The Meagher County Poor Farm sits on the western edge of White Sulphur Springs, Montana. You turn off beside the once-grand old Ringling house and follow a winding gravel road until you come to what, at first glance, might be an enormous farm house. Lots of windows, porches listing a bit, angles—having grown like Topsy and then slumped while struggling to find a new purpose.
You can say that about the whole town of White Sulphur. Never really a booming place, its hot stinky sulphur springs drew nineteenth century miners. Logging and wood processing brought a small wave of mid-twentieth century busyness. It’s a county seat with a diminutive court house and more bars than other businesses on Main. Kept on life support now by recreationists, a summer festival, and some folks who hope that a controversial new mine will bring jobs.
It was the kind of small Montana town whose children Liz Claiborne and husband Art Ortenberg worried about. The designer-businesswoman and her husband had two Montana retreats. One of either side of the Continental Divide. They were here often enough to get a feel for the state, its boom and bust history. And to see that few small, rural towns held onto their high school graduates. What a shame, they thought. Worldly travelers that they were, the Ortenbergs understood that small town living in this high plains geography had a rich history and much to recommend it still.
Along with the Librarian of Congress, James Billington, a personal friend, the Ortenberg’s hatched a proposal that became the Montana Heritage Project. Fleshed out by its first director, Michael Umphrey, Folklife Director Alan Jabbour, and Montana Historical Society staff.
The Project was to engage small town high school students in primary source community research history. To set them on a course of conducting oral histories; delving into old newspapers, county records, historic photographs, city directories, Sanborn Fire Insurance company maps. And to do so, with a theme or research question in mind. Students were then to share what they had learned with their communities—in booklets, walking tours, essays; public programs; exhibits; assistance to local museums. In other words, to give the fruit of their research back to the community in some format.
The thinking behind the Project was that such deep-dives into local history would inevitably introduce teenagers to colorful stories, community characters, whole chapters of their towns’ past that were no longer evident or had been forgotten. Those findings and the community enthusiasm generated would—the Ortenbergs thought—let young people see their homes in new and attractive lights.
It worked.
In terms of logistics, small high schools—led by one or two teachers—applied for acceptance into the Project and funds that would help with a bit of travel, printing, exhibit creation, a community night event. On the Project’s dollar, teachers attended a winter gathering and a summer week-long symposium with well-known authors and historians. Teachers received financial assistance for travel and further study. Each spring all the involved schools brought students to a statewide gathering that showcased the students’ work. Students and teachers from one school each year were given the opportunity to travel to Washington D. C. and present their work in person to the Librarian of Congress.
I first participated in the Project sporadically, from other positions at the Society and the Parks Division. From his post in the Historical Society library, Dave always helped students and teachers find primary source materials in the Society’s holdings. And tutored them on where local resources could be found. Later, for another five years, I got to work directly for the Project—one of three staff people.
Project Director Mike Umphrey’s thinking fostered much of the Project’s success. He understood that most teachers are so harried that they needed extra time and compensation to take on leadership and creativity outside their required duties. That they would thrive when they had time and resources to be inspired. He knew that English teachers would have more latitude than history teachers who were bound to US History curriculum. He understood the power of great photographs taken throughout the school year—and ways to share those—so that students and teachers could see themselves at work, being successful.
All three of us working for the Project made a point to visit schools often—especially community history events. And to help locate the resources that a given class needed.
So, over the course of the Project’s active decade, Simms students interviewed Vietnam vets in their area to hear how their war experience influenced their current lives. That included the blustery high school vice principal who broke down in tears during the interview. Harlowton students researched how the electrified Milwaukee Railroad and its demise influenced their town. They tracked that story in railroad worker interviews and in historic building patterns. Townsend students read literature relevant to their community’s history, interviewed old timers, and then drew parallels between Townsend’s evolution and that portrayed in literature. Corvallis students examined the impact of wildfire on their community. Dillon kids investigated one room schools throughout the county. Roundup scholars created interpretive museum labels for family artifacts. Chester High School Project students put on a fashion show: girls in their mother’s or grandmother’s wedding dresses; boys wearing their father’s or grandfather’s military uniforms. Art and photography teachers pitched in. And so schools created a dozen variations on these activities and themes.
You will have seen this coming: White Sulphur Springs students researched the history of the Meagher County Poor Farm. They identified employees who worked at the Farm in the late 1940s and early 1950s and interviewed them. They found the Farm’s yellowed, brittle register of occupants—dating back to the 19th century– in the county court house and conducted an analysis of what brought individuals to that facility. They photographed and documented the Farm. And of course, while doing those tasks, learned about the poverty and loneliness of ranch workers; the waves of illness that moved through Montana communities in the early part of the 20th century; and attitudes within their town about Poor Farm residents.
Dave and I found community programs especially powerful. Students usually set up displays and haltingly, proudly gave verbal reports. Music teachers were sometimes recruited to lead a school chorus in old time songs. Refreshments were important. As were generous public thanks to the elders who had been interviewed or shared antiques or photos. Such programs were rare celebratory evenings for many communities – – and students. Free of political controversy. An opportunity for a struggling little town to celebrate itself. For older residents to see their memories and experiences valued.
The Project ended in 2004—the Ortenbergs, Liz especially, were in ill health. They had been happiest when they could influence the Project’s course and attend Project events. Truth be told, they loved meddling a bit, second guessing teachers and staff periodically. The Project was less compelling to them when they could not “participate.”
We didn’t try to assess the Project’s results numerically. No graphs or charts. No tracking students to see who returned from college to their communities. Nor did the funders really expect that. The feedback we received from teachers and students during the Project’s active decade was specific and joyful. It boiled down to the magic of doing work and learning skills and information that mattered. Not just memorizing textbook quizzes.
I had been enthralled especially by that Chester wedding gown/uniform review. The students had not just found costumes in the back of closets. They had interviewed their relatives and studied each item’s historical context. One wedding dress was a pink two-piece suit worn to elope in a neighboring town. One had been made of parachute silk—an economical choice brought back by a returning World War II soldier. I like to think that when some of those students married or entered the military that they recalled their parents’ and grandparents’ stories—and saw themselves in that great but changing fashion show of time and circumstance. ©
A special hats-off to all the Montana Heritage Project teachers. Their time and creativity and caring made the Project what it was.
