham counties where he worked for claim holders for board and the barest of wages. He survived on two meals a day with supper being a steady diet of only mush and milk. Sam grew extremely homesick but couldn’t gather enough money to return to the East. He started with a caravan to Silver Cliff, Colorado in 1880; however, when the group arrived at Fort Wallace, Corbett decided instead to remain there and become a sheep herder. He eventually made his way to the Arkansas Valley where he gained employment as a cow punch for the XY Ranch. He traversed the XY’s range from Garden City west to Hartland, and the spring round-ups brought him in contact with almost every hill and vale within a radius of 250 miles. That was a dangerous time, and the ranch boys had to stay on high alert. Sam grew to know all the country, the cowboys, ponies and brands from the Adobe Walls region to the Smoky Hill River and loved the stories the cowboys told around the camp fires on the open plains or sheltered from the storms in the sod bunk house at ranch headquarters.

After four years with the XY, Corbett intended to make a business of catching mustang ponies; however, his plans were changed by a charming young lady whom he wooed and won. In 1883, he married Miss Dolly Caswell who came to Deerfield in 1882 with her widowed mother. Instead of chasing ponies, Sam filed on a piece of land and established his home on the southwest quarter of section 16, township 24, range 35. He built his bride a 14×20-foot box house which was then considered a “mansion” in this section of the country. As his wealth increased, Mr. Corbett added to the house until a one-story dwelling of seven rooms sheltered he and Dolly and their six children.

While working for the XY, Corbett started building up his own ranch; thus, he had a small bunch of cattle to start with when he assumed possession of his ranch. After losing his entire herd in the great blizzard of 1886, Sam borrowed $150 and began buying and selling condemned cow horses. Stock raising became a highly profitable endeavor for Sam, and his tenacity helped to develop the open prairie from a cattle range to a fine agricultural paradise.

Corbett was also a highly successful business man. In 1902, he went into business with Fred Sower, purchasing the grocery house of George H. Tate at Deerfield. Corbett & Sower dealt in general merchandise and groceries, selling everything from pitch forks to “Moses’ best flour.” Sam bought out Sower in 1904 and built a new store building in 1907, advertising as “the old reliable.”  Corbett’s store was a gathering place for nearly every resident of the city. He also continued to sell cattle and horses and raise hay on the side. Following his retirement, Sam and Dolly moved to Colorado Springs in 1918.

Sam Corbett never took an active part in political affairs, but he served as clerk of the first school board of the township. He also served as Deerfield postmaster for over five years and was instrumental in establishing a rural route with over 80 boxes on it. Although he was raised under Catholic influence, Sam became a Sunday school leader and active member of the Methodist Church to which his wife and children belonged. He was also a wide reader of history, both ancient and modern. During retirement, Sam wrote stories of his life on the range and sent them with letters to his friends. Samuel Harrison Corbett died in 1931, and his body was brought back to Kearny County for burial in the Deerfield Cemetery. Dolly died in 1949 and was buried in Evergreen Cemetery in Colorado Springs.

SOURCES: A Standard History of Kansas and Kansans by William E. Connelley; Diggin’ Up Bones by Betty Barnes; Southwest History Corner by India H. Simmons; History of Kearny County Vol. 1; Museum archives; and archives of the Kearny County Advocate and Hutchinson Gazette.

 

The origin of “It takes a village to raise a child,” may be somewhat of a mystery, but that certainly makes the saying no less true. We are who we are mainly because of relationships we had with adults and values they taught us as children. This is especially true for those of us who grew up in small communities like Lakin, Deerfield and Kendall.

Our young minds were not only shaped by our parents but also by Sunday School instructors, Scout leaders, teachers and coaches. Even something as seemingly insignificant as the demeanor shown by the clerk who rang up our ‘candy’ bill at the local grocery store planted a seed about hospitality and good manners.

Local librarians ignited a spark that turned into a lifelong love of reading. Our first employers took a chance on fresh faces, taught us responsibility and rewarded us accordingly. As young athletes, musicians, and actors, we were cheered on by the entire community. Helpful words of advice were given freely and taken to heart.

Growing up in rural SW Kansas meant our parents knew everyone. We were set free on Halloween night to go all over town. Neighborhood moms were happy to give us a ride to school. Neighborhood dads shot hoops with us and repaired the flat tires on our bikes. We never went hungry because local gardeners were happy to share. Hand-me-downs from the family next door were eagerly accepted and appreciated. At our darkest moments, thoughtful souls stopped by with food for our families and words of comfort.

Times have changed, but fortunately Kearny County hasn’t. In this time of Covid-19 and all its uncertainty, we witness younger generations giving back to the “village” that gave them so much. In the midst of crisis, we see perhaps clearer than ever the true blessings of community and small town ways.

 

Each morning on my way to work, I pass by Jo Speer’s immaculate flower gardens. Immediately I am filled with joy. Jo’s flowers are just one of the familiar sights that make Lakin home and make me proud to live in this community.

When I was in high school, I couldn’t wait to get out of Lakin. It’s funny how age changes one’s perspective. Now I realize how fortunate I was to grow up where we knew everyone on a first-name basis, a town where the entire community rejoiced over someone’s good fortune and grieved over someone’s loss. A teacher once told me that familiarity breeds disinterest. I beg to differ. It brings comfort.

There are many faces etched permanently in my memories, like the high school English teacher who took a young girl under his wing because he knew how much she loved to write. (Thank you, Uncle Walt.) I still envision John Henderson in the stands cheering on his beloved Broncs. I smile when I think of Juan Perez making funny faces during church to entertain a restless child in the pew ahead of him. I can even still smell the somewhat sweet scent of Al Guyer’s cigar and what I would give for one of the giant cinnamon rolls served up by those smiling ladies in the grade school kitchen! I’m grateful for Paul McVey’s graciousness in allowing neighborhood kids to use his basketball goal and for his patience with young, inquisitive tykes who just wanted to visit with him.

As a kid, I would run to the tracks in hopes to find a sugar beet that had been left behind. Then there were the times I ran for my life when the fire whistle went off because Hap Claar was behind the wheel of that fire engine barreling down Waterman Avenue! On Halloween there were outhouses placed on Main by some of the town’s orneriest fellas, and then there was John Plummer who asked for tricks before he gave out treats. There were seemingly endless rodeo parades led by Otis Jennings and thrilling performances under Friday night lights of the LHS marching band directed by Chris Coots. I still hear Fred Bohl fiddling out “Red Wing” and Velma Cox calling me, “kid.” I treasure memories of Saturday mornings spent visiting Maybelle Gropp and Sulie Mace. There are faces remembered simply because they showed kindness like Thelma Leonard, Esther Carter, Benny Hilger, and others too numerous to mention.

I feel privileged to keep the memories alive of the people who made my childhood great. Just like Jo Speer’s flowers, those colorful personalities touched my heart and made Lakin “home.”

(This editorial appeared in the most recent issue of the Kearny County Historical Society’s newsletter and was written by Julie McCombs, Museum Director. Many thanks to Jo Speer and her daughter-in-law Robin for taking time out from gardening to visit and pose for pictures.)

Recently, my family and I traveled to my father’s old stomping grounds. It had been 11 years since I had visited. Having lost my father about four years ago, it was also an emotional journey for me. I was constantly looking for buildings along the way that brought back memories of the trips that I had made to Texas with my parents every summer for over 18 years. So many things had changed, and so little of what I saw was familiar to me.

When we got to Hopkins County, I found myself overcome with emotion. How many times had my grandmother told me stories of the old homeplace, where my dad was born, and my ancestors? Even as a kid, those stories were of great interest to me. I loved hearing my grandmother tell them. But, I didn’t have the foresight to write them down. Sadly, I have forgotten so many.

Grandparents, share your stories with your grandchildren. Write them down or use a cellphone or video camera to record your story. Grandchildren, listen and write down the stories that your grandparents and parents tell you. If not, one day all that valuable family history could be lost.

 

Ah ….. research. It can be quite interesting and enlightening. But, it can also be confusing. I have spent a great deal of time as of late researching Fred Harvey and trying to find information regarding the dining hall/hotel that was located at Lakin from around 1876 to 1880. I have perused microfilm, online articles and databases, Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Annual Reports, newspapers, and books written about Harvey. I have come to the conclusion that no two publications completely agree on the matter. This is very difficult to fathom for a person who doesn’t like living in the “gray” zone. I’m very much like my late grandfather in that respect. He saw everything in black and white; there was one right way to do something and it was to be done the right way the first time around. I want to know the absolute truth, and I shudder at the thought that I could be repeating inaccuracies.

But, the truth is, history holds many discrepancies and inaccuracies. Why? Rarely do individuals remember an event exactly the same. Local historians relied on the “memories” of those who lived here because there were few records and no local newspapers to document happenings in Lakin’s first six years. The result? Stories that are similar but never exactly alike. When these stories are shared and re-written, each writer puts their own spin on the events. Each time the story changes hands, it changes just a little bit.

I am new to this museum gig, and I’m sure that those who have been involved with it much longer than I came to those conclusions early on in their research. While I will continue to dig for documentation and pray to the spirits of Lakin’s founding fathers for guidance, I somehow must learn to strike a balance. There will be some mysteries that I can never solve; perhaps I need to research how to accept that fact. Like it or not, I am now officially a resident of “the gray zone.”

Julie Grubbs McCombs, Kearny County Museum Director