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The winter of 1924 hit early and hit often. By Christmas Eve, the powder snow coveted by children was everywhere. For most, it would be their first white Christmas; they were excited . . . and nervous. Rest assured, their parents told them, the snow would not delay Santa Claus, who was scheduled to arrive that night. But first there was the annual Christmas tree celebration down at the schoolhouse. It was bitterly cold—so cold that fathers worried their Model T's radiators would freeze solid during the presentation. Snow blanketed the ground and glistened in the beams of headlights as families cautiously made their way to the school. It was beautiful, children thought, a winter wonderland. But the unpaved roads were a disaster to drive on, and, above, snow weighed so heavily on telephone lines that their poles snapped, cutting off telephone service outside of Kiowa County. Still the families continued, coming from all directions but meeting at the same terminus. They met at the schoolhouse, almost 200 of them from throughout the countryside. Though technically just a school, the building served as the community center, hosting ice cream socials, potluck dinners, and resident meetings. Though small, the building stood out on the prairie with its white paint and pine timber construction. The school had served the community well since its construction, although it had undergone minor alterations through the years. Due to hobos and vandals attracted by the nearby railroad tracks, wire mesh was installed over all the windows. Thanks to mischievous students, the 50 wooden desks were bolted to the floor. To make it easier to fetch coal for the stove furnace, a coal closet was built using the second exterior door. And a lean-to garage was added to house the teacher's car. As they arrived, children kicked at the snow. Their laughs turned to crystals in mid-air while mothers hurriedly shuffled them into the school. Inside, the school's only teacher beamed with pride. Florence Hill loved serving her students. She felt safe there. The 27-year-old newlywed was a student teacher in Hobart for years before getting her own school at Babbs Switch. Its remote location had its drawbacks—there were no water lines available, for one—but it provided for a distraction-free education for the children and was only a few miles from her previous school. 
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Yes, the war was over, and the pandemic gone, but a far more insidious danger remained, thought John Connolly. The enemy now was one that had never really gone away; it had only been overshadowed by the War to End All Wars and the worst pandemic in a century: fire. Connolly was a fire insurance agent, and, from his office in Oklahoma City, he wanted to overhaul Oklahoma’s fire safety culture. Born in Ontario in 1859, Connolly embodied the pioneer spirit of the old west. At 20 years old, he emigrated to Grafton, North Dakota, where he became a prominent businessman. Always up to a challenge, he sold the business in 1897 and headed for the Klondike—at 38 years old, he was risking it all to become a prospector. But mining wasn't for him, and he soon was back in business in North Dakota. Connolly valued service to the community and was a prominent member of the Democratic National Committee in North Dakota. But Oklahoma City, he heard, was booming, and Oklahoma Territory was applying for statehood. It had a strong Democratic party, and it presented a lot of opportunity for a man like Connolly. So, after 23 years in North Dakota, Connolly picked up and moved south. In Oklahoma, Connolly found his place as a fire insurance agent. Like in North Dakota, Connolly was heavily involved in his community and the state Democratic party. In 1909, just as drought began scorching the state, Connolly's own home caught fire. Only a closet was destroyed, and no one was hurt. But Connolly never stopped thinking of what could have been if the fire started elsewhere in the home or if the fire department had not arrived so quickly.  Oklahoma City, 1910 Just after the turn of the 20th century, a group of farmers converged at the site of Kiowa County’s new grain elevator six miles south of Hobart, Oklahoma. Edith "Babbs" Babcock was given the honor of flipping the switch to deliver the first load of wheat to the switch. From then, the area in southwest Oklahoma was referred to as "Babbs Switch." It grew into a community of farms, complete with a general store, a gas station, and a school. Life was hard there, and it made the residents a close-knit community. Kiowa County was a challenging place to make a living in the early 20th century. The nomadic tribes that controlled the land for centuries—the Kiowa, Comanche, and Apache—could have told the settlers that. Situated near the base of the Wichita Mountain range and surrounded by shortgrass plains, it was a land of extremes. Lacking a consistent natural water source, drought was always a threat. Each spring, violent thunderstorms and tornadoes appeared out of nowhere, causing floods due to a lack of natural reservoirs. The unpredictable spring was followed by the brutal predictability of summer. It would be hot, and the infamous Oklahoma wind swirling on the empty plains felt like living in a convection oven. Summer would overstay its welcome well into autumn—there were far too few trees to call it 'fall'—before giving way to the cooler temperatures and early sunsets of winter. But Kiowa County winters were no Norman Rockwell paintings, either. Most of the time, it was cold, wet, and windy. It sleeted more often than it snowed, and it iced more often than it sleeted. Ice storms often paralyzed the community, threatened livestock, and cut off communication. Telephone and telegraph lines would snap and fall under the weight of inches of ice, while roads would become too hazardous for safe travel. When it did snow, it was often wet, light, and short-lived—an annoyance, really. The winter sun would often melt snow within a day, leaving behind cold, wet slush throughout the countryside. And still the wind blew. The same wind that made summer a hell on earth made otherwise beautiful winter days bone-chillingly cold as strong north winds blew picked up moisture from sleet and slapped people's face with it at 20–40 miles per hour. But, every so often, Kiowa County would receive a real snow—a powder snow—that enveloped everything in a beautiful, shimmering soft white. On those days, the children of Kiowa County forgot about the wind, the farmers forgave God for the heat, and work ground to a halt as friends, families, and neighbors took in the spectacle. After suffering through a long summer, real snow was a treat, however inconvenient. That was when times were good. Almost as soon as Babbs was founded, though, times were not good. Beginning in 1909, a severe drought ravaged Oklahoma, baking crops in the sun and drying creek beds throughout southwest Oklahoma. Farmers' yields were devastated. The drought continued into 1910, 1911, 1912, 1913, 1914, 1915, 1916, 1917, and 1918. Crops failed. Banks called in loans. Life was hard.  Hobart third-grade class, 1907 |
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"Heed the Call"—Chris Wesseling
Cover photograph of Medicine Park courtesy of Joshua Rouse.