Vernon M. Porth enjoying tea with his mother Louise.
On page 212 of the 1974 Divide County
History Book, Vernon tells his story this way:
"I was born in Fergus
Falls, Minnesota. When I was one year old, my parents, Mr. and Mrs. G.
W. Porth, took me with them to their farm eight miles southwest of Ambrose,
N. D., on the southeast corner of Section 31 in Ambrose township. This land
had been homesteaded and proved up by my mother in 1909. It has continued to
be my home up to this time."
"I attended Twin Butte
consolidated school and was graduated from Ambrose high school. After the
death of my father in 1934, my mother and I continued to operate the farm
where I grain farm and also raise a few beef cattle."
"I have taken an active
part in civic and community affairs. I served as school treasurer for
24 continuous years. I also served as township clerk and as supervisor
for many years."
"In recent years, I have
taken a genuine interest in the Farmers Union and have been privileged to
serve as county president of this organization. I do quite a bit of
church work and am a member of Zion Lutheran church in Fortuna. I also
find my association with the Toastmasters Club of Crosby very enjoyable."
"My sister, Helen, lives
with me on the farm and we both intend to make this our home indefinitely."
 Click here to read
Vernon's obituary
Helen had this to say on
the death of her brother:
"The local bank and the
Farmers Union presented memorials to him, as well as did his many friends.
A congregation in Plentywood, Montana, where Vernon preached, sent a card of
condolence signed by the congregation members."
"The A. L. C. W. served a
luncheon. The church was full, friends coming great distances."
"Your expression of
sympathy is deeply appreciated. I have lost my brother and my lifetime
companion, so this is indeed a heavy blow to me."
"He was ailing, but
surely no one thought that he had anything that would prove fatal. All
the dangerous medicines that he was prescribed destroyed his bones, his
muscles, and finally his blood vessels, resulting in his death."
"I will miss sharing my
thoughts and plans with him. A friend tells me I will feel better when
I get back to teaching this fall."
As ever, Helen
Click here to read
Louise's obituary
Helen Porth and friends
|
Helen Porth
On page 212 of the 1974 Divide County
History Book, Helen tells her story this way:
"I live with my brother,
Vernon, on the home farm eight miles southwest of Ambrose. Most of my
life has been spent in going to school and teaching. I taught for
several years in Divide county rural schools and later in Crosby, Minot and
Richmond, California high schools. Since 1961, I have been teaching
English at the University of North Dakota, Williston Center."
Helen describes her first
teaching assignment in this short story:
Not God, but the Mafia
When a problem is too
big, a poor mortal prays “God help me.” The Indian, the Jew, the
Muslim, the Christian prays “God help me.” As an eighteen year old
girl I uttered this prayer when I went to teach in a rural German Russian
community.
Most teachers would not
stay in this community. Some teachers remained for only six weeks. As
the reputation of the community became known, the board found it difficult
to get a teacher--any teacher at all. I wanted to teach and I wanted
the money. The board was desperate for a teacher so they hired me.
Roughness in conduct and
speech extended throughout the community. At a dance an ear and a nose were
bitten off by combative individuals. One man made bootleg whiskey which he
sold in jugs which were buried in loads of grain which he hauled to the
elevator. Youngsters were kept home from school because they were the
right size to tramp down the cabbage in the sauerkraut barrel.
Students came to school
driving horses which were hitched to an old buggy. They hung on the
buggy in all kinds of crazy angles and drove wildly down the road.
Many times I thought that a frenzied cry of “The Indians are Coming!” could
not have generated more terror in my heart.
“God, help me,” I
prayed.
The class schedule
proceeded and the rough play on the playground went on each recess. During
the lunch hour and recess, swearing was terrific. Damn proceeded by the word
“God” and “Jesus Christ” were more common than adjectives.
Finally one big, gangly
boy flatly refused to follow not a request, but a command of mine. I
sent him home, a distance of two miles. Shortly thereafter, I saw this
boy coming across the field with his burly father. This man was the
bootlegger, the Mafia. I was really frightened. What would
happen now?
“God help me.”
The father asked me what
George had done. I told the father the truth, and the bootlegger
believed me. He said, “George, I knew you were lying.” The board
may have told the community if the patrons “ran out” another teacher, this
might close the school. The father doubled his fist and threatened to whip
George when he got home. Also, he said he would thrash any youngster who
gave the teacher trouble. He went to the water cooler, filled a tin
cup, and took a generous drink. Then he turned his attention to me and
uttered this historic statement: “There is nothing wrong with our children;
it's the teachers’ fault. The teachers are too damn soft.”
“Thank you Mr. Fleck;
thank you, dear Mafia.”
I made a few rules:
absolutely no talking during the lunch hour. The reason for this rule
was to spare me the sound and the indignity of listening to all of the
swearing, the only adjectives they knew.
One day the County
Superintendent visited my school. He looked genuinely surprised and remarked
that he could scarcely believe that both the physical plant and the students
were in good order. One thing was wrong. The schoolroom was cold.
“Aren't you cold?” he asked the children. Eighteen heads wagged a negative
response. If the room was cold, and it was cold, this would be a criticism
of their teacher. These children were loyal and they did not want their
teacher to be criticized. That morning, as hard as I tried, I could not get
the fire to burn in the lignite-burning furnace. The children understood.
The day of the picnic
arrived and school was over. To this day, residents of that community are my
friends. I am glad to meet and to visit with them in town.
“Thank you, God, for
sending the Mafia to protect me and to treasure me.”
Helen's story of
dedication as both student and teacher is told in these newspaper accounts
which chronicle her achievements.
1984-Story
teller keeps alive history of pioneer days.
1991-Persistence
pays: Helen Porth achieves lifelong goal, becomes doctor of English.
1992-After 60
years it's now 'Doctor' Helen Porth |
