When College Students Go Missing....

If you Google "college student disappears," search results will identify more than 7 million hits. Of course, many of the hits reproduce the same disappearance, but the total is nevertheless alarming. It's clear that the disappearance of students is not a rarity. Some cases go back quite far, the subject of the search still undiscovered. Lauren Spierer, for example, a student at Indiana University who disappeared June 3, 2011 when she was twenty years old, remains unaccounted for. Other cases date back even further. More recently, Jason Landry, a twenty-one-year-old student at Texas State University, disappeared last December. His crashed automobile was found in a remote area, but, as of this writing, Jason remains undiscovered. Occasionally, the fog of absence abruptly lifts when someone discovers a body, as happened in 1992 when Tammy Zywicki disappeared en route back to Grinnell College.

Was it always like this? Did college and university students of yesteryear go missing like Jason Landry or Lauren Spierer did? Or is the phenomenon a modern happening without precedent?

Today's post examines two cases from the early history of Grinnell College to help us compare the past with more recent experience. These early disappearances indicate that, although the past is often very different from the present, sometimes it's hard to tell the difference between then and now.

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Marshalltown Evening Times-Republican, October 24, 1899

In the last years of the nineteenth century, Grinnell College—including its preparatory academy and the Music School—enrolled on average about 500 students, the great majority of them from Iowa. Therefore, the September 1899 arrival in Grinnell of Wayne Bagley (b. 1881) from State Center, Iowa provoked little attention. An older brother had attended Grinnell in the late 1880s when the family was living in Melbourne, Iowa, so young Wayne—eighteen years old when he enrolled—was no doubt familiar with the college. Moreover, like most of his classmates, his home was nearby. 

Details of Wayne's previous schooling remain unclear, but evidently college officials did not deem him sufficiently prepared for the rigors of the college curriculum. Instead, according to the 1899-1900 college catalog, Wayne enrolled not in the college itself, but rather as a senior in the Academy, a sort of preparatory school. The college catalog, in enumerating schools whose curriculum the college recognized as satisfactory, lists the State Center schools in a second, lower category than the preferred, recognized schools, which probably explains Bagley's placement in the Academy.

1899-1900 Iowa College Catalog, p. 99

The Academy offered three years of preparatory work, and it is to Bagley's credit that Iowa College officials deemed him sufficiently well-schooled to enter the third, senior year in the Academy. As a review of the catalog confirms, the senior-year curriculum was no pushover, demanding competencies not easily attained in today's secondary schools. For example, all students in Bagley's Academy cohort were obliged to take Latin, English, and Physics five times a week, along with one additional language, choosing among Greek, German, or French. A catalog footnote pointed out that anyone wishing to continue toward the bachelor's degree had to have Greek, an indication of the high expectations the Academy held for its students.

Main Street, State Center, Iowa (before 1910)
(https://digital.grinnell.edu/islandora/object/grinnell:14307)

Happily for Bagley, he entered the Academy with two other students from State Center—John Gaffield Capron (1876-1918) and Wilbur H. Schilling (1881-1951). State Center was not then (and is not now) a large community: the 1900 US Census counted just over 1000 residents, so it is not unreasonable to think that the three young men were acquainted. In fact, the 1900 US Census for State Center lists the Capron and Schilling families next to one another, so they must have been neighbors. Moreover, Capron's mother (Clara Bagley Capron [1841-1901]) was a Bagley relative. It seems likely, therefore, that the three shared an acquaintance and may well have arrived in Grinnell together.

View of Grinnell College Campus; Goodnow Hall, Chicago Hall, Blair Hall, all built in 1880s
(https://digital.grinnell.edu/islandora/object/grinnell%3A13335)

But if the three young men were close, their friendship seems not to have helped Wayne Bagley adjust to the academic and social rigors of Grinnell. Barely a month after arriving in Grinnell, Bagley vanished. The Scarlet and Black, reporting the "mysterious disappearance," noted that Bagley was last seen "Friday evening [October 20th] directly after prayer meeting..." (October 25, 1899), only about five weeks after his arrival in Grinnell. "What makes the case more singular," the Marshalltown newspaper observed, "is [that] the young man has no bad habits, and there is no known reason for his absence" (Evening Times-Republican, October 24, 1899). Inquiries made in State Center, on the assumption that Bagley might have simply gone home, yielded no help; no one at home had heard from him and no one had a clue about where Bagley might have gone. So, the newspaper said, the boy's father would travel to Grinnell.

In fact, however, as the Marshalltown paper announced a few days later, it was Harlow Bagley (presumably meaning James Harlow Bagley [1868-1946], Wayne's oldest brother) who came to Grinnell, "doing everything in his power to trace his brother Wayne." If today searchers might send faxes, emails, or texts, in 1899 officials prepared and mailed post cards bearing Bagley's description to "all towns and villages in central Iowa." The newspaper, in an attempt to explain the young man's disappearance, opined that academics was not the problem, as young Wayne "was well up in his studies and there was absolutely no friction with teachers, students or anyone else" (Marshalltown Evening Times-Republican, October 27, 1899). An editorial in the college newspaper asserted that "Mr. Bagley had proved himself a faithful and diligent student and a young man of fine character," leading the editor to conclude that "we cannot but believe that some harm has befallen him" (Scarlet and Black, November 1, 1899). Perhaps the editor was not alone, as Grinnell officials set about dragging local ponds in search of a body (Daily Iowa Capital, October 30, 1899); none was found.

Des Moines Daily News, November 11, 1899

As often happens in cases like this, soon there were reports of bodies being found elsewhere—in a coal house, in the basement of the Methodist church, and in the baptistry of the Baptist church—"but the reports were unfounded" (Marshalltown Evening Times-Republican, October 31, 1899). The range of possible explanations gradually expanded, spurring still more speculation. In early November, almost two weeks after Bagley disappeared, someone raised the possibility that Wayne had "skipped away and enlisted in the army under an assumed name," but there was no evidence to confirm the supposition (ibid., November 2, 1899). A $200 reward for "information leading to his discovery" also failed to generate any solid leads (Des Moines Daily News, November 11, 1899). 

Months passed with no more light being shed on the mystery. When another Bagley brother visited the area in March, five months after the young man vanished, the newspaper could report that "nothing whatever has been learned as to [Wayne's] whereabouts" (Marshalltown Evening Times-Republican, March 31, 1900). One month later the discovery of a body near Oxford, Iowa led some to think that the missing student had at last been found; but the body was not Bagley's, and again the paper had to observe that "not a syllable of information concerning Bagley has been received since the evening last fall that he was seen in Grinnell" (ibid, April 30, 1900). The college newspaper marked the anniversary of Bagley's disappearance, observing that "all investigations proved unavailing, and his case is yet shrouded in mystery" (Scarlet and Black, October 31, 1900). 

Extract from Obituary of J. H. Bagley
(State Center Enterprise, March 31, 1904)

When Wayne's father, J. H. Bagley (1827-1904), died in 1904 without having seen his youngest son since he set off for Grinnell five years earlier, the obituary omitted mention of Wayne. The text noted that the deceased was father to five sons, but identified only four, making no mention of Wayne  (State Center Enterprise, March 31, 1904). Similarly, when Bagley's mother died many years later (1940), the death notice made no reference to Wayne (Marshalltown Times-Republican, June 6, 1940). Clearly the trail had gone cold. In what might have been the family's final acknowledgment of the missing Wayne, his brother, John Heman Bagley (1871-1929), gave the name Wayne to his fourth and final chid—Wayne R. Bagley (1909-1986). So far as I could learn, no other news of the missing young man has ever surfaced.

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1132 Broad Street (2016 photo), Campus Residence of Roy McNamara '05

While his family and Grinnell classmates were still wondering about the fate of Wayne Bagley, news of the disappearance of another Grinnell student rocked the community. In late March 1902 the campus newspaper reported that Roy McNamara '05, like Bagley, an Academy student, was missing. Last seen Tuesday morning, March 18th, McNamara failed to return to his room at 1132 Broad Street where he was a boarder in the home of Mrs. Maria Hibbard (1841-1903).  At widow Hibbard's place McNamara earned his keep by monitoring the furnace and waiting table, but that Tuesday the young man left the house with a package that searchers suspected held a change of clothes (Marshalltown Evening Times-Republican, March 20, 1902).

Friends were concerned and sounded the alarm. "A searching investigation was made," the newspaper noted, "but absolutely no trace of the young man could be found." As with Bagley, friends and officials could divine no reason for McNamara's disappearance. "His home relations were pleasant and there were no financial reasons for his leaving school at this time...no mental derangement is known of." Similar to the description of Bagley, McNamara was said to be "a quiet young fellow of steady habits, a faithful student, and [he] paid close attention to his work in the college." A student journalist declared the case "an absolute mystery" (Scarlet and Black, March 26, 1902).

Newspaper portrait of Roy McNamara '05
Marshalltown Evening Times-Republican, March 20, 1902

Again Grinnell distributed word of the young man's absence to surrounding towns and to police forces "all over the country." The boy's father, a Congregational minister in Onawa, Iowa rushed to Grinnell to try to help, but the Reverend was "at a loss to account for his son's disappearance, and thinks he must have been temporarily deranged" (Marshalltown Evening Times-Republican, March 20, 1902). 

Undated Photograph of Main Street, Onawa, Iowa
(David Shedlock Iowa Postcard Collection [http://iagenweb.org/monona/TownPhotos/Onawa.html])

The next day's Marshalltown paper had little news to add, and concentrated instead on McNamara's past. Like Bagley, young McNamara came from a small town where  he was well-known. The 1900 US Census counted just under 2000 residents in Onawa; with his father pastoring one of the larger churches in town, Roy McNamara enjoyed the acquaintance of many. He had met more Onawans by working in a store the summer before coming to Grinnell. And, like Bagley, McNamara came to Grinnell in the company of other hometown youngsters (Marshalltown Evening Times-Republican, March 21, 1902; Onawa Gazette, September 13, 1901).

The third day of his disappearance brought news that Des Moines detectives were working on the case (Marshalltown Evening Times-Republican, March 22, 1902), but after another ten days the newspaper reported "No News of McNamara." For the second time, journalists raised the possibility that the missing young man had experienced "a temporary aberration of his mind" (Marshalltown Evening Times-Republican, April 2, 1902). 

Photograph of Roy T. McNamara, Onawa Gazette, March 28, 1902

As with Wayne Bagley, in McNamara's case, too, false leads occasionally stimulated hope. In late March came word that perhaps Roy had ended up in Sioux City, where Rev. McNamara had once pastored the local Congregational Church. Apparently a Sioux City barber had given a shave to a young man who had expressed interest in the newspaper story about McNamara's disappearance. The barber thought that the young man resembled Roy McNamara's picture. So Rev. McNamara rushed north, hoping to find Roy there. The young man in question had disappeared, but McNamara used his time to print circulars with the boy's description and photograph, and these he "sent to cities and towns all over the west" (Onawa Gazette, March 28, 1902; Marshalltown Evening Times-Republican, April 4, 1902). In interviews with journalists, Rev. McNamara betrayed growing pessimism about his absent son's fate. "I am convinced," he said, "that Roy has either become demented and wandered away, or has taken his life." The worried father told newsmen that he had tried to explain his son's flight by worries over his studies at Grinnell, "but this is hard to believe," he said, "because he had expressed no dissatisfaction over being at school." Roy, he said, was looking forward to having his younger brother join him next year at Grinnell, so his absence made no sense (Marshalltown Evening Times-Republican, April 29, 1902; Onawa Gazette, March 28, 1902).

In the last days of April a report from yet another place raised hopes anew. Rev. McNamara, back home after a disappointing sojourn in Sioux City, received a telegram from Indianapolis, hinting that Roy might be living there. Newspaper stories expressed some confusion, some asserting that Roy had applied to work in a drugstore, others that Roy was working in a railroad shop, having given as reference the name of the man in whose drug store he had worked as a youth (Onawa Democrat, May 1, 1902; Ottumwa Semi-Weekly Courier, May 1, 1902)). His father thought the lead worth pursuing, and hastened to Indianapolis (Marshalltown Evening Times-Republican, April 29, 1902).

The good news was that Roy McNamara had in fact been found, even if at first the young man declined to return to Iowa (Ottumwa Semi-Weekly Courier, May 1, 1902). The Onawa Weekly Democrat reported that Roy confessed to having suffered

nervous prostration, the result of overstudy in college, the tasks being very severe, and he believed he was well nigh insane, as he has an indistinct recollection of leaving the institution (May 8, 1902).

As he told the story, Roy claimed to have been so disoriented that "his mind failed to grasp the situation, and he did not realize that there had been a great change in his life." The physical work of the railroad yard, the outdoor life, and freedom from mental strain helped buoy the young man, and his memory gradually improved. Even then, he was uncertain about to how to proceed, fearing what family and friends might say if he admitted his flight (ibid.)

Great was the rejoicing, however, when early in May Rev. McNamara returned to Onawa in the company of his missing son. Roy told the local newsman that "he was feeling better and gradually getting stronger, but was not yet well." He told the reporter that he "had no recollection of leaving Grinnell, his mind being a blank for many days." The news story attributed this condition to the fact that McNamara "had been studying very hard for some time before going away... .and his condition is plainly the result of overstudy" (Marshalltown Evening Times-Republican, May 7, 1902; Onawa Gazette, May 9, 1902).

As he had promised, Roy took some time to recover, telling Grinnell that he planned to return to campus, but would spend the entire next academic year at home (Scarlet and Black, April 18, 1903). Although Roy's brother, Leo, did in fact enroll at Grinnell that year, Roy never returned to the college. None of the college catalogs of those years name Roy among the college's students, and later news notices indicate that Roy pursued other options. A brief note in 1906, for instance, told readers that until recently Roy had been working with a railroad crew in Mondamin, Iowa (Onawa Sentinel, September 14, 1906). The following year an advertisement for Selleck's pharmacy encouraged customers to visit their new soda fountain, which "our demonstrator, Roy McNamara, will be pleased to show you..." (Onawa Sentinel, May 16, 1907). Sometime later Roy moved to Bliss, Idaho where he joined with others to acquire the Bliss Gazette. "Roy's Onawa friends," the hometown paper commented, "will not only be pleased to know that he has the paper, but even better pleased to know that he is doing well in a business way" (Onawa Weekly Democrat, July 6, 1911). Two years later Onawa newspaper readers learned that Roy had married a "popular Onawa young lady," Miss Jennie Douglas; apparently the pair had been sweethearts all through their schooling, but only decided to marry after both had reached their thirties. The wedding took place in Onawa, and immediately thereafter the couple settled in Bliss, Idaho where Roy was "engaged in the surveying business and is at present water manager of a large irrigation company" (Onawa Weekly Democrat, January 16, 1913). Unfortunately, sorrow soon found Roy McNamara again: in October 1914 the newspaper relayed the sad news that Jennie McNamara had fallen ill, perhaps with typhoid; she was rushed to hospital in Boise (Onawa Sentinel, October 15, 1914), but within a week she was dead. 

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Although the 1914 death of his wife must have depressed Roy McNamara, his story is on balance a good one. Unlike many of the missing, McNamara returned alive. He had emerged from that demi-world of the disappeared, and then put together what seems to have been a successful life: he carved out a career in Idaho where, by the time he died in 1948, he was managing a bank. After the death of his first wife in 1914, McNamara remarried, and ended up in a Boise cemetery next to his second wife. No doubt the trauma of his 1902 disappearance left its marks on him and his family, but he revived and survived.

Gravestone of Roy McNamara, Morris Hill Cemetery, Boise, Idaho

The story was less happy for Wayne Bagley and his family; his parents, siblings and all his friends passed the remainder of their lives without ever knowing Wayne's fate. Had he suffered? Had he been murdered, like so many of today's missing? Or did he, perhaps, manage to reinvent himself under another name somewhere, having jettisoned the memory of those heady days of autumn 1899 in Grinnell, Iowa? Did he, like Roy McNamara, feel enervated by the intensity of academics, or did something else drive him out of the world he knew? We are unlikely ever to know, as is regrettably true for so many of the young women and men who in recent years joined their names to the legions of the missing.

Where Did All the Outhouses Go?

If you are old enough, or perhaps if you grew up in the country, you probably knew and used an outhouse (also called privy or biffy) somewhere—perhaps at a summer cabin if nowhere else. Often a modest, wooden structure situated a distance from the house, preferably down wind, the outhouse was a necessity for the pioneers of early Grinnell who lived in a world without city water or a sanitary sewer. Most privies were built atop a vault dug into the earth; an elevated seat and a door that would close gave users some comfort and privacy while they attended to nature's call. A variation looked much the same, but had no excavated vault beneath it; instead, a pail stood beneath the seat to collect excretions (which someone had to empty periodically). Often outhouse owners hid their privies, planting flowers or sweet-smelling bushes around the building, hoping thereby to obscure the structure and mask the odors that inevitably attached to outhouses. My grandfather, for instance, had honeysuckle growing around his privy, but some owners preferred lilacs or tall blooms like hollyhocks to help hide the outhouse from view.

Modern photo of a rural outhouse (not hidden by bush or flowers)
(https://permies.com/t/132060/Converting-classic-outhouse-proper-humanure)

For obvious reasons, outhouses within a growing town like early Grinnell raised problems: the greater the concentration of people, the greater the concentration of outhouses—and outhouse output. Furthermore, outhouse pits might contaminate the shallow wells often dug in areas where the water table was high, as it has long been in Grinnell. Privies also attracted flies which might then carry infectious disease from the outhouses into living quarters. Consequently, by the end of the nineteenth century, as infectious disease overran towns like Grinnell, public health officials increasingly called for an end to outhouses.

Today's post looks at the outhouses of early Grinnell, and how they disappeared a century ago.

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If you look around today's Grinnell, you will find no outhouses—city ordinance prohibits them. Even finding a photograph of Grinnell's privies of yesteryear is almost impossible; a phenomenon that was obviously essential and ubiquitous in early Grinnell is barely documented and apparently rarely photographed. How, then, can we prove that Grinnell had outhouses?

Experts tell us that rectangular depressions in the backyard or the discovery of areas where plants grow extravagantly might point to the sites of former privies, and metal-detecting probes sometimes identify the location of former outhouses. Archeologists have used all these methods to find evidence of old outhouse sites, since privy vaults—which were often filled with all manner of household trash—have yielded some fascinating finds. Another avenue of discovery lies with Sanborn insurance maps, drawn to identify buildings and the risks of fire that their construction or business might pose. However, not all old Sanborn maps show outhouses—typically small, one-story structures built of wood—presumably because these unimposing, unheated structures did not represent much threat of fire; workers tasked with drawing up the maps were no doubt happy to skip checking out these stinky little backyard conveniences. Happily, some late nineteenth-century Sanborn maps do depict outhouses (although without identifying labels), and early Grinnell maps are part of that group. 

The November 1883 Sanborn map of downtown Grinnell, for instance, shows that behind most of the businesses on Commercial, Broad, Main, and Fourth Avenue there stood, along with barns, storage sheds, and other minor buildings, small, wooden, one-story structures that must have been outhouses. Businessmen stuck at their stores or workers putting in full days at a factory needed a toilet, of course; in the era that preceded flush toilets, nearby privies were essential.

November 1883 Sanborn Map of Grinnell Commercial District; arrows point to likely outhouses

(https://www.loc.gov/resource/g4154gm.g026731883/?sp=1)

The demand was no less important at home, where an entire family had to devise a means for dealing with urination and defecation. In late nineteenth-century Grinnell, privies stood in almost every yard, as the rare, surviving testimony confirms. Martin Pearce (1916-98), for example, told interviewers in 1992 that when he was a boy, "The whole south end of the town of Grinnell...every house had an outhouse behind it down on the alley" ("Voices of the Past," https://digital.grinnell.edu/islandora/object/grinnell:23312). Gene Breiting (1913-99) recalled that, when he was a boy living on Pearl Street, "There were a lot of outhouses...at least in the areas where we were there were six outhouses behind the houses there" ("Voices of the Past," https://digital.grinnell.edu/islandora/object/grinnell:23301). 

Often the small structures were distanced from the house, perhaps situated against the rear lot line; the biffy might stand alone, but sometimes it was built adjacent to a wood shed or small barn (where one's horse was adding to the quantity of poop). Breiting remembered about his family home that "to the rear end of the lot were the wood shed and coal shed and outhouse, [and-DK] we had a plank for our walkway" through the backyard (ibid.). Siting the biffy away from the house provided privacy and kept unwanted smells distant.

1893 Sanborn map of Grinnell; arrows point to likely outhouses in one block of residential Grinnell
(https://www.loc.gov/resource/g4154gm.g026731893/?sp=2)

John Nollen (1869-1952), who hailed from Pella but was Grinnell College president from 1932 to 1940, recalled a similar arrangement at his Pella boyhood home.

Our childhood home is quite clear in my mind...The house was heated by stoves...and lighted by kerosene lamps..no bathroom, no plumbing, a cistern behind the house for "soft water," a well in front, remote from contamination, for drinking and cooking water...A 'privy'...in the back yard (John Scholte Nollen, A History of Grinnell College Through 1952 [Iowa City: State Historical Society of Iowa, 1953], p. 233).

No doubt the pioneers of Grinnell were accustomed to privies, but as the town grew, city fathers looked for ways to eliminate outhouses. Waves of infectious disease like cholera and typhoid—both of which were common in nineteenth-century Iowa—helped drive founding of the Iowa State Board of Health in 1880. The Board of Health, in turn, encouraged Iowa communities to clean up. In Grinnell the first efforts to improve local sanitation came in the 1890s with the installation of the first water lines and the first sanitary sewer.

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Before city water arrived in Grinnell, most townsfolk had to find their own water. Many houses boasted cisterns which would collect "soft" rain water. Depending upon where the cistern stood, homeowners could arrange plumbing to bring the water into kitchens or baths. For example, at the Henry Watters house at 334 East Street, the cistern was in the basement. Recalling the house she moved into in 1902, Sara McIlrath Maurer (1890-1973) described the cistern:

It was a large round wooden tank on top of the [basement] floor, and filling the space directly under the kitchen. In the rainy seasons we had to watch and turn the water off outside, lest the tank get too full and run over...In the kitchen above there was a cistern pump worked by hand at the east end of the boxed in, dark cast-iron sink.... (Sara McIlrath Maurer, "334 Elm Street," January 1963, p. 2; Local History Archive, Drake Community Library)

Cisterns were an invaluable source of water that was suitable for bathing and washing. And when rain fell hard, cisterns might fill quickly, as happened in late July 1911 when Grinnell recorded 1.56 inches of rain in one hour (Marshalltown Evening Times-Republican, August 1, 1911); in June 1913 the town was drenched with 4.75 inches of rain, flooding streets and filling cisterns (ibid., June 7, 1913). So long as rainfall was generous, Grinnell households enjoyed a plentiful supply of rain water, but when drought hit central Iowa, as it did several times in the late nineteenth century, cisterns went dry. A December 1889 article in the Grinnell Herald, for example, reported that "the water [supply] question is again getting serious hereabouts. A great many wells and cisterns are dry and water for stock is scarce" (December 3, 1889).

Missouri Valley Times, December 21, 1899

This circumstance encouraged Grinnell homeowners to drill their own wells; with a high water table, Grinnell wells need not have been deep, but the ubiquity of outhouses in town presented a constant risk to well water. As the authors of the 1912 U.S. Geological Survey paper pointed out,

Shallow dug wells, walled as they generally are by brick or tile, that permit the inflow of water from top to bottom, are usually unsafe in a town or even in the country unless they are well protected from contamination by kitchen or household waste, privies, drainage from stable yards, and all similar sources of pollution...Infectious material is likely to enter it at any time...the danger...is undoubtedly in direct proportion to the prevalence of privy vaults, cesspools, badly drained streets, and decaying garbage (W. H. Norton, et al., Underground Water Resources of Iowa [Washington, DC: Government Printing office, 1912], p. 196)

All these considerations drove city officials to commission a city water system that would be immune to surface contaminants.

The first step was to acquire a water source, and in 1892 Grinnell authorized drilling the first of several deep wells that reached into the Jordan (technically, the Cambrian-Ordovician) Aquifer. Dug to a depth of nearly 2000 feet, Grinnell's first well was estimated to produce "150,000 gallons of water suitable for culinary and mechanical use" (Water and Sewage Works 4[1893]:122). Because planners originally figured that a deep well that penetrated below clay and shale need not be cased, the first well had a short life, the walls soon collapsing. A second well was drilled in 1901, the drill bit pushing deeper than 2000 feet (ibid.,  21[1901]:54). A third well was sunk in 1906 (Marshalltown Evening Times-Republican, November 10, 1906), and a fourth opened in 1910 (ibid., January 25, 1910). These last two wells were both encased with six-inch cast iron pipe (Leonard Fletcher, History of Poweshiek County, 2 vols. [Chicago, 1911], 1:366).  Storage of sufficient water supply was also important, so that, as early as 1903, the city proposed erection of a 116-foot water tower. An innovation was the use of compressed air to pump water from the wells, a development admired by other communities then contemplating new water sources (Marshalltown Evening Times-Republican, April 9, 1907).

Illustration of the Jordan (Cambrian-Ordovician) Aquifer from which Grinnell gets its water
(https://www.iihr.uiowa.edu/igs/cambrian-ordovician-aquifer/)

Once a reliable source of water was established, city officials began the expensive process of laying pipe so that individual properties could connect to the system. In 1894 Grinnell solicited bids on laying "four miles of water mains along with forty-five hydrants, one elevated tower and one surface reservoir" (Water and Sewage Works 6[1894]:93). 

1898 Grinnell Sanborn Map depiction of Grinnell Water Works, 2nd & Main
(https://www.loc.gov/resource/g4154gm.g026731898/?sp=6)

Some of the earliest water hook-ups in Grinnell occurred along Broad, Park, and High streets. For example, in November 1894 the city connected residences at 1011 and 1127 Broad, at 833 and 904 High, and at 1019 Park Street. Every year thereafter more and more Grinnell homes joined the city water system. A 1914 city ordinance required any properties possessing a "water closet" to join the city system (and pay the city for the water). Some factories resisted initially, claiming that their use of the Arbor Lake soft water relieved them of the need to connect to the city system, but the courts ruled otherwise (Marshalltown Evening Times-Republican, May 27, 1914). 

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Chicago Hall, built 1883; razed 1958
(https://digital.grinnell.edu/islandora/object/grinnell%3A13449)

With a supply of water at hand, the next step was to provide a city sewer system that would eliminate the many Grinnell outhouses and their nasty cousins, "dry closets," which collected body waste until someone emptied them. Waldo Walker's 1997 timeline of Grinnell College buildings reported that in 1895-96 the college treasurer told trustees that "if the contemplated city sewer is put in this summer, we can rid ourselves of the intolerable stench of Chicago Hall which accompanies the dry closets on the second and third floors" (https://digital.grinnell.edu/islandora/object/grinnell%3A1890, p. 13). Exactly when Chicago Hall joined the city sewer system is unclear, but its neighbor, Blair Hall, was connected to the city sewer only in 1903 (Scarlet and Black, April 18, 1903).

In 1895 the city moved forward with plans for installing a sanitary sewer. Opposition to the sewer emerged immediately, opponents going to court to restrain the city "council from assessing the cost of constructing the sewer to the abutting property" (Cedar Rapids Evening Gazette, August 10, 1895). Litigation slowed construction, but by 1902 the city could report having made 279 connections to its new sanitary sewer. Nevertheless, there were serious problems. Because the city had "no natural drainage system," planners opened the discharge into Little Bear Creek, which flowed east away from Grinnell, making its way to Malcom. After a rather dry year, "the collection of sewage along the banks of this stream has become most offensive," a Grinnell correspondent reported to the Marshalltown newspaper (Marshalltown Evening Times-Republican, April 19, 1902). Several farmers with property along the Little Bear Creek (among them William Vogt, Jacob Wisecarver, Herman Speth, and Henry Rohr) sued the city, seeking to prevent Grinnell from dumping sewage in the creek. City fathers debated how to proceed; for openers, council members visited Marshalltown to inspect its disposal plant (ibid., May 1, 1902). Soon thereafter Grinnell contracted with O. P. Herrick of Des Moines to construct a large multi-chambered concrete septic tank to retain the solids emerging from the newly-constructed 18-inch sewer outlet on Grinnell's east side (A. Marston, "The New Sewage Disposal Plant at Grinnell, Iowa," The Iowa Engineer 2[1902]:51-55). With more than 10.5 miles of sanitary sewer, these changes might have been sufficient, so long as plenty of water accompanied the sludge through the pipes. However, farmers downstream remained dissatisfied, and sued again.

Compounding the problem of sewage discharge was the city's intention of expanding the sewer.  Spring 1907 the council asked the college's Samuel Buck to investigate how the sewer might run through the west side of town (Marshalltown Evening Times-Republican, March 2, 1907). The first bids for a sewer in west Grinnell proved too high (ibid., August 8, 1907), obliging the council to reconsider. The following year, however, the city accepted bids for another 19,000 feet of sewer pipes in east Grinnell (ibid., May 6, 1908). Work on west Grinnell's sewer began in earnest only in summer 1915. Rainy weather and the depth of some of the excavations (up to 50 feet in places) delayed the project, the central tunnel of which ran along 2nd Avenue. By April 1917 the entire system was in operation, a new tunnel directing the entire flow across the city, from east to west, emptying all the city's sewage into septic tanks and filter beds two miles west of town (ibid., April 25, 1917). State inspectors pronounced the new disposal plant a success (ibid., April 25, 1917; ibid., March 25, 1919).

With a satisfactory solution to treating city sewage and with sewer connections established over most of the town, the city was positioned to eliminate outhouses from Grinnell. An August 1st, 1917 ordinance declared that 

no building or portion of building within the fire limits of the city of Grinnell...may be rented, leased or occupied...which is not provided with at least one water closet connected to the sanitary sewer...and no cesspool, privy vault or manure pit shall be maintained or used with the same area (Charles B. Bell, The Government of the City of Grinnell, Iowa [Iowa City, 1917], p. 44).

Grinnell outhouses ceased to exist.

###

It is easy to see how much dirtier was early Grinnell than today's city, despite the subsequent doubling of town population. The city's unpaved streets, littered with horse manure, were dusty in dry weather and mucky cesspools in the rain. The men and women who traversed the wooden sidewalks or dared cross the muddy streets inevitably collected the city's ambient dirt on shoes and clothing. At home and at work, they did their private business in outhouses whose summertime odors attracted hordes of flies (along with wasps and hornets). In winter the outdoor, unheated privies presented a serious obstacle to performing nature's most basic tasks.

Advertisement for a Flush Toilet from Grinnell store in Marshalltown Newspaper
(Marshalltown Evening Times-Republican, August 27, 1900)

The arrival of city water and a sanitary sewer dramatically altered this world. By 1917 the city had obliged all homeowners to connect to the sanitary sewer, thereby dooming the town's outhouses. Flush toilets, for sale in Grinnell since at least 1900, began to replace backyard privies. Likewise, the gradual reach of city water to all Grinnell homes made baths more comfortable, more accessible, and more frequent. The washing machine—many of which were being manufactured in downtown Grinnell—connected to these new water sources, generated cleaner clothes to cover the cleaner bodies. Cement sidewalks (ibid., May 6, 1908) and street-paving, which began in earnest in Grinnell in 1909 (ibid., April 20, 1909) and followed much of the sewer and water main excavations (ibid., July 16, 1914), added to the considerable improvements occasioned by the provision of city water and a sanitary sewer. 

The result of all this civic improvement was a very different Grinnell. Not only were noisome outhouses missing from the town's topography, but even the smell of human sweat diminished, giving Grinnell residents a sharply different olfactory experience, and a much healthier world in which to live.

Arbor Lake: Has It Always Been With Us?

One of the reasons I began this blog was my concern that too often we mistakenly identify the present with the past; that is, we forget that the past was different, and assume that it was much like today. On a basic level, most of us understand quite readily that change is always happening: we ourselves change over time, as my growing wrinkles and sagging skin confirm. But we also recognize that what is today an auto parts store was, not so long ago, a grocery store; likewise, what was once an automobile dealership is today a snappy grocery. But sometimes we slip into thinking that the world we live in always looked pretty much the way it looks today. However, as the song says, "it ain't necessarily so!"

A fascinating, local example that effectively documents change over time is Grinnell's Arbor Lake, which today stands on the southwest quadrant of town, adjacent to Hazelwood Cemetery. For someone like me, who only arrived in Grinnell in 1979, it is easy to imagine that there was always a lake there, even in J. B. Grinnell's time. However, as some of you will know, J. B. Grinnell (1821-1891) left this world without ever having seen Arbor Lake, which only came into existence in 1903. Now a little over a century old, Arbor Lake has undergone considerable change over time as various efforts to beautify, re-purpose, and re-construct it have washed over the lake. Indeed, as a 1970 aerial photo of the lake confirms, at one point the lake even went totally dry, making necessary a complete reconstruction at considerable effort and expense.

1970 Aerial View of Dry Lakebed of Arbor Lake, Grinnell, Iowa
Iowa Department of Natural Resources (https://programs.iowadnr.gov/maps//aerials/)

Today's post examines the on-again, off-again history of Arbor Lake, reminding us that the past often differs from the present.

###

 Southwest Grinnell from 1896 Grinnell Plat Map
(https://digital.lib.uiowa.edu/islandora/object/ui%3Aatlases_12957)

As the 1896 plat map of Grinnell shows, at that time there was no lake in Grinnell. According to Leonard Parker's History of Poweshiek County, what we now know as Arbor Lake began life as an extension of local manufacturing sometime soon after 1900 when the Spaulding Manufacturing Company and Paul Meyer purchased from the J. B. Grinnell estate and other locals a low-lying tract of land in the southwest corner of the city. The purchasers' aim was to provide Grinnell businesses—especially Spaulding Manufacturing—with soft water in place of the city's hard well water.

By damming a creek of modest size, a considerable body of water was formed which has since been furnished through pipes for the boilers of all the manufacturing plants of the city, for the railroad engines, Hotel Monroe and for several other establishments (L. F. Parker, History of Poweshiek County, 2 vols. [Chicago: S. J. Clarke Publishing Co., 1911], 1:371).

Details are scant, but the lake, which came to cover more than thirteen acres, seems to have been created in 1902, and was certainly in operation by 1903. From the beginning the lake served the entertainment and exercise interests of Grinnell as well as the city's manufacturers. According to a newspaper account, Arbor Lake had its formal opening July 31, 1903 when some 2000 visitors gathered to see torches line a half-mile of lake shore. The Outing Club, a local outdoors association, had erected quarters sufficient to allow some 25 boats to "parade" across the lake. A citizen band performed and fireworks lit up the sky (Marshalltown Evening Times-Republican, August 1, 1903). The Grinnell College newspaper noted that autumn that students interested in some fun could "find a nice line of boats [for rent] at Arbor Lake," and one could also buy there "coffee, sandwiches, [and] drinks in season" (Scarlet and Black, September 19, 1903).

That winter the frozen lake—what the newspaper called "the most popular place in Grinnell"—attracted ice skaters (as many as three hundred at a time, the newspaper claimed) who found skating conditions under moon-lit skies perfect (Marshalltown Evening Times-Republican, December 2, 1903). Locals added a toboggan slide to increase the winter attractions (Scarlet and Black, October14, 1903). 

The lake also attracted anglers, because early on organizers had arranged for large numbers of fish to be stocked there. For instance, in summer 1904 the U.S. Bureau of Fisheries deposited 20,000 black bass in the lake (Marshalltown Evening Times-Republican, August 6, 1904). Over the years additional fish were added, including a railroad carload of fish in 1916 (ibid., September 16, 1916). Although success seems to have ebbed and flowed over the years as the lake's volume rose and fell, occasionally fishermen reported some fine catches, as, for example, when John Hastings caught a 30-inch long pickerel in 1907 (Scarlet and Black, May 22, 1907). 

Cornelia Clarke Photo (1919?) of ice skaters on Arbor Lake
(https://digital.grinnell.edu/islandora/object/grinnell%3A11900)

But of course a body of water like this also posed certain dangers. Already in 1904 the lake claimed the lives of two prominent Grinnell bankers who drowned there after a boating incident (Marshalltown Evening Times-Republican, July 21, 1904). George Jacobs, a seventeen-year-old experienced swimmer, drowned in the lake in 1911, the victim of a cramp (ibid., June 5, 1911). But even in winter the lake could be dangerous. During the very first winter the lake was open Mrs. J. B. Bryan fell, opening a significant gash in her head (ibid., January 9, 1904). More tragic was the fate of Grinnell College first-year student, Myron Thompson, who in his evening skating one January in 1914 failed to notice the thin ice beneath  him, and disappeared into the freezing water; it took hours to recover his body (Scarlet and Black, January 17, 1914; Grinnell Review, vol. 9, no. 5 [February 1914]:74). 

1906 postcard of the eastern shore of Arbor Lake, showing boathouse, club house, and minimal plantings
(https://digital.grinnell.edu/islandora/object/grinnell%3A6262)

Nevertheless, from the very beginning Arbor Lake excited Grinnell, and enthusiastic citizens joined hands to make the lake and its environs an appealing recreation site. Much of the early landscaping and decorating of Arbor Lake was the work of volunteers. But the going was tough in the early days. For one thing, almost immediately after having been formed, the lake witnessed an explosion of algae that experts identified as Cladophora fracta. The algae's growth was so spirited that boating became difficult, obliging the Outing Club to undertake expensive dredging that was not fully effective (Bruce Fink, "Some Notes on Certain Iowa Algae," Proceedings of the Iowa Academy of Sciences 12[1904]:23). As a consequence, Arbor Lake soon lost its allure, the newspaper reporting in 1904 that the area had been nearly deserted. "The boat house," the paper continued, "is closed except for two evenings of the week and on Sundays, but even at these times the patronage is small" (Marshalltown Evening Times-Republican, August 9, 1904). Apparently the dam constructed to form the lake also leaked, so that a reporter observed that

the water has so drained off that the shores and bottom of the lake near the shore present somewhat the appearance of the mud flats of bays and inlets on the seacoast when the tide is out (Marshalltown Evening Times-Republican, October 31, 1904).

The Outing Club did not despair, however. At its spring 1905 meeting, the club's 100 members laid out ambitious plans to continue work on Arbor Lake. Among other things, the club intended to apply the so-called "copper cure" to the algae. Members also pledged to plant new trees around the lake, including some weeping willows in the low-lying sections at the lake's south end (Marshalltown Evening Times-Republican, April 15, 1905; Selden Whitcomb recalls having seen these willows in his 1912 entry in Autumn Notes in Iowa [Cedar Rapids, 1914], p. 151). 

Soon thereafter the club announced that Saturday May 6th and Monday May 8th would be designated "Flower Days" at which time the public was invited to join the club in beautifying the area around the lake, "setting out plants, ornamental shrubs and trees" (Marshalltown Evening Times-Republican, May 4, 1905). Even during these difficult days, the winter-time frozen lake attracted skaters, the newspaper noting in 1905 that "The usual Thanksgiving skating attracted large crowds to Arbor Lake" (ibid., December 2, 1905). July 4th celebrations also routinely occurred around the lake where fireworks, set off over the lake, were less likely to cause trouble and viewers could line the shore for unimpeded views (ibid., July 5, 1906).

1909 color postcard of Arbor Lake (looking east)
(https://digital.grinnell.edu/islandora/object/grinnell%3A14500)

In subsequent years the Outing Club continued to improve facilities at the lake. For instance, the building that had begun as a modest club house experienced further upgrades, so much so that in 1908 the organization inaugurated evening dances on the improved floors and porches. The earlier boat house was also enlarged so as "to accommodate the increasing crowds" drawn to the lake (Marshalltown Evening Times-Republican, July 14, 1908).

Whether because all the effort exceeded the club's finances or because the club had fallen apart, the newspaper noted that in 1910 there were efforts underway to transfer responsibility for the park to the city's park commissioners. The company that owned the lake would have to lease the grounds to the city, but optimists foresaw the lake's grounds as "an ideal place for picnic parties and public gatherings of various kinds." Other volunteers also stepped up to contribute to the beautification. Officials of the local post of the Grand Army of the Republic—veterans of the Civil War—planted "many trees," shrubs and flowering plants, and even made sure that the grass was mowed. There was also talk of naming the park land east of the lake in honor of the G.A.R. (ibid., January 18, 1910). This idea received new energy when in 1913 a G.A.R. member offered $250 toward developing the park east of Arbor Lake on "condition that the city should get title to the property to be kept forever as a park and to be named 'Grand Army of the Republic Memorial Park'" (ibid., May 14, 1913). 

The hot weather and drought of summer, 1910 brought another steep decline in the lake's volume, making it "lower than it has been before for years" (ibid., July 28, 1910). That autumn the Ladies Cemetery Association, which was in charge of nearby Hazelwood Cemetery, proposed to sell off a strip of land along the cemetery's far eastern border, adjacent to Arbor Lake. The result, newspapers reported, would give landowners south of the lake access to Washington Avenue. The city council approved the proposal, thereby widening a bit the western edge of Arbor Lake's shore (ibid., October 6, 1910).

Nora Belle Brown (1888-1971) on Arbor Lake ca. 1910
Cynthia Levy, Into a World Unknown: A Granddaughter Traces the Lives of Her Ancestors
(Grinnell, Iowa, 2010; n. p.)

In 1913 the quality of the lake's water provoked investigation. Grinnell's "City Health Physician," Dr. C. E. Harris, along with college chemistry professor, W. S. Hendrixson, conducted an examination of the lake's water. The pair agreed that the water was not suitable for drinking, but that, so long as the lake level was reasonable, Arbor Lake was okay for swimming, although "all swimmers should keep [the water] out of their mouths and should not extend their swim beyond about twenty minutes" (Marshalltown Evening Times-Republican, June 28, 1913). Evidently swimmers followed these suggestions, because we read that that summer a Grinnell College student, Vere Loper, organized "scientific lessons in swimming and in methods of restoring people apparently drowned." Loper told the newspaper that Arbor Lake was "the best for swimming in this vicinity" (ibid., July 17, 1913). All the same, when in 1915 someone observed people drinking water at Grinnell's Rock Island stock yards adjacent to the railroad, the newspaper hastened to observe that the water there came from Arbor Lake, not from the city's deep wells. "There are few people that would think themselves safe in drinking the lake water," the paper concluded (ibid., April 21, 1915).

Professor Walter Scott Hendrixson (1859-1925)
(https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/28141623/walter-scott-hendrixson)

Meanwhile, the city of Grinnell was debating whether or not to take over ownership of Arbor Lake and its adjacent parkland. Newspaper reports indicated that the lake offered some "fine park possibilities," but said nothing about the idea of naming it after the G.A.R., as had been proposed earlier (Marshalltown Evening Times-Republican, November 5, 1913).  Later that winter the lake's owner, the Grinnell Soft Water company, convened its annual meeting without announcing any change of ownership of Arbor Lake. Quite the contrary, officials apparently invited the services of a "landscape artist" to propose some plans for beautifying the shores, "but no plan has yet been formally adopted," the newspaper reported (ibid., February 24, 1914). In November 1916 the Outing Club announced new ideas for beautifying Arbor Lake. "Wild rice and other food for game fowls [sic] will be planted, and this will make Arbor lake a breeding place for ducks as well as a spawning place for game fish," the paper said (Scarlet and Black, November 22, 1916). The following spring the Outing Club got to work reviving the lake and its adjacent park land. At their March meeting club members agreed to burn off weeds growing around the lake, to install a seine across the lake outlet to prevent fish from escaping, and to lay out spawning beds of water lilies and similar plants (Marshalltown Evening Times-Republican, March 15, 1917).

Whether all these plans came to fruition remains unclear, but other significant and long-lasting change did come to the Arbor Lake in 1916. In March Poweshiek County announced the intention of building a bridge "on Washington Avenue, across the upper arm of Arbor Lake, thus making good the finest approach to Hazelwood cemetery that the city affords" (ibid., March 30, 1916). By mid-summer the old wooden bridge had disappeared, and in its place there stood a "fine new concrete bridge." A sewer pipe ran directly beneath the bridge, the construction of which required contractors to temporarily lower the lake level (ibid., July 19, 1916). When the lake rose again after construction was complete, state officials delivered more than 40,000 fish, inflating hopes that soon Arbor Lake would again become an angler's paradise (ibid., September 16, 1916; Ottumwa Courier, October 10, 1916). And beginning no later than 1918, the bridge hosted Memorial day remembrances of naval dead (Marshalltown Evening Times-Republican, May 27, 1918).

Postcard dated 1909 of the Grinnell Armory
(https://digital.grinnell.edu/islandora/object/grinnell%3A14596)

With World War One as background, Grinnell grew increasingly aware of the possibility of American participation in the war. Surprisingly, Arbor Lake played a part in local preparation. Troop D was put on full duty at the downtown armory where soldiers conducted drills each morning. Afternoons, however, the men  spent at Arbor Lake where they engaged in rifle range practice (Marshalltown Evening Times-Republican, May 29, 1917). Nothing indicates the precise location of the practice range, but it stands to reason that the shooting would have aimed toward the rise away from the lake, using the earthen berm to absorb the bullets; if this surmise is correct, lead bullets might still be found in the rise above the lake.

A postcard dated October 24, 1921 shows Arbor Lake and its Automobile Drive
(courtesy of K. C. Cornish)

Concerns about the quality of the lake's water occasionally resurfaced in public discussions. For example, in 1918 the Grinnell City Council, worrying about the limited supply of well water, contemplated adding lake water to the city water mains if an emergency required it. But Grinnell College professor W. S. Hendrixson strongly opposed the scheme, pointing out that the city mains might be adversely affected for the future by even a brief addition of lake water (ibid., March 6, 1918). The following year newspapers reported that the town's Commercial Club took an interest in Arbor Lake, and in June 1919 the club sought the opinion of experts on the water's healthfulness (ibid., June 27, 1919). Having received an encouraging report, the Commercial Club announced its intention of reviving Arbor Lake as a resort (ibid., July 9, 1919), thereby luring to town potential customers of the city's commerce. A. C. Dickerson, who operated a plumbing business in town, donated "400 feet of rope for a safety line for swimmers and [called] for empty kegs to be donated as buoys" (ibid, July 18, 1919). That autumn the club completed "grading of the driveway on the east side of Arbor Lake and thru [sic] the G. A. R. park" [the first time when this zone was identified in this way-dk]. The club hoped to enlist volunteers to contribute cinders to cover the drives and level them," as has been done for the former mud drives in the cemetery" (ibid., October 13, 1919). Later reports indicate that the Club intended the drives for automobiles rather than pedestrians, envisioning a time when "the lake will be encircled by a good auto course" (ibid, April 12, 1920). Additional proposals envisioned "two permanent bath houses, the sanding of the bathing beach, the stretching of the life line for the safety of bathers," and more grading of the drives along the lake shore (ibid., April 29, 1920).

Scarlet and Black, May 5, 1920

Perhaps Arbor Lake never received more attention from the town than it did May 7, 1920. Under the label "Community Day," organizers summoned "the whole town" to work on Merrill Park, a new park in north Grinnell, and on Arbor Lake on Grinnell's south side. According to the Marshalltown Evening Times-Republican, "banker, preacher and merchant peeled his coat and labored hard" all day. Beginning at 7 AM automobile drivers shuttled volunteers to the two parks where work went on into the evening. At Arbor Lake volunteers put up a bandstand on the eastern shore and "sand was brought in by the car load and spread over the mud beach made bare by the drainage of the water the night before." Teams of horses lowered the high bank so as to widen the driveway and fill in lower spots along the lake. In addition, "A heavy post was set on which to have a light out in the lake for evening sports" and "a roomy pen ...[for children] was enclosed with woven wire so that they may play in the water in safety to their heart's content" (Marshalltown Evening Times-Republican, May 8, 1920). The Social Service League, which organized the event, pronounced the day a great success, and predicted that "Community Day would be made an annual event" (Scarlet and Black, May 8, 1920).

After the big volunteer effort, carpenters got to work on a two-story "pleasure house" with a bath house at each end of the main floor. A concession room was cut through the building's center, making available "delicacies of various sorts." The building's second floor was intended for spectators and picnickers driven indoors by rain. Plans called for porches on three sides of the structure, including one facing the lake (Scarlet and Black, May 26, 1920). With this sort of investment officials decided to name a permanent caretaker, selecting Harry Case, who was to "look after the general neatness of the grounds and keep his weather eye out for any mischief that thoughtless ones might plan." In return, Case would have the right to the concession stand and its income (Marshalltown Evening Times-Republican, June 9, 1920). A college professor, L. D. Hartson, was appointed to serve as life guard and first aid instructor every day from 4 PM to 8:30 PM (ibid., July 6, 1920). Workers also installed a 75-foot life line and moored a boat intended exclusively for the life guard (ibid, July, 12, 1920). Later in the summer the Red Cross offered free swimming lessons and sponsored prizes for swimming proficiency within age groups (ibid., August 2, 1920).

(https://www.hhhistory.com/2017/09/fun-filled-danger-of-giant-stride.html)

As the summer wore on, additional improvements appeared at the lake. Before June was gone a slide for children had arrived, and there was talk of putting in a merry-go-round to entertain kids. Davis School pupils somehow arranged to acquire a "Giant Stride," which was placed on the hill east of the bath house (Marshalltown Evening Times-Republican, July 26, 1920). Evening entertainment gained new impetus when workmen installed "a string of lights...along the semi-circular drive on the east shore of  the lake" (ibid., June 26, 1920). All this innovation culminated in a grand re-opening of Arbor Lake park July 7. With the promise of a concert from the city band, people were invited to "bring their meal...and remain to listen to the speaking, watch the games, the races and the swimming and bathing" (ibid., July 1, 1920). When rain interfered, authorities rescheduled the reopening for the 14th (ibid., July 8, 1920). Thanks to some local entrepreneurs, Arbor Lake soon offered visitors a ride in an eighteen-foot long  motor boat that might accommodate six or more passengers at a time (ibid., July 29, 1920).

Header to Advertisement in Marshalltown Evening Times-Republican, October 25, 1920)

All this work combined to make Arbor Lake very attractive. As Grinnell boosters pointed out in a full-page advertisement in the Marshalltown newspaper, Arbor Lake "has a fine sanded beach, an up-to-date bath house, spring boards, slides, electric lights and other equipment that make it an ideal bathing, picnicking and fishing resort with plenty of small boats." "We know of no other town in Iowa that is so fortunate as to have such a beautiful and attractive lake," the advertisement crowed (ibid., October 25, 1920).

At this point the lake's owners, the Grinnell Soft Water Company, assumed a more active role in the management of Arbor Lake. At first, the company signaled only an interest in having the lake generate more revenue. To that end, in May 1922 the company appointed Hugh Bennett, then manager of the town's Colonial Theater, to act as manager of Arbor Lake. Bennett told the Scarlet and Black that he envisioned using the lake to help "put Grinnell on the map," and to that end he planned to advertise the lake widely, and put on special events during the summer, all with the goal of attracting "thousands" to Grinnell (May 27, 1922). But the next spring the Soft Water Company changed course, abruptly announcing that it intended to close Arbor Lake "as a pleasure resort and camping ground" (Scarlet and Black, April 11, 1923). Officials of the Commercial Club and lake enthusiasts were caught by surprise, and hurried to try to stave off the closing. Meetings between the concerned parties promptly led to an agreement that would keep the lake open for the next three years, "provided Grinnell people are sufficiently interested to subscribe the funds necessary to keep the favorite summer resort in operation." In other words, the Soft Water Company wanted revenue from the lake, and also wanted to be relieved of the costs of maintenance (ibid., April 21, 1923). A committee of local worthies set out to raise $1500, judged enough to cover rental and upkeep for a year; the first year's payment was due by May 15 (ibid., May 5, 1923). To judge by reportage, the lake's proponents did not make the May 15 deadline, as a May 19 story in the Scarlet and Black noted that "much remains to be done." "The lease cannot be signed," the paper continued, "until there is definite assurance on the part of Grinnell people that the funds will be available." Failing to meet the funding target threatened to see the lake "revert to its old state of disuse and public neglect..." (ibid., May 19, 1923).

Apparently the lake and park survived this challenge, although news about Arbor Lake grows scarce after the 1920s. As before, the lake and surrounding parkland attracted visitors, including numerous picnickers. Even in the lake's earliest days many college classes and clubs convened celebratory picnics at Arbor Lake, but the high point of Arbor Lake picnics occurred in 1926 when the Farmers' Union convened its members at Arbor Lake Park. An old photograph, evidently long folded over, reveals hundreds gathered in the park land above the lake.

Farmers' Union Picnic at Arbor Lake, August 27, 1926
(https://digital.grinnell.edu/islandora/object/grinnell%3A27203)

Within a half-dozen years, however, the threat to close Arbor Lake came to life. A 1931 article in the Scarlet and Black reported that when the lake's owners failed to sell, they installed a fence around the lake and closed it to public access (April 11, 1931). When the fence came down and why remain a mystery; perhaps once the pandemic eases we may learn from the Grinnell newspapers how Arbor Lake was spared.

Clearly the fence did not stand for long; testimony confirms that the lake remained a popular recreation site in the 1930s, by which time many of the trees and bushes planted in earlier decades had blossomed into a lovely, shady backdrop for picnics. Lucille "Sid" Potts (1910-2007), who grew up in Grinnell, told interviewers that in the 1930s "Arbor Lake was tremendous. We would have lots of picnics down there...the beach was full...it was the place to go" (https://digital.grinnell.edu/islandora/object/grinnell:23314). 

Photograph of 1934 Picnic of the Tarleton Family at Arbor Lake
(https://digital.grinnell.edu/islandora/object/grinnell%3A12064)

Despite Potts' enthusiastic recollections, inattention continued to undermine the health and beauty of the site as the Depression dominated local concerns. Newspaper accounts from spring 1940 indicate that fundraising had begun "to rehabilitate the lake and surrounding grounds." Succeeding to the work of the Outing and Commercial Clubs at the lake were the Grinnell Jaycees, who in 1940 arranged a one-dollar-a-year lease of the lake from Grinnell Soft Water company (Marshalltown Times-Republican, May 27, 1940). To update the park, volunteers installed new benches, picnic tables and a bath house, as well as a new parking lot. The grand reopening took place on July 4, 1940, guests enjoying band music, a tap-dancing contest, swimming events, and a bathing beauty contest (ibid., July 2, 1940). 

Throughout the 1940s both townies and college students frequented the park. College student Curtis Harnack (1927-2013) recalled that in spring 1945 many students enjoyed "blanket parties at Arbor Lake" (Curtis Harnack, The Attic: A Memoir [Ames: Iowa State University Press, 1993], p. 137). Audrey "Bunny" Howard Swanson, who graduated from Grinnell College in 1943, told alumni interviewers in 2012 that in warm weather she and her college friends might "borrow a couple of bikes and the fellows would pedal us out to Arbor Lake" (https://digital.grinnell.edu/islandora/object/grinnell%3A19423). The lake was such an attraction that when some Mexicans arrived in town in July 1944 to help harvest seed corn, the first of them went directly to Arbor Lake to cool off with a swim. Unfortunately, one of the visitors drowned, and is now buried in Hazelwood's potter's field.

Postcard of Arbor Lake ca. 1940-50
(https://digital.grinnell.edu/islandora/object/grinnell%3A14503)

By this time Arbor Lake had become more than a playground or leisure resort. As the Scarlet and Black noted, beginning in 1931, the city took water from the lake and ran it through Iowa Southern Utility's boilers where it was purified and super-heated, then pumped to the college and funneled into the college's hot water pipes. Students complained that the hot water that originated from the lake regularly generated a terrible smell (March 22, 1941). According to student reports, the lake's boiled water induced "physical and mental nausea" among the collegians who turned on the hot water tap (ibid., April 16, 1943). How this experiment ended the record does not make clear.

Grinnell College Students Picnic at Arbor Lake, 1953
(https://digital.grinnell.edu/islandora/object/grinnell%3A12951)

In post-war Grinnell Arbor Lake continued to attract picnickers and exercise enthusiasts. But evidently the lake also suffered from inattention again, because a 1960 aerial photograph reveals that by that time the lake had lost much of its former volume, revealing mud flats along all shores of the lake. According to a newspaper account, Arbor Lake became so badly polluted in 1949 that officials prohibited swimming. The following year a railroad tank car spilled ammonia into streams feeding the lake, killing off most of the lake's aquatic life. By 1969 the situation had grown so acute that it seemed best to drain the lake dry (clipping from the Grinnell Herald-Register May 1974). 

1960 Aerial Photograph of Arbor Lake
(https://programs.iowadnr.gov/maps//aerials/)

###

By 1970 the lake itself had disappeared, weeds and bog prospering where fifty years earlier swimming, boating, and ice skating had prevailed. But there was hope. In 1969 the Poweshiek County Board of Conservation took out a ten-year lease on the land surrounding the lake, and the City of Grinnell, which had become owner of the lake in 1964, "contracted to remove the accumulated debris and silt from the lake bed and initiate a continuing program of algae control" (Grinnell Herald-Register May 1974). Over the next few years, county and city sparred over the extent to which each was honoring its commitments, but gradually the lake and its surrounding park land revived (Grinnell Herald-Register, October 16, 1975; ibid., March 1977), thanks to contributions from both the county and the city. 

Marshy bog of Arbor Lake, 1974
(Scarlet and Black, September 13, 1974)

As had always been true of the area around the lake, volunteer organizations played a prominent role in cleaning up park land. Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts, church groups, and volunteers from local businesses all played parts in cleaning up the park. The silted lake bed itself and its eroded tributary streams presented a more difficult problem. Despite having drained the lake, officials found it impossible to get heavy equipment onto the boggy lake bed for several years. Only in 1977 did workers complete the job of returning the lake to its original size and depth, having trucked out some 63,000 cubic yards of silt. The lake's tributaries had also been refashioned in ways intended to slow down siltation of the lake.

Newspaper Clipping of Arbor Lake Clean-up, May 2001
(Grinnell Herald-Register, May 10, 2001; courtesy of K. C. Cornish)

Since that time the quality of Arbor Lake and its adjoining park land has quietly deteriorated. The Arbor Lake Watershed Visioning Plan of June 2000 recognized that the lake, badly silted before 1970, required yet another comprehensive dredging, but not before addressing other issues in the lake's watershed. Some of these matters—including local agricultural practices and the associated nutrient runoff—remain difficult to solve. Nevertheless, volunteers have made great progress in cleaning up the lake and parkland. Particularly notable has been the work of the Karla and K.C. Cornish family, who in 1998 initiated an Arbor Lake clean-up day that became an annual event in Grinnell. Beginning with just three helpers, Arbor Lake Cleanup day continued for more than a decade, enlisting hundreds of volunteers to help clear the lake of tires, picnic benches and other detritus, and also to trim and control the trees that lined the lake shore. Unwanted brush, fallen branches, and abandoned trash also were hauled away. 

Grinnell Herald-Register, May 4, 2006
(clipping courtesy of K. C. Cornish)

This overview of Arbor Lake's history proves that there is no straight line from the past to the present. Early photographs of boats and buildings on the lake shore are hard to reconcile with the bare, somewhat wild appearance of Arbor Lake today. Likewise, images of hundreds of people picnicking or swimming in the lake contrast with quiet, relatively unpeopled life at today's Arbor Lake. Over the past century spells of prosperity and popularity alternated with hard times that demanded new expenditures and new efforts at revival. In this way, Arbor Lake reminds us that the past is often much more complicated and varied than it might seem from our present perspective.

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PS. I am grateful to Karla and K. C. Cornish for sharing with me their files on Arbor Lake; I appreciate all that they and local volunteers have done to revive the lake and park. Many thanks, too, to Tom Latimer, who in a former life was director of Grinnell's Parks and Recreation department, and who loaned me a copy of his paper on the history of Grinnell's parks. Finally, in this era of covid lockdown when I have been unable to access the microfilmed back issues of the Grinnell Herald, Grinnell Register, and Grinnell Herald-Register, I am also indebted to the Library of Congress's "Chronicling America" database of scanned newspapers. I could not have written this post without access to back issues of the Marshalltown Evening Times-Republican, which for many years included a section that reported on Grinnell news.