What light does the Diary of Abbie Bright throw on the experience of women as homesteaders?

In 1963 the novelist Mari Sandoz, whose father had been a homesteader and grew up on a homestead, reminded the delegates for a Conference on land use that homesteaders “varied as much as their origins and their reasons for coming west” … but she still classified single women homesteaders into two types: Boston school teachers (“with genteel ways, graying hair, downy faces and good books”) and Chicago widows (“gayer, more colourful, more careless” and looking for a husband). 

Abbie Bright falls into neither category.  When she went west she was 22 years old and, having already worked as a teacher for seven years, wanted adventure:

- July 8: “You know my object in coming here was a desire to cross the Mississippi and a love of traveling.” 

i.e. the seven months she spent as a Kansas homesteader were the second half of a ‘gap year’ (with a month back at home in the middle). 

She continues, telling us her reasons for filing a claim:

- July 8: “Well when I came, every body had taken a claim, or was going to.  So brother said I should take one too….  There is splendid land here, and a prospect of a railroad near, so some think the claims will become valuable in time. 

“To be sure a person must put up a great many inconveniences; but to me it is a [???]ility, and I think it fine to live this way a while.  I have been here some months, and although I have not been living on the claim I have been improving it.” 

Note the phrase: “live this way a while”.  Abbie never intended to stay and become a farmer.  She did not farm the plot for five years to ‘prove it up’; brother did the farming and daddy sent her $300 and she proved up by paying the commutation fee after the minimum six months … whereupon she left to go back home and disposed of her land; later she kept her brother’s plot but rented it to a tenant farmer.  So was she just ‘playing’ at homesteading?  Does she even ‘count’ as a genuine homesteader at all?

The answer to the latter question is undoubtedly ‘yes’.  Nobody, male or female, succeeded wholly on their own as a homesteader – EVERYBODY needed help of some kind, and many homesteaders did no more than Abbie. 

As regards the validity of her experience, admittedly, there is more of an issue.  When Joseph Snell transcribed her diary in 1971, he subtitled it rather disparagingly: ‘Roughing it on Her Kansas Claim‘ and she herself acknowledged that her ability to ‘rough it’ may have depended to an extent on the knowledge that it would all end in November:

- June 12: “I like it, but if someone said I must stay here always, then I fear I would not.” 

However, it is unquestionable that Abbie arrived not just to a new claim, but to a new claim in a new community only five years after the end of the Civil War marked the start of the homesteader movement.  For seven months – arguably the hardest months for any new homesteader – she ‘lived the life’ … and when you read the things she went through in those seven months, few could argue that she had not earned the right to be taken seriously. 

Certainly her account of her lived experience is a vibrant and insightful account of the kind of things that faced the first female homesteaders – and the ways in which her experiences were different are just as instructive as those which were typical. 

And – albeit maybe affected by her knowledge that it was limited in duration (but does the knowledge that it is just a gap year make it easier to keep going, or easier to give up?) – her account of her emotional journey gives us a vital insight into how ordinary women endured to become extraordinary pioneers. 

THE JOURNEY’S EXPERIENCE

Abbie spent the first six months of her gap year in the semi-settled State of Indiana, with her brother Hiram.  She taught in the local school and had a varied and interesting social life. 

On 25th April 1870, she set out for Clearwater, Kansas, where another brother, Philip, had a filed a claim for a homestead. 

A reading of other female homesteaders’ accounts of their journeys reveals that Abbie’s was similar in many ways to the typical experience.  That did not, of course, make it any less new and unique to Abbie, and we are lucky to have such a detailed and enlightening account of a woman’s journey west, all written in her diary under the date May 1. 

The most striking realisation is how different her passage there was to those of the first wagon-train pioneers.  The first 1,200 miles of her journey were by train, dropping her just 130 miles short of her destination.  The conductor was helpful and accommodating, and with the stagecoach agent – who pre-booked her $10 ticket to Wichita – she had:

- May 1: “a very interesting conversation, and a laugh about my pillow and blanket bundle [which people kept mistaking for a baby].  He said the winds were so strong, that by the end of a month, I would be tanned the color of a buff envelop”:

From Cottonwood on, just what she thought of the final section of her journey can be judged by the fact that, of her 2,500-word account, seven-eighths concern those final 130 miles. 

After the train drive to Cottonwood, there was an alarming stagecoach ride to Wichita, followed by: an expensive ($7) open spring wagon ride to the Ninnescah River; a dizzying river-crossing atop a freight wagon; and a seat on one of a group of six or eight loose horses and ponies on the final two-mile path to her brother’s home. 

The stagecoach journey was uncomfortable:

“Sometimes your head would bang against the top; then those riding outside, would call, ‘How’s that for high’.  A very common expression out here.  When we came to rough places – the driver usually called out ‘Make yourselves firm’.  Knowing what to expect we grabed hold of the side of stage or the seat, and avoided getting badly thumped.” 

On another occasion an unbroken horse damaged its harness:

“The new teams were fine grays – and rather wild … A little way from the stable was a draw or water course somewhat stony – or at least very rough.  The driver called ‘Make yourselves firm’.  We went over the draw, and part way up the slope, on a run – then something happened.  The driver yelled to the horses and finaly we stopped.  The he yelled – ‘if there is a man in there, get out quick, and hold a horse.  If I get down I will loose controll of all.’”

And then, after an hour’s delay replacing the harness:

“the driver said, ‘… I will drive like fury, slack up later, but not stop, and the rest can get in.’  He certainly drove like Jehu….  The last ten miles, we almost flew.  We certainly had a good driver, one who understood horses.” 

Another problem were the rivers, which had to be forded, at first without too much trouble:

“When we crossed White river the water ran throu the coach.  I raised my feet in time, but my skirts got wet.  The late rains had raised the water in the river, which is not wide – but deep.” 

“We forded the Arkansas.  It was broad and sandy.  The water went over the hubs – but not into the waggon.” 

The Ninnescah, however, which was flooding, was more alarming:

“I thought one little team would drownd, but they made the other side – and were soon on the old Texas trail.  The one team – the big team was taken back, and hitched as leaders to another waggon, and that crossed safely.  It was quite exciting to watch them…

“I was helped away up on top of perishable goods which were piled high and roaped on.  Those in the waggon box got partly wet.  What a trip it was – past a few cottonwood trees, then down into the water, which had a swift current. 

“By the time I began to get dizzy – the leaders struck sand, and we were soon on the old trail…”

One gets a sense of growing apprehension, particularly at night.  If she was bold and adventurous for her gender at the time, Abbie was clearly aware of her vulnerability and was careful to keep herself safe. 

“The hotel at C[ottonwood Falls: is … the hardest looking place I ever stopped at, with so many idle men lounging around.  I went at once to my room.” 

At the hotel, and on the stagecoach from Cottonwood, Abbie had the company of another single female, which she clearly appreciated, and she was “sorry to part with her” when the girl got out at El Dorado.  From then on, however:

“I was the only woman, and kept quiet, and tried to be dignified, weather it was a success or not I do not know.” 

At the hotel in Wichita (“the room was clean, but very simply furnished.  The partitions were boards, and one could hear the talk in the other rooms”):

“not wanting to leave the coach when the men did, and before going to bed, I ate a little...  Before going to bed I fastened the door securely… I put out the lamp and put the curtain up – when I noticed acrost the street a room with no shades or else not pulled down – and a number of men walking around in their shirts.” 

And at the McLean’s Ranch at the Ninnescah River – although Mr & Mrs McLean let her stay with them in their dugout:

“It was not a sound sleep, and when he came in at a late hour, I heard her say ‘I am so glad you have come.  I was afraid you never would’.  He told her there was no danger, but I heard that there often were rough times at the ranch when so many men got together.  I learned later that there was gambling and shooting – rough times generally – at the ranch house.  When morning came, I hurried to the river to see if it could be crossed.  The first man I met, a man with a revolver and boeknife [bowie knife] straped to his belt, said they would try in a couple of hours.  He looked savage…

It has to be said that – even on this final stage of her journey – Abbie’s apprehensions were never realised, and one feels that her overall judgement (that: “I was always treated with courtesy”) is a bit of an understatement – to the objective reader, she was treated with kid gloves throughout. 

At Wichita the hotel landlord went to the Post Office for her and enquired after coaches to the Ninnescah.  At the Ninnescah Mr McLean lodged her in his own house rather than subject her to the ranch with the men, and Mrs McLean gave her a sunbonnet and saw that she was “helped away up on top” to save her getting wet crossing the river … a far cry from the pioneer trails of twenty years earlier, where the women often felt themselves ignored, scorned and treated as drudges

On the other side of the Ninnescah, the man who had let her ride his wagon (each time helping her up and back down) prevented her trying to walk the final two miles and took her instead to the ranch of Mr Murray who, in his turn, “said I could not walk, he would get me a horse…”

We are left to speculate why Abbie was treated with such “great respect”.  Was it the bundle she carried, which looked like a baby – certainly when the coach harness broke she was told: “Stay in with your baby.”  Was it because she was young and reminded them of a sister or daughter?  Was it that Victorian manners were spreading from the east?

Whatever, it is clear that for all those kindnesses Abbie spent most of the journey anxious.  At Wichita she was disappointed not to see or hear something of her brother.  At the Ninnescah she had people asking around for her brother, and “Mrs Mc[Lean] knew how anxious I was to get to my brother”.  She mentioned her brother again at Murray’s ranch. 

And finally, arriving at the North house in Clearwater:

“I stopped some distance back and called to the woman at the door to come and get a letter.  When she came – I asked where I could find my brother.  ‘He is here’ she said and called him.  At last, at last, I was so glad I believed I cried a bit.” 

THE LIVED EXPERIENCE

For her seven months in Kansas, Abbie never lived on her own as an independent female homesteader, but stayed with her brother.  Thus her lived homesteader experience was more akin to that of a homesteader wife, only without the regular pregnancies and the additional duties of caring for children.  Because she stayed May to October, neither did she experience a Kansas winter. 

However, given that she was living on the Great Plains, many of the things she experienced were nevertheless typical and illuminating of a homesteader life. 

The Home

We get a number of descriptions of various habitations, which help us put details to the many available photographs of homesteaders’ dwellings:

- May 1: “Before they left, they helped Mr. West build his house, about 14 by 12.  There are big cotten wood trees along the river, and they build with them.  There was but one room – a bed, a stove, a bench, two stools, table, trunks, and a few cooking utensils.  Store boxes were used for cubboards.” 

Shortly after, she described her brother’s house, where the two of them first lived:

- May 29: “The cabin is 12 by 12 feet, with a fireplace made of sticks daubed with mud.  The roof is split limbs covered with dirt, and now there is a growth of sunflowers and grass on it.  My bed is a curious affair.  Sticks with crotches are driven in the ground, and then limbs laid acrost, and resting at the head on one of the logs of the house.  Then poles are put acrost, and the tick, and so my bed is fashioned. 

“Along one side I have stretched the double blanket, shawl, and the single shawl acrost the end.  It is very nice, but a warm place to sleep.  Cook in the fireplace.  Have a dutch oven, a skilet, teaketle, and coffeepot.” 

As for a mattress, she had already explained:

- May 27: “Would have gone [to live in the cabin] yesterday, but my bed tick was not yet filled with wild hay.” 

In August, the home dugout on her own plot was finished, and the two moved in:

- Aug 21: “There is a bank here, which many think was then bank of the Ninnescha – at some time back.  From here to the river it is very level, and my garden is on this level meadow not far from the dugout.  Back of us is prairie a little rolling.  The men first dug a well, and at 6 or 7 ft. found plenty of water.  They covered it, and it is reasonably cool.  Not far from the well they dug a trench like walk into the bank, when the sides were 4 ft. high a 12 by 14 ft. hole was dug out, logs laid to fit the sides.  When high enough – a big log was laid acrost the middle the long way, then split limbs and brush were fit on top for a roof, and that covered with dirt piled on and pressed down.  A fireplace, and chimney were dug out and built up, at one end, plastered with mud and it answered well. 

“This room is a little larger than the cabin.  My bed in the corner has one leg.  A limb with a crotch at one end, is sharpened at the other end, and driven into the ground, 6 feet from one wall and 2 1/2 from the other.  A pole is laid in the crotch-with one end driven into the ground wall.  This supports poles the ends of which are driven in the ground wall at the head of my bed.  Then comes my hay filled tick, and my bed is a couch of comfort.  The double shawl along the side, and the single one at the end – and it looks neat.  Next to the bed, is my trunk, then the table – The next side has the fireplace.  The door is opposite the table, then the buffalo robes on which brother sleeps, and his roll of blankets.  While in the corner at foot of my bed are boxes and various things including the tub, which is often pushed under the bed. 

“Boxes are nailed to the wall, in which the table furnature is kept, also some groceries.  Our chairs are pieces of logs.” 

Later, we get some idea of how weatherproof it was:

- Oct 6: “Yesterday we had a real windstorm.  Had a blanket up at the door...  When it was open great rolls of tumbleweed would come in.” 

And in November she tells us how she had organised the room:

- Nov 8: “Two small store boxes – resting on wooden pegs – serve for cupboards.  I have them curtained, on one side are two boxes, one upon the other.  In one I keep the groceries – in the other dried fruit.  We have a shelf for papers and books.  Two more shelves near the fire place, with cans, bottles etc.  Another large box – on top of which is the flour sack, and inside the coaloil [kerosene] can etc.  And a block on which we keep the water bucket.  And two trunks – that I believe is all the furnature.  I forgot the table – ‘cheap and handy.  Varnished, and never gets soiled’.” 

Farm and Garden

Some Prairie women worked the farm themselves, but generally it was left to the men, and even sole female homesteaders would hire men to do the farmwork.  Abbie seems to have been happy enough to fall into this latter category, although she was interested enough to see how the sod was broken, and gives us an idea of how hard it was:

- May 8: “They have been breaking sod near here with yoke of oxen.  One man drives, one plows – and one followes with an ax – he chops into the upturned sod, and drops corn in the cut, puts his foot on the place, and takes a step and repeats.” 

- Oct 25: “Mr Stafford came to plow.  I was so glad, we have to have a certain amount broke before we can prove up, but his plow would not work, so he went home.” 

- Nov 4th: “Plowing with two yoke of oxen.  P[hilip] is helping.  It will take them five day next week, to finish.” 

The only other time the diary mentions farm work was when Philip was ill and she tells us:

- June 24: “When the bread was baked, I put on his boots – and went up to get someone to move the oxen.” 

So, when it came to the farming, it was: not her job!

TThe garden, however, was a woman’s domain, and Abbie was no different:

- May 8: “[Philip] selected a suitable place, and plowed it for a garden, not having a harrow, he hitched the oxen to big brush and dragged it back and forth until it was well raked….  I have no hoe yet, but with the help of a stick, I have managed to plant a number of seeds.  I hope they will grow.” 

As the diary continues, we find a number of comments about caring for the garden, which had its issues:

- June 2: “I was to the garden.  It is so far away, and someplaces I wade through grass almost up to my shoulders.” 

By June, however, it was yielding radishes, peas, cucumbers, cantaloupe and melons, and by September, sweet corn and squashes ...  though it was part-trampled that month by a loose horse, and scorched by a prairie fire in October. 

The Housework

For the most part, Abbie settled down to the repeating tasks of housework – cooking, washing, cleaning – which occupy a good deal of the diary.  Of these tasks, baking bread was by far the most time- and care-consuming; in the 117 diary entries May-November 1871, baking is mentioned 74 times (whereas it is mentioned just once during her stay in Indiana) … and the diary entry conveys her feeling of triumph when she got it right (‘jubilant’ carried strong meaning in the 19th century, with overtones of religious shouts of joy):

- May 27: “Baked with the new yeast, and the bread is a “perfect success.”  I am jubilant over it, wont Philip enjoy it.” 

The following give a flavour of her work:

- May 25: “This has been a busy week.  Mon.  worked in garden and seWed.  Tues.  washed and ironed.  Wed.  made a tick and two sheets.  Today went down to the cabin where we will live, until the dug out on my claim is finished.” 

- May 31: “I am kept busy, sewing for Philip, caring for the garden and cooking.  The baking is tedious, can only bake one loaf at a time in the dutch oven.  I kneed a loaf out, when that is light, I put it in the oven, and kneed out another and when the first is baked, the second goes in oven, and the third is kneed out.  All the time I must keep the oven hot enough to bake and brown the bread, which is quite a task and takes three hours or more.” 

- July 17: “Washed, hung the clothes on the bushes to dry.  My washings do not amount to much, two dark shirts for the boys, towls, a sheat and pillow slip, a few things for myself.  I have such an old camp kettle to boil clothes in.  I do not boil my better clothes as it would rust them.” 

- Aug 8: “Gave the cabin a good cleaning.  The cat had dragged a rabbit under my bed, and eaten a part.  Tom is a nice pet, but sometimes he is a nuisance.” 

- Sept 1: “Wanted to write before; had no time.  When one has nothing but a dutch oven to bake in, and four men to eat bread, it keeps one busy.  I had baked the Fri.  they came.  Then baked again Sat.  to have bread and pies over Sun.  It was supper time before I got ginger cookies baked.  There were five of us for dinner, so I cut it into five pieces, Mr Rose [Ross] coming while we were at dinner.  I treated him to my piece.  So I never got a taste of the pie.” 

- Sept 16: “We put one [blanket] at a time in the big camp kettle and boiled them, and I finished them in the tub.  Such heavy work.” 

- Sept 24: “Did not feel well, but there was so much to do after being away as long...  I got up early and got breakfast.  I put the house in order.” 

- Oct 3: “Wanted to wash yesterday, but the tub leaked, so I put it to soak.” 

- Oct 18: “Have been too busy to write.  Cleaned the house and wrote letters.  Monday washed, baked, and made brine for the meat.  Yesterday finished the white clothes, dressed a prairie chicken, and wrote a letter.” 

- Nov 8: “We have no broom.  When I sweep, I take a turkey wing in each hand, sweep out a corner, then step there, and sweep a head of me, until the floor is all swept.  Sweep every thing into the fire place.” 

- Nov 15: “Yesterday I washed, baked bread and pies, was busy all day.  The boys did not get home until an hour after sunset.  They had a goose and prairie chicken.  It took me all a.m. to dress them, do my work and get dinner; then no one came to eat it.” 

The reader has to love the small sighs of exasperation on September 1: “So I never got a taste of the pie” and November 15: “then no one came to eat it” – which will chime with everyone who has been a housewife or househusband.

Weather and Wildlife

The weather gets a number of mentions, primarily the rain.  In the heat of June it was welcome:

- June 4: “A shower is coming, hope it will cool the air.  Had some heavy rains last week.” 

- June 30: “A shower is coming, we need rain badly.” 

In October less so:

- Oct 6th: “Towards evening, a thunderstorm came.  Then it was an unpleasant as it could be.  Cold wind and almost dark.” 

- Oct 31st: “It is cold and stormy.  Yesterday it rained all day.  The rain froze on the grass.” 

Her encounters with the local wildlife involved, thankfully, no bears or wolves, but were sometimes a nuisance nonetheless:

- June 6: “Philip put a couple of sticks at the door and charged me never to leave the house without one.  There are some snakes around – one passed the door this a.m.” 

- July 10: “A dozen oxen [longhorns] had come over the river and were in her garden...  they had nearly destroyed two acres of corn.” 

- Aug 6: “The crickets are so bad.  When I turned my bed tick, there was a handful in the corner, next the wall.” 

- Oct 21: “P[hilip] shot a rat at the foot of my bed.  That is the third he has shot here.” 

- Nov 4: “Sometimes a thousand geese and brance [brants] fly up and down the river, and fill the air with their gabbling.  The coyotes often make the night hideous with their howling.” 

But whereas the modern mind would probably class rattlesnakes as the greatest terror, Abbie seems to have been more scared of skunks:

- May 8: “When nearly there, a skunk blocked our way and we fled in haste.” 

- June 4: “Before Mrs N [moved out to go and live in the town], two skunks fought on her door step – then ran to the spring, and scented that, that they could not use the water.” 

- Sept 25: “Last night I wanted to go out, and there was a skunk in the doorway.” 

… with the nadir of her skunk experiences occurring in October, when she recorded:

- Oct 14: “When John got here, there was a skunk in the room or dugout, and what did he do but shoot it behind my trunk! … O the skunk smell, how it sickened us.  Philip was angry at J.R. for shooting the skunk in the house – but that did not help matters any.” 

- Oct 18: “It still smells of skunk.  Had to turn the head of my bed, it prevented my sleeping.” 

- Nov 11: “It still smells skunky.  I think some of calling this place Skunk Retreat.” 

When you realise that the smell had lingered for a whole month, one has to see her PoV!

Finally, though for different reasons to Abbie, the modern reader notes the following entry (and similar comments on July 3, 20 and September 22) with foreboding:

- June 11: “The mosquitoes are so bad, and it is so warm at night in my little bed room.” 

Health

Abbie, of course, did not know then what we have known since 1897, that mosquitos are a vector for malaria, and so you will have been expecting her diary entry:

- June 23: “Brother has been ailing all week...  Philip had the ague very bad today.” 

The ‘ague’ was what we today call malaria.  Philip’s bout of the illness worsened until he was too ill to attend to the oxen (June 25), but had broken by the 29th.  Malaria, of course, is recurrent, and he had “another touch” in mid-July, and yet another bout in mid-August.  Meanwhile, Abbie herself came down with the disease.  They treated it with quinine, which a neighbour, Mr Ross, acquired for them:

- Aug 1: “Baked yesterday, in p.m. fever came worse than ever.  P [hilip] said I was getting ready for the ague, and had better take quinine.  So I did, and this a.m. another dose, by tomorrow I think the quinine will help me.  I do not have chills.” 

- Aug 6: “Went up to I[ngmire’s] in p.m….  When I came home, my limbs ached so badly, and such a head ache.  I am afraid it will be ague.” 

It seems that she knew instinctively that it was connected to the river, and on August 12 they moved away to her dugout, but by this time she was very ill, as recalled in her diary:

- Aug 16: “When we got here [on 12th], the fever had me, and I could not do a thing.  Philip made a bed on the floor, and I laid down.  My bed was not fixed yet.  When evening came, I was better but scarcely able to walk. 

“This is my day for ague, but I have taken such big doses of quinine, it may not come back, but the quinine its self makes me half sick.  Philip does not complain, he is so patient.  I must lie down part of the time, but hope we will soon be well.  I think it would have been better for us, had we moved from the river sooner.” 

- Sept 10: “I find I am not nearly as strong as when I came to Kansas… I am getting thin, I will soon look like the man who had ague so long, that he looked like two knitting needles, stuck in a mellon seed”. 

- Nov 4: “Have not had any ague for over two weeks – but take medacine every other day.” 

Meanwhile, malaria was not the only illness with which the pair had to contend. 

- Aug 16: [During the move from the cabin on 12th] “Philip had worked all day – besides moving, had hauled two loads of wood, and Sunday [13th], was not able to be up.” 

[14th] “Philip fixed things around the house, but at 11 had to lie down with chill.  Yesterday a.m. [15th] it left for a short time, then came back and he was delerious. 

- Aug 18: “Last night he was wild with fever.  To day he is quite sane, but so weak.” 

Then, as if that was not enough, visiting the Lanes on 22 September:

- Sept 22: “Found Mrs L[ane] in bed – Mr L[ane] just able to crawl, and her brother getting supper… She has what she calls “the flu”.  East we call it dysentery.  What with waiting on her, and the mosquitos so nasty, there was little sleep for me.  Next morning waited on her.” 

Consequently, as you might have expected:

- Sept 25: “Have not been well to day, a bad attack of diarheoea.” 

- Sept 30: “Since Monday have been in bed nearly all the time.  Had an attack like Mrs L[ane].  Thankful to be better.” 

Danger

Two issue in Abbie’s diary deserve mention here.  The first concerned the displaced Indigenous people:

- June 14: “Today we heard the Indians had made a raid on Bluff Creek and killed a man.  That is only 35 miles from here.” 

In fact, however, all Abbie’s interactions with the Indigenous peoples were of fascination, rather than fear.  On the journey there, she was interested to see her “first Indian”.  On May 8 Abbie and Mrs West set off “to see the Indian teepees” still standing beside the river, and were only prevented when a skunk blocked their way.  In June, a local friend gave her three arrows taken from a buffalo that had escaped the hunt, but been shot later by a settler.  Another gave her a bunch of buffalo sinews which they used for thread, and her brother “showed me some bushes – called arrow wood, that the Indians make their arrows from.” 

As she was leaving, both Abbie and her brother spent time “hunting Indian curiosities for me to take home,” and a shopkeeper to whom she was talking:

- Nov 19: “… told me much about Indians there.  Many of them are farming ct.  He called my attention to one who was passing, who he said was Chief Big Foot.  He had on many coats and the out side one was a linen duster.  As the ground was covered with snow, he was a sight.  I have wondered since – if the shop keeper knew I was a ‘tenderfoot,’ and was stuffing me.” 

All this would fit with a suspicion that, whilst the Indigenous people did pose a threat, and the ‘Indian Wars’ of the 1860s had been times of great danger, in the 1870s the homesteaders fear of ‘death-by-Indian’ was generally more in the anticipation than in the deed. 

Edwards, Friefeld and Wingo seek to deflect the charge that the Homestead Act led to the dispossession of Indigenous lands by pointing out that the dispossession pre-dated the Homestead Act … but it is worth noting that Abbie was well aware that  the land she was claiming “is the Osage Indian Land that was put on the market within a few years” (actually, by Act of Congress 1870); she may have been fascinated to see an ‘Indian’, but – in keeping with the times – it did not cross her mind to wonder if it was wrong to take their land. 

***

Much more dangerous than Indigenous reprisals was a prairie fire on October 14:

- Oct 14: “Thursday early [12th] we saw smoke and thought the fire was coming over the divide toward us.  so they rushed out to plow a fire guard beyond their hay stacks.  The wind favored them, and the fire did not get on their side of the branch, but all between the branches – and beyond – way up this way, and on to the river. 

“Brother was alone, and had his hands full.  He quick “back fired” when he saw the fire coming, then moved the ox there, after which he had to watch the dugout.  Half our wood burned and a load of chips.  The ground thrown out when they built the dug out, helped to save it.  From Springers [Summers’] we could see the flames beyond the branch – when it burned the sunflowers on Mr. Smiths clame, It burned Elsworths hay stacks and some others, also Mr. Smiths stable and corn crib…

“I cannot understand how so many fires in different directions, should be burning that night.  The people and hearders acrost the river did not expect the fire to cross, but it jumped the river, and caused much trouble.  One heard of cattle and ponies stampeded – and some were burned.  Another hearder lost $700.  Before morning a thunder storm put out all the fires.” 

The fire passed the Brights by, but it had come close enough to scorch the garden. 

THE SOCIAL EXPERIENCE

Much is often made of the isolation of female homesteaders.  American anthropologist Loren Eisley (1975) wrote of “beaten, toil-worn women staring into immensity, listening to the wind.  We were mad to settle the west in that fashion.” 

How true was this for Abbie Bright, living the life of the earliest homesteaders in that completely ‘new’ land?

When she had been staying at her brother Hiram’s in Indiana, Abbie had lived a very full social life, including a fair, a Christmas party, church on Sunday, and trips to see a revivalist, a phrenologist and a spiritualist meeting – not just social experiences, but including some new social experiences. 

At Clearwater, it was immediately apparent that things were very different:

- May 12: “I have not seen a single unmarried woman since I am here.  There are seven married women in this neighborhood and I will not likely see another all Summer.” 

- June 12: “This is the third week I am housekeeping, and in that time there has been but one woman here besides myself.  No church, no parties...” 

There are just three community ‘events’ recorded in the diary – a visiting preacher, a July 4th picnic, and a two-day trip to hunt buffalo:

- June 14: “Soon after I came, while I was with Mrs. North [West] – a minister came from W[ichita] to go on a buffalo hunt.  He preached Sunday, we went to hear him at Springers [Summers’].” 

- July 4: “The glorious fourth, not a cloud in the sky.  Mr. Smith came for me with a two horse wagon, and we took other women along on the way.  There were two dozen there counting the children.  Five or six bachelors, I the only single woman – the rest married folks and children….  Mrs. Rose [Ross], Mrs. Lane and Mrs. Springer [Summers] had all baked a plenty.  Then we had canned fruit, lemonadade – coffee and roast meats.  A swing for the children, gay conversation for the elders.” 

Abbie sent a number of articles written by her to the local newspaper, the Wichta Tribune;
you can see the piece she sent about the picnic here.

- Sept 1: “I had given up going on a hunt, after we had so much ague.  Now we were on the way, and it was quite exciting… [the men killed two buffalo, and congratulated Abbie when she stopped the horses bolting] … We drove back to Sandy creek – and camped for the night, as it was well toward evening.  The boys spread the waggon cover on the grass – then cut the mea in pieces to cool, and put it on the cover, while cousin Tom and I got supper.” 

However, the lack of formal social occasions beside these three did not mean that Abbie never saw anyone – that she was socially isolated.  Counting all the social interactions recorded in her diary during the months she was in Clearwater, it averages out that Abbie was meeting – in addition to her brother, with whom she lived – another person or group of people one in every three days. 

It might validly be argued that the fact that she recorded these interactions might indicate how rare and valuable she found them; equally, it might be wondered whether there were times she met people and did not bother/remember to record it in her diary. 

Whatever, from the diary it is evident that the image of the lone homesteader bravely and successfully ploughing their lonely furrow misses the mark, at least for Abbie Bright in Clearwater in 1871.  Human interaction was not just important socially and psychologically, it was vital for the homesteaders’ survival.  It brought help with building both Philip’s cabin and Abbie’s dugout, and with breaking the sod on Abbie’s claim (which Mr. Stafford and others came to plough).  It carried appeals for help (as when Abbie went to babysit the Summers children when the parents went off to hunt, or when she spent two days looking after the Lanes when the entire family was down with dysentery), or brought the gift or loan of needed household items (such as when Jake brought them a table), as well as the mail (always a good excuse for a chat, but a vital lifeline to the world beyond) and – essentially – the latest news:

- Sept 14: “George came with mail.  Jake had been to the P.O.  Two letters and two papers.  Mr. Smith is sick again.  George said they expected the doctor from Wichita.  I gave him letters, and asked him to give them to the Dr. to mail in W[ichita].” 

As for women-friends, the diary records that half her social interactions were with other women –  i.e. Abbie was keeping adult female company on average one in every six days.  This female socialisation usually involved her going to meet one or more of a close circle of perhaps half-a-dozen female friends, or they visiting her, usually to sew, or to go foraging together … although, again, these meetings were also vital for passing on essential information and tips (such as when Mrs Summers told her how to bake squash pies without milk or eggs), or sharing needed household equipment (as when Mrs West gave her a nutmeg grater, or Mrs Ross lent her irons). 

If you live in the human ant-hill of a city, you may think that meeting another human being every three days, and another female about once a week, is unbearable isolation.  At the same time, I am reminded of Laura Wilder’s father who left Wisconsin because it had “gotten too crowded”.  Isolation is a relative feeling. 

It is clear from Abbie’s diary that some women found Clearwater society too isolated.  Her first friend, ‘Mrs N’ – a “talker” who told her “the lie of the land” (practically and socially) in the first few days of her visit, but who lived in terror of Indigenous attack and “longed for the time they could pay for their claim, and move to town” – eventually gave up and on May 31 moved to town to be with her husband, who had gone there to earn some money.  Abbie never saw her again.  At the same time went Mrs Louckey, who carried a revolver for safety, “but when a skunk scared her she forgot to use it”.  For these ladies, homesteader life seems to have simply got ‘too much’. 

One wonders how happy were other women whom Abbie met, such as Mrs McLean who housed her on her journey to Clearwater:

- May 1: “I slept a while in p.m., but not long, for Mrs Mc[Lean] waikened me.  She said, “You have slept long enough, I am lonesome for some one to talk to.” 

or Mrs Markley:

- July 10: “Last Saturday I walked way past Lanes, down to Marklies [Taylor Markley’s], Mr. M[arkley] had told Philip he would be away over Sunday, and his wife was so timid, so P[hilip] suggested I go and spend the night with her.  She was so glad to see me, she could talk of nothing else for a while.” 

- July 19: “Mrs. Lane urged me to stay all night, but her brother is with her for company, and Mrs. Merkle [Markley] is alone again, so I went there, which I knew would please my brother.  She was glad to see me.  Her baby is too heavy to carry – so she stays at home when he is away working.” 

or perhaps again Mrs Ingmire, whom Abbie had met in June and noticed that “she did not seem well”:

- Aug 6: “Went up to I[ngmire’s] in p.m. Should have gone before, Several of the family have the ague.  Their roof leaks – and that is bad…”

It would seem that you could have whatever degree of isolation you chose … as long as you could choose and, in a society where coercion and control of women was an accepted and approved part of marriage, not all women had a choice. 

As for Abbie, however, it seems to have suited her well enough.  She does not once mention being lonely – indeed:

- July 24: “J.R. will not be here this week, he will help Jake make hay.  It is much pleasanter for me, when brother and I are alone.” 

and, after commenting on June 12 that she had seen “but one women here besides myself’, she added that it was:

- June 12: “A wild Indian sort of a life.  Plenty of time to commmune uninterrupted with Nature, and Nature’s God.” 

THE EMOTIONAL EXPERIENCE

Recent research into the history of emotions have made this element of the study a minefield, because not only have emotions words often significantly changed their meaning, but the way people codified and perceived their emotional responses also have changed since the 19th century … so that, where Abbie gives a vivid and detailed description of a situation, we cannot be sure that our empathetic response is actually the emotional response she was experiencing. 

So, for instance, American historian Susan Matt has demonstrated how the word ‘homesick’ – which for us means merely missing home and looking forward to getting back – meant in the 19th century a much stronger condition of emotional collapse … more akin to what we might call a 'nervous breakdown'.  Abbie mentions homesickness three times: on July 6, when she said she doesn’t get homesick; on August 17, when she wrote: “These are our dark days, but I am not homesick”; and on September 30, when she wrote: “Thankful to be better.  I came the nearest to being homesick I ever was.”  The 21st century reader needs to understand that particularly this last entry indicates a far greater degree of emotional distress than that of a modern youth missing home on a school trip. 

Sometimes appreciating a change in meaning can help clear up a possible misinterpretation.  In the 19th century, the word ‘excited’ was a neutral word meaning simply a state of emotional and physical agitation, and was not tied (as for us) to enjoyment.  Thus, when Abbie was watching the wagons cross the Ninnescah and commented: “I thought one little team would drownd … It was quite exciting to watch them”, she was almost certainly agitated for their safety, not enjoying their danger.  On the other hand, when she tells us that it was exciting to go on a buffalo hunt, we can presume that she was agitated in a positive way, and ‘excited’ in a sense that we would understand the word today – in a ‘looking-forward-to-it’ way. 

Similarly, understanding how a word has changed its meaning can enhance our understanding of a situation:

- Sept 16: “There were two angry people here to day – and we are not our good natured selves yet.  J.R. uses P[hilip’s] blankets… This morning P[hilip] saw that they were lousy.” 

The meaning of the word ‘anger’ in the mid-19th century was much stronger than today, carrying overtones of moral disapproval and outrage, and even physical violence; Victorian America saw it as a dangerous emotion which needed repressing.  So we get the full horror of discovering lice in the blankets, and the outburst that followed – “justifiable”, thought Abbie. 

There were also moments when Abbie, if not angry, was clearly irritated.  J.R. clearly got on her wick.  Apart from the incidents with the lice, and shooting the skunk, twice she commented judgementally: “J.R. does not stay on his claim as he should”, and in August he showed up during the move to the dugout “but is poor help”. 

In September, when both Abbie and Philip were desperately ill, she makes no comment, but the resentment is glaring in the comment:

- Sept 4: “J.R. said he would go for medacine yesterday p.m. Then put it off until to day.  Now he is sitting on the wood pile.  Philip said ‘Can you go?’ Yes, I am planning to go, as soon as the table is emptied, I told him.” 

On another occasion, having gone, even though ill herself, to look after the Lanes when they had dysentery, and had tended them and cleared up the mess their house had got into, she was clearly in retrospect put out to be asked to go to the Post Office for them:

- Sept 22: “It was long after noon when the bread was baked, and house tidied up.  Then they wanted me to go to the P.O.  I was too blind to see, what I do now, that any one who could eat as heartily as they did, were better able to go to the office than I was.” 

To be fair, there were also times of fun, and not just in the big events – the “gay conversation” of the 4th July picnic, and the excitement of the Buffalo hunt.  There were times simply to giggle one's problems away, though the content-matter may seem less-than-appropriate to our modern sensibilities:

- Aug 20: “J.R. had put a big mellon in the well to cool.  After dinner when he brought it in, it slipped out of his hands shot right at Mrs. S[ummers], fell at her feet and broke in two – It was so funny, I was glad to have something to laugh at.  It eased a nervous strain I was suffering from.” 

- Sept 4: “Mr. Smith had chills and fever, and was flighty, he thought he had a two story [i.e. storey] head, and could not keep track of the upper story.  That amused the boys.  With all our ague – some funny things happen – and on our free days – we have some hearty laughs.” 

Above everything else Abbie spent a lot of time worrying about Philip … which is understandable, given that he had been disabled in the Civil War.  The day she arrived he accidently cut his leg whilst fishing; when it had not healed a fortnight later, she wrote:

- May 16: “Philip’s ankle has not healed yet, from the knife cut.  I feel uneasy about it.  I am so anxious to go to his cabin, I think it would be better for us both.” 

In those days, the word ‘anxious’ did not necessarily carry its modern meaning of ‘worried’, but the word ‘uneasy’ certainly did – to the point of being physically affected by the worry.  When we realise that these were the days before antibiotics, and a wound that turned septic might well result in death, we can understand why she used so strong a word to describe her emotion. 

In June, Philip came down with malaria and, in July, he did not go to the July 4th picnic.  Abbie confided in her diary:

- July 6: “The people here think I am a bunch of contentment, because I dont get homesick, and fuss.  If I do not feel well or am blue, I dont tell every Tom, Dick, or Harry, that is all, except that I possess a big bump of adaptability.  When brother is not well, I try to be cheerful and hopeful, although I could say, and with truth: ‘I am not merry, but would feign disguise the thing I am, by seeming otherwise’.” 

Here, the meaning is explicit, to today as much as the 19th century.  She was NOT alright, but was dissimulating … presumably for the sake of keeping up her brother’s spirits.  In an era when it was convention to repress one’s emotions, it is telling that Abbie chose to express them via a quote from Shakespeare. 

Over the next two months or so, that ‘adaptability’ of hers was tested to the limit. 

By August 2, Philip was poorly again – we are not told with what, only that she “made some medacine for Philip, by boiling some roots”.  A fortnight later, they were both seriously ill:

- Aug 14: “Monday I managed to bake, and Philip fixed things around the house, but at 11 had to lie down with chill, and in the p.m. I had to do the same.  I had taken quinine but not enough.  My fever was over by sun down, but his kept up all night.  Yesterday a.m. it left for a short time, then came back and he was delerious.  When I cooled his head with wet towls, the teers would fall.  I was in trouble.” 

- Aug 17: “Brother is still poorly, has fever sometimes, and dont know what he says.  My appetite is coming back.  These are our dark days, but I am not homesick.  I am glad to be with P[hilip] every once in a while I can do something for him.  Sometimes I think if I had not come, he would not have stayed in this ague infected place.” 

- Aug 18: “Last night he was wild with fever.  I cannot write what I suffered.  To day he is quite sane, but so weak.” 

- Aug 19: “The usual work then spent the rest of the day, trying to make something to tempt his appetite.” 

It may be true that “the emotional standards of societies change in time” (Stearns, 1985), but even a century-and-a-half along, it is hard not to see here a young woman being stretched to her physical and emotional limit – not just in the phrases of distress (“dark days”/ “the teers would fall”/ “I was in trouble”/ “I cannot write what I suffered”), but also in the blaming of herself, and the attempts to “do something for him”/ “to tempt his appetite”. 

She survived and when, at the end of August, her brother Hiram offered to take her back home, she refused:

- Sept 1: “Brother H[iram] wanted me to go with him, but I said no, I will stay the six months – and I wont leave P[hilip] now.” 

But, returning from the buffalo hunt to find Philip ill with fever again, she wrote:

- Sept 2: “Almost discouraged, Philip still has fever.  I had another chill, and have no appetite.” 

Again, the word ‘discouraged’ was much stronger in the mid-19th century than today, and implied losing the will and the confidence to carry on. 

Abbie’s resilience continued under duress through September, and at the end of the month she fell ill again, this time with dysentery:

- Sept 30: “Since Monday have been in bed nearly all the time.  Thankful to be better.  I came the nearest to being homesick I ever was… To be ill and not see a woman for a week – is hard luck.” 

***

So did Abbie ENJOY her time on the homestead, or was she at best just dissimulating in public for others’ sake?

Even as early as June, as we have seen, she admitted that her ‘liking’ of the area was dependent on the knowledge that she was going back home in November and, again as we have seen, that positivity declined into ‘near to being homesick’ and ‘almost discouraged’ in August and September. 

Having said that, there were times – even when she was ill – when she clearly felt otherwise:

- July 19: “Left Mrs. S there and went on home.  It was almost sun down.  I was in the middle of the river on a sand bar – dress up – shoes in hand, when I stoped and looked around.  The river made a turn, and the trees seemed to meet over the water.  It seemed like a lake.  On one side a high bank – the trees coming to the waters edge on the other.  O it ws beautiful.  Think I will never forget the scene.” 

- Aug 22: “The day has been warm, the sun will soon set.  I am sitting on the wood pile.  The view from here is beautiful.  In front is the meadow with its tall grass – and a few buffalo wallows, which are filled with sunflowers. 

“Acrost the river with its fringe of trees – is the I[n]gmire dugout.  That is the only sign of civilization in my circle of vision.  Then toward the right, a little back of the river are the sand hills and a clump of cottonwoods. 

“While farther on are Philips big trees – and the cabin which we cannot see from here.  Still farther on are his corn and mellon field.  While still farther on is the branch, with scrub trees, which shuts off the view of the North [West] house, where the men batch, and be yond that is another branch and brush, which cuts off their view of Lanes – Springers [Summers] and Merkels [Markley’s].  ‘Beautiful for situation’ this certainly is.” 

- Sept 4: “The sun is setting, the sky is a glorious vision of colors.” 

- Oct 14: “Some time later Brother called me.  He said if I felt able, I should wrap up well, and come out and see the fire, that it was not likely I would ever see the like again.  The scene was grand beyond description.  To the North and within 1/2 mile there was a sheet of flames extending east and west.  To the west there was fire beyond fire.  Acrost the river, a hay stack was burning.  Jake had the logs for his house ready to put up, the fire got among them, and did much damage.  I cant give a description of the wild fearful – yet facinating sight.  I went back to bed, thankful we were safe.” 

Finally, when it was time to leave, having packed and organised everything, she paused for reflection and summation:

- Nov 24: “I sat by the fire, and went over the days I had spent in the dugout.  I never got to Roses [Ross’] after we left the cabin, The slow way of baking took so much time, then reading and writing – trying to make Philip comfortable, and having the ague so often filled up my days.  Trying days when Philip was sick.  Exciting days when brother H[iram] and cousin Tom came, and we went on a buffalo hunt.  Dreary days when it stormed.  Light hearted days when I could go to the garden and plant, or bring up good fresh things to cook, and now a sad day of leaving.  I dont want to leave brother here – he is not well, and has only half promised to go East for the winter. 

Finaly I looked at the little home, the well, the garden and the surroundings, then started on my long walk to Lanes.  I felt real sorry to leave.  As I stood alone by the dugout – no one in sight, no visible sign of civilization – except the roof of Igmyer’s [Ingmire’s] dugout acrost the river, I felt depressed.  I was so glad to be with Philip for over seven months.  Now I was leaving.  When would I see him again?

Here, the meaning of the word ‘depressed’ – which today includes overtones of mental health – has changed; in the 1870s it meant merely ‘a lowering of mood, being in low spirits, dejection, despondency’. 

Her seven months as a homesteader had been a trying time that had tested her to her limits; but, when it came to it, she was sad to go. 

THE GENDER EXPERIENCE

For almost a century of the historiography of the Homestead Act, women were not just invisible, they were regarded as an actual impediment to expansion:

Thus the 1930s novelist, John Beames wrote in An Army Without Banners:

“It was the men only who pressed on across the great plains; the women had little more to say than the horses who drew the wagons in which they sat… It was not until the man had encountered an impassable barrier, or his vision of the Desirable Land had grown dim, that the woman descended from the wagon and proceeded to fulfil her destiny by turning a wilderness camp into a home.” 

Examples of this patronising, chauvinist junk can be traced at least into the 1970s. 

After the feminist movement of the 1960s, however, the tide began to turn.  In 1976 Sheryll Patterson-Black published a seminal essay on ‘Women Homesteaders on the Great Plains Frontier’.  A year later, Lillian Schlissel wrote an illuminating analysis of ‘Women’s Diaries on the Western Front‘ (1977).  These works revealed the huge and invaluable range of women’s activities, activism and impact, and the immense difficulties and burdens that women faced and overcame to ‘make the homestead work’. 

All the same, Elizabeth Jameson (1984) summed up the general feeling of these early studies when – although she agreed that “the homestead family was an interdependent economic unit” – she still accepted that (with a good deal of flexibility as needed) “work was divided, as in most cultures, along gender lines”, and that the gender conventions of the time which dominated women’s lives generally prevailed. 

By contrast, Elaine Lindgren’s 1991 study of North Dakota women who filed homesteader claims in their own right accredited women with much more agency.  They did not do it alone, but neither did male homesteaders.  They built alliances with local family and neighbours, often they hired men to work their land, or swapped domestic work for farm work.  Some simply moved out, took another job and rented out their plot.  But they were the managers of their own enterprise, not mere sidekicks to a man.  Statistics suggest that female homesteaders were at least as successful, and maybe more successful, at proving up than their male counterparts.  And it was no mere chance, the New Women’s Historians pointed out, that it was in the western states where women first got the vote. 

More recently still, Edwards, Friefeld and Wingo (2017) have found that single women and widows played an even more proactive role in opening up the West than had been thought before, and that they also did much more than just create farms … they founded the charities and social & cultural organisations which created communities. 

***

So where does Abbie Bright fit into this narrative?

A recurring theme of the diary is Abbie’s opinion that she needed to behave ‘properly’.  On the journey there, having tried to keep quiet and be dignified on the stage coach, she finally arrived at the ranch of Edward Murray, to whom she confided: “I am so glad to be here – there were all men down there”. 

- May 1: “He said ‘Behave like a lady, and you will be treated like one.’ I shall never forget his saying that.” 

Perhaps the most telling incident in her diary in this regard occurred on Aug 23, when Messrs. Smith, Stafford and Jake told Philip: “You wont keep your housekeeper long”.  As a (rare) single female, Abbie had aroused significant local interest, and regularly recorded being ‘teased’ about marriage; the visitors were teasing – after a day when Abbie had cleaned the house, made yeast, tended the garden, made lunch, “comed [her hair] and changed my dress and sat down to write letters” – that Abbie was a ‘catch’ for marriage. 

- Aug 23: “‘My gun is loaded’ was all he answered, as he pointed to where his gun hung.” 

Whilst it is clear that her brother felt very protective towards his younger sister for whom he had responsibility, what is interesting for us is that Abbie accepted this without demure. 

One suspects, from a reading of the diary, that she quite enjoyed male attention:

- July 17: “Some of these young men are nice, and we do have merry times…”

but she absolutely also approved of her brother’s paternalistic guardianship:

“… but it could not be, if my brother was not here.  He is so quiet and particular, and would soon rebuke me if I should be indiscrete.  He is a good brother.” 

Her relationship to him was at times childlike.  The same diary entry records an exchange with him as he set off to town for “some things”:

- July 7: “I asked him to bring me a pennys worth [of sweets] from town.  When he left – I said ‘dont forget the pennys worth’, and as P[hilip] was walking up the path, I called, ‘I must remind you of that pennys worth’.  He just hawhawed and laughed.” 

- July 22: “Philip spoke to me about the old dress I had on.  I like to please him so I will wear another.” 

- Nov 20: [On the way back from proving up in Augusta, while Philip slept under the wagon] “I asked Philip if I could not go to the dugout and get warm.  He said ‘no it is too dirty a place for you’….  I went and laid down.  He charged me ‘If you take off your shoes, keep them near you, or they will freeze, and you cant get them on in the morning’.  It was cold, however I had plenty of blankets and my comfort, and I slept a little.” 

Finally, when on November 20, she went to the Land office in Augusta to prove up her claim:

- Nov 20: “I waited in an adjoining room, while brother went in.  They were very busy.  Brother knew one of the clerks, and we were waited on, sooner than we otherwise would have been; which was fortunate for us.  Philip had attended to all the prelimatery parts, before I was called in.  I had little to do, beside sign my name and pay $1.25 an acre or $200 –, and some office fees, after which we received a certificate.  The pattent will be made out in Washington D.C., and sent to us.  Now I am owner of 160 acres of land.” 

At this point, reading this, it would not be unreasonable to ask whether we need to revisit the statement at the beginning of this article that Abbie was “undoubtedly” a genuine homesteader. 

A reading of Elaine Lindgren’s study of North Dakota women homesteaders suggests that Abbie did nothing that Lindgren’s sole female homesteaders didn’t do.  She built mutual help alliances with local family and neighbours.  Friends and hired men built her dugout and worked her land.  It was not unusual for family members – or future married partners – to take adjacent plots.  She was not unique when she moved out, took another job and rented out their plot.  And she would not be the last homesteader to prove up a plot for its future value. 

However, it is at the sentence: ‘But they were the managers of their own enterprise, not mere sidekicks to a man’, that the resemblance ends. 

It is clear from the diary that not only did her brother make all the decisions, and do all the ‘heavy lifting’ for her, it is also clear that she was a willing and adoring partner in the enterprise.  Her diary records her: making a shirt for Philip; baking ‘perfect’ bread (“wont Philip enjoy it”); making a crumb pie (“which I knew Philip would like”); sewing for Philip; finding baking difficult (“but Philip likes it, and so I enjoy baking”); mending a pair of pants and vest for Philip.  And although these desire-to-please comments tail off during the latter part of her stay, they are replaced by intense worries for Philip’s health; tears when he was feverish; the feeling it was her fault he was ill; wishing her dugout finished (because “I think Philip would be better if we were farther from the river”); going for medicine for him even though ill herself et al.  On Sept 22, having stayed over at the Lanes, she refused an offer to dine with Mr Smith: “I was anxious to get home, and anxious about Philip.”  And, when she was sad to leave, she was sad to leave Philip. 

Only when Abbie was too ill to do the housework – or to show off – do we read of Philip doing anything:

- Sept 30: “Since Monday have been in bed nearly all the time… Philip has been doing the cooking.  I have no appetite, and that worried him.  It is laughable to see him bake flap jacks for himself.” 

- Nov 8: “We had pancakes for breakfast.  I cant toss them over like P[hilip] can.  Sometimes he sends them over the second time, to see them flap.” 

The telling question would be – had Philip died of his fever in August – whether Abbie would have taken over the plot and stayed in Kansas to prove up her claim.  Whilst we will never know, there has to be a strong suspicion that brother Hiram would have come out to Clearwater and spirited her back to Pennsylvania. 

Abbie was a strong-willed and wonderful woman, who deserves credit.  She lived the life, and suffered the ills, of a female homesteader in Kansas in 1871.  Her detailed and candid descriptions, not only of what happened, but of how she felt about it all, gives an invaluable insight into the life of female homesteaders.  But she never had agency – she did as she was guided; she does not qualify as one of Lindgren’s independent sole female homesteaders. 

She DOES, however, match Elizabeth Jameson’s description of the homesteader wife – albeit a particularly pliant and adoring sister – who contributed to a homestead which was “an interdependent economic unit”, but where (with flexibility when necessary) the tasks were divided along gender lines, and she accepted the gender conventions of the time. 

Going Deeper

You can see a facsimile of the original hand-written diary

a transcript of the full diary: Part I and Part II

or an abridged version

A 'Dutch oven'