Somewhere north of Union City, Michigan, I stopped to take photos of these pigs, who seemed to be enjoying their day as much as I was enjoying mine.

I don’t have any historical information to add, because I don’t know exactly where I took these photos. I didn’t record anything about the location on the voice recorder built into my camera, and it was a few weeks before I bought the GPS that I now use for the purpose. It was a relaxed, lazy time for me, too. Later on in the day I felt more of a sense of urgency to make better time, but not yet while I was at this place.

]]> http://www.spokesrider.com/2009/02/22/pigging-out/feed/ 0 http://www.spokesrider.com/2009/02/19/burlington-township-rectangularity/ http://www.spokesrider.com/2009/02/19/burlington-township-rectangularity/#comments Thu, 19 Feb 2009 09:13:56 +0000 Spokesrider http://www.spokesrider.com/2009/02/19/burlington-township-rectangularity/ The 1873 and 1894 county atlases show that the place was owned by an "A. R. Thompson." I haven't been able to learn much about him. The 1869 directory for the county lists him as a trustee for the Protestant Methodist Church at Wet Prairie. The term Wet Prairie, when capitalized, seems to sometimes refer to the area, and sometimes to the small village of Abscota in the southwest corner of the section. Abscota was the name of the post office, back when there was a post office there.

I’ve already told about the last part of the July 24 ride to Girard. This photo was taken earlier in the day, on the way there. It’s in Section 6 of Burlington Township, Calhoun County, Michigan — right on the township border, or range line.

The 1873 and 1894 county atlases show that the place was owned by an “A. R. Thompson.” I haven’t been able to learn much about him. The 1869 directory for the county lists him as a trustee for the Protestant Methodist Church at Wet Prairie. The term Wet Prairie, when capitalized, seems to sometimes refer to the area, and sometimes to the small village of Abscota in the southwest corner of the section. Abscota was the name of the post office, back when there was a post office there.

Thompson wasn’t the original purchaser of the land in the photo. But while looking into the original purchasers, I came across a comment that caught my attention. It’s in a paragraph from the 1877 county history that tells about the first settlers in the township:

Gilbert B. Murray made a settlement on his present farm on section 6, locating a fractional lot containing sixty-four and fiftysix one-hundredths acres.

That would be the land that had been purchased by one Samuel D Patrick, as shown in the above record from the GLO land patent database.

The county history said it was a “fractional lot”, but under the Legal Land Description tab, we see a “No” under the heading “Fract. Section.”

I suppose the owner may have thought it was fractional, in that a normal north half of the the northeast quarter section would have contained 80 acres. This one was smaller, which I suppose could have been a sore point with the owner. But technically, it’s not fractional, which is a term that was reserved for other types of anomolies.

Section 6 is the upper-left section in a township. It’s very common for Section 6 of a township to have something other than the usual 640 acres, at least in this part of the U.S. After the land had been divided into 36 square mile townships by one crew of surveyors, another surveyor would be given a contract to divide the land into square mile sections. (It wouldn’t have to have been a different surveyor, but it often was.) The surveyors’ instructions were to start in the lower-right corner. By the time they got to the west and north boundaries of the township, there would have been accumulated errors. The surveyors were not to split the difference when surveying the topmost or leftmost interior lines, but to throw the accumulated errors into the west and north tiers of sections. Depending on the accumulated errors, they could then end up being smaller or larger than the others. And of course, section 6 got a double portion of this treatment, because of the accumulated errors in both in the east-west and north-south lines.

Tonight I got the silly idea that it would be interesting to go through the land records, pick out section 6 from every township, and record the total acreage on a map of that portion of the United States that was surveyed according to this system. Maybe plot the difference from 640 acres, plus or minus, on the map. I’m wondering if it would show how, as the survey system made its way from Ohio to the western states, and the technology and techniques were refined, that the errors got smaller and smaller.

Well, it’s not something that I’m going to do tonight, nor over the next couple of hundred nights. But somebody who has a high tolerance for tedium could do it. Some of the chore could be automated, I suppose, if one had access to the database via some other interface than the Bureau of Land Management’s web site.

But speaking of the rectangular survey system, I’ve learned a couple of interesting things about its use outside of the United States.

In Sterling Evans 2007 book, “Bound in Twine,” there is this statement on page 85, about Sonora, Mexico:

Officials then transformed the map of the [Yaqui] Valley by creating a grid system of 100-hectare square parcels to be sold to the investors and colonizers; the Yaqui Valley became the only place in Latin America to replicate the U.S. style township and section system that is based on the 1785 Northwest Ordinance.”

Land that is divided up this way can be treated as a commodity, something to be easily bought and sold, regardless of any other moral or emotional attachments that people might have to it. In the case of the Yaqui valley, it was part of an especially brutal program of deporting the Native inhabitants to make way for progress. (Not that the deportation of the Native inhabitants in the United States was one of the bright and sunny aspects of our own history.)

The other item I had in mind may not actually be from a rectangular survey system, but it sure looks like it might be one. The above is a screenshot of a googlemap from a fascinating story at crazyguyonabike.com — a honeymoon bicycle expedition that started in Kazakhstan and went to Russia, Mongolia, China, and Vietname. So far, that is. It’s still in progress. It’s a great travelogue and is accompanied by excellent photos.

The screenshot is from the page for Sunday, August 17, 2008. I zoomed in on the googlemap showing the route taken in Russia between Kazakhstan and Mongolia, turned on the satellite view, and saw a surprising amount of rectangularity. I wish I knew the story behind it.

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(July 24, 2008, continued) Two miles west of Girard, I stopped to take a photo of the old home at the intersection with River Road, just in case there was a history connection I’m supposed to know about. Then some coneflowers got more of my attention than the house did.

Tonight I finally got around to checking out the ownership of the land where the house is located, and found that there is indeed a connection of the type that I’m looking for. The original purchaser of that land was Martin Barnhart.

Barnhart was one of the men who served in the Michigan militia at the time of Black Hawk war. Le Roy Barnett’s book says he served in Bolton’s company. Bolton was from Coldwater, just a few miles to the south. Barnhart’s service dates were May 21 to June 3 and June 14-21, 1832. (The James B. Tompkins of the incident with the apple trees was also on Bolton’s roster, but was listed as “absent.”)

Barnhart’s purchase was made at the Monroe land office, which means it was made before the land office opened in White Pigeon in 1831. The 1879 Branch County history says he came to live here on January 1, 1831. I suppose moving here in the middle of winter would have made it a memorable New Years Day. The history doesn’t say whether he had built a log cabin earlier, or what. Some settlers did things like that. The man might come and build a log cabin, then go back east to get the family.

In Barnhart’s case, “back east” would have meant Ypsilanti. When he bought his first land in Branch County, he gave his place of residence as Washtenaw County. He had bought land there earlier, at a place that’s south of town, south of I-94. From the satellite view in Google Maps, it looks like much of it is still agricultural, though it’s bordered by a golf course and other developments. Barnhart may not have been there long, but when he bought that Washtenaw County land at the Detroit land office, he gave his place of residence as Washtenaw County.

The 1879 Branch County history says that in 1839, Barnhard had “395 acres wild land, 85 improved, 4 horses.” I don’t know when he died or when the land passed to other hands. I’ll have to check out the nearby cemeteries sometime. By 1872 the land was owned by a C. Prentice.

This area in Girard Township was known as the “West Prairie,” as opposed to the “East Prairie” where the village of Girard is located. It credits James B. Tompkins as the source for the statement that at settlement time, “Upon the ‘West Prairie’ were the families of Benjamin H. Smith, Martin Barnhart, Samuel Craig, Henry Van Hyning, and John Parkinson.”

All but one of these men served in Bolton’s company in 1832. And the surname of the one who didn’t (Craig) is a surname that’s also listed on the roster of Bolton’s company. A brother or son perhaps? I’ll look into that another time.

On a future bike ride I’ll try to find out if one of those other West Prairie people still has descendents living on the same homestead today. It was a name I knew about at the time of my July ride. I had stopped at the house before I got to this one at River Road, but nobody was home. I’ll leave the name out until I have a chance to talk to the people.

These coneflowers were my last photo stop of the day. I didn’t attempt to ride all the way back home, which would have made it a ride of well over 100 miles, a lot of which would have been after dark. Myra was willing to come to Union City Athens to pick me up, so that made it a ride of 66 miles.

That’s about as much as I’ve ridden in all of 2009 so far. Today I rode home from work, bringing me up to 67.5 miles for the year.

(July 24, 2008, continued) Just north of Girard, north of Hog Creek, I spied this apple tree. Perfect, I thought! I couldn’t have asked for a better photo op. I stopped at the house ahead (in the background of the photo) where the woman of the family was cleaning out a SUV, to ask if it would be OK for me to take photos.

By way of explanation, I mentioned the story of the apple trees and asked if she knew about it. It turned out that she knew the story very well, and that she is a descendant of the James B. Tompkins who originally told it to the writer of the 1879 Branch County history:

James B. Tompkins came from Schoharie, Schoharie Co., N. Y., and in the fall of 1830 arrived in Tecumseh, Mich., where he remained until July, 1831, passing six months of this time in the wilderness, while following his occupation as a surveyor. At the date last mentioned he removed to Girard, and bought 80 acres upon section 15, where he now resides … The Indians were upon section 22, where they had some 12 or 15 shanties, and about 8 acres of nice corn growing. After the removal of the Indians their shanties were torn down by the early settlers, and used to make shelters for their cattle. Upon that portion of section 15 purchased by Mr. Tompkins the squaws had planted four apple-trees. A year or so had passed away after his settlement; many other white families were coming in; and the Indians had learned that at a day not far distant they were to be removed away, and forever, from the scenes of their childhood days, their village, and the beautiful little prairie they had ever considered as all their own. A fate they so much dreaded very naturally exasperated them to such a degree that they determined to destroy the apple-trees, and all other things which they thought might be of value to the whites. Mr. Tompkins was accosted by a neighbor one day, and informed that the squaws were cutting down his apple-trees. He hastened to the spot and found that three trees were already hewn into fragments, while a young squaw, with axe in hand, and urged on by an older one, had already made an attack upon the fourth and only remaining tree. He shouted to them to stop. They did stop, and then the old squaw began a noisy harangue and denunciation of the whites; how the Indians had been cheated, their lands taken away from them, and old squaw had not received a dress. In the mean time several of the bucks had gathered around. Anger and hatred were depicted by face and gesture. The squaws demanded to be paid for sparing the tree. At this juncture William McCarty came up, and as he understood the Indian dialect he acted as mediator, and peace was once more restored by Mr. Tompkins agreeing to give the squaws a certain amount of flour.

This apple tree is on the Section 15 that was owned by James Tompkins, and is near the creek. Whether the tree is a descendant of the one in the story is unknown. Most likely it isn’t. But it’s great place to have an apple tree.

The woman did not want me to take her photo this time — not in her car-cleaning clothes. Maybe another time. But she told me she had learned the story of the apple trees when she was a teenager. She wondered how I knew about it, and I explained that the old county histories are now on-line, so it’s not something that’s hidden away. (Though I had read it long before the Michigan county histories were put online.) The old family home is the next place to the north, but is no longer owned by any descendants. She said she was the only one who cared much about the family history, and wished it had been possible to keep the old home in the family.

I’ll have more another time about James Tompkins, surveyor. But I may save it until I’ve had a chance for another bike ride to the area.

In another place in the 1879 history where the story of the apple trees is told, the writer says, “Mr. Tompkins naturally understood that when he bought the land he bought all the trees there were on it, and declined to pay further.”

I’m not sure what’s so natural about that understanding, though. The Potawatomi Indians weren’t the only people who thought that residing on the land and “improving” it gave them some special rights of entitlement that trumped a mere transaction in the land market. A surveyor, of all people, should have known about preemption rights that had been enacted into law by Congress. There are some points of similarity between those and the rights the Potawatomi women felt they had to the apple trees. More about that another time.

It’s a common enough story. Many of the first settlers in southern Michigan told how they wouldn’t have made it through the first winter without the assistance of their Potawatomi neighbors — the people who in 1821 had ceded the land the Americans were now occupying, and who would be deported from Michigan in 1840.

Early in the spring of 1829, Richard W. Corbus, a young, unmarried man, accompanied by his mother and his niece, Sarah Ann Corbus, then a child of about seven years of age, removed to the territory now known as Girard. They located temporarily near the northwest corner of section 22, and thereby became the first white residents in the township. The Pottawatamie Indians had a small village on the prairie, about one-fourth of a mile east of the corners, and here for the first six weeks Corbus, his mother, and niece lived in an unoccupied wigwam in the Indian village. During this time young Corbus had prepared a sufficient quantity of logs to build a log house, which was finally erected with the assistance of his Indian neighbors and his brother Joseph, who came over from Allen Prairie for that purpose. Mrs. Smith relates that the Indians were very friendly to the early settlers, and freely divided their store of provisions with their newly-arrived white neighbors, who, but for this timely aid, would many times have suffered for the most common necessaries of life. On the south side of the road, or near the northwest corner of section 22, was an Indian village of some twenty huts, and a large dancehouse…

The Girard Country Store is on the southwest corner of the “corners” spoken above in the above quotation.

Here is the country store shown from further away. The Potawatomi village of “twenty huts, and a large dancehouse” that is spoken of was on the same side of the street where I was standing to take this photo. The house to the right of the utility pole is probably about as close to the northwest corner of section 22 as building codes would allow.

The anecdote about the apple trees that I alluded to in an early blog article took place just a little further down the road, to the north. I’ll get to that later.

This is downtown Girard — the main intersection. Kitty-corner across the street is an old general store where I had once stopped for ice cream, but it’s now more a drinking place than a general store. But there was now a sandwich shop. I bought a sub and took it with me. The owner told me she had had the sandwich shop for several years already. It had been a long time since I had last been here.

To get to the murder site you need to turn left here, but I’m not sure how far you’d need to go. I did ride down that road and take several photos of one residence, but it doesn’t fit the description of the one in the news.

This scene is along the road about a mile west of town — the opposite direction from where the murder took place.

I see that last July I started to tell about the historical anecdote that took me to Girard, but I never finished writing about it. And now I still haven’t.

Today was a good day. I had a 66 mile bike ride that included a fine nap in the middle of the afternoon, and I found several homes and gravestones of men who served in the Michigan militia in the Black Hawk war. But the best find of all was this apple tree. That, and meeting the owner of the place, who is a descendant of one of the people in the Black Hawk story. But more important than the Black Hawk connection is the story of the apple trees. Whether this apple tree is a descendant of those that were at this place in the 1830s, I don’t know. Neither does the owner of the property.

It’s going to take more time to write it up than I have time for tonight, so I’ll stop here for now.

25-Jul Slight edit to replace a pronount with its antecedent