The Hardest Winter

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.

Florence had planned the Christmas tree celebration for weeks, and she was both excited and nervous. But, as the guests filed in, she was also happy. She had put so much time and effort into getting the school ready. She even scrubbed everything with turpentine. Aside from the door that scraped across the floor, making it bothersome to open, her school had never been in better shape. Candles and kerosene bowl lanterns cast the room in a warm glow, and shadows danced on the freshly-painted ceiling as friends and neighbors embraced and chatted about climate, crops, and Christmas. Hill's school was always a cozy environment and was especially so tonight. This would be the largest Christmas eve celebration in the school's history, and it attracted people from all over the area. The pine-frame building was designed for no more than 50 students, but its 720 square feet of space would be packed with almost 200 souls that night.

The wooden desks designed for small children were quickly filled by guests lucky enough to find a seat. The overflow sat in chairs brought in for the occasion, resigned themselves to standing room only, or took a seat on the cold, wood-plank floor of the aisleways. Towering over the crowd, all could see the Christmas tree fastened slightly catawampus in a corner stage left, angling slightly forward as if to watch the show itself. It was not the best location, Florence conceded—it had fallen over once before the kids even arrived—but placing the tree in the opposite corner would block the door to the coal closet, and it was deathly cold. It was also better to place it away from the coal-burning stove in the center of the room, Florence thought. Before she was the school's teacher, she heard, the school burned down thanks to careless use of the stove. She did not want a repeat of that calamity on her watch, so she discussed the dangers of fire and smoke with her students every year. In case of fire, she counseled them, crawl on the floor to the exit and you won't breathe in all the dangerous smoke.

The tree was red cedar adorned with candles, red and green crepe paper ornaments the students made themselves, cotton icicles hanging from its branches, and a star of Bethlehem atop its crest. Its pine-like needles and natural, fragrant oils make the red cedar an ideal Christmas tree in southwest Oklahoma, where firs are rare. By Christmas Eve, Florence's tree was drier than when first felled weeks before. But the beautiful decorations distracted the eye from needles that easily snapped and fell with each bump from rambunctious youngsters. Close by, a kerosene bowl lamp cast a soft uplight from a small table. Laura Ingalls Wilder could not have imagined a more picture perfect Christmas Eve.

The anticipation was palpable as the children kept an eye on the tree—and the presents beneath it. Once they completed their part of the Christmas program, they knew the presents were theirs. Across the room, Claude Bolding was stealing glances at the beautiful 22-year-old Gladys Clements; he could not believe that she had agreed to be his wife. Nearby, Aubrey Coffey displayed the same ear-to-ear smile, for he would marry 18-year-old Vesta Jackson the next day. A Christmas Day wedding; how could any Christmas ever top that?

The presentation began at 8 p.m. Soon the sounds of overlapping chit chat gave way to Mrs. Hill. She thanked everyone for being there, especially since the weather was so bad. The children had worked very hard on the Christmas presentation, she said, and they were excited to get started. Those parents with children in the presentation sat in the first few rows of desks. Bolted into the floor, the desks could not be moved by mischievous students or, tonight, adults inching closer to the stage. The remainder of the audience hoped the presentation would not drag all night. The smell of kerosene, pine needles, burning coal, and still-fuming oil paint made heads ache, and it was too cold and windy to open the windows.
As the presentation concluded, the scratching of the door scraping across the floor announced Santa's arrival. Claude Boldings brother Dowell—Dow to his friends and family—carefully walked toward the front, stepping over some people, schooching by others, all the while bellowing out Ho! Ho! Ho! Dow was a curious choice to play Santa. For one, he was thin, owing to the active life of a farm boy. Secondly, he was just 15 years old. But he wore a cotton wig and beard and a stuffed-cotton Santa costume. 

Santa said his hellos and made his way down the aisle, passing the wooden desks. In the front row, Margaret Biggers sat with her four-year-old daughter, Lillie, in her lap. Underneath the tree, Alice Bolding—Dow's mother—was ready to help Santa pass out gifts. Pulling each one out, she called out names, and Dow handed gifts to the delighted little ones. When the space under the tree was clear, Santa turned his attention to bags of fruit and nuts stashed in the tree. While reaching for one, he inadvertently pushed branches together. As Dow focused his attention on distributing the goodies, the cotton icicles caught fire. Within seconds it moved to the crepe paper. Then the dry foliage combusted. With the gift in hand, Dow heard a small voice: "Be careful Santa! You'll burn!" 

In the rear, Claude chuckled at his little brother's blunder. Everyone did, including Dow and assembled children. Perhaps embarrassed, Dow playfully threw a toy chair at the burning tree. But his aim was not true, and he instead knocked over a kerosene lantern, which exploded in a ball of flames. Mothers grabbed their children and fathers tried to keep calm as all present stampeded toward the door, Margaret and Lillie among them. The first to the door was crushed by a herd of bodies. Someone trying to slip through the narrow opening was in turn pinned between the door and jamb.

In the front, Dow frantically scanned the floor for a bucket of water, but there was none to be found. Panicked, he tried to smother the flames with a nearby stage curtain but flames darted from the curtain to his cotton Santa suit. The tree toppled over, knocking over another kerosene lantern. The lantern exploded. Its flames kissed the ceiling's still-fuming paint; in an instant, the fire reached flashover.

As over 100 people pushed from inside, the door could not be opened any further. But the flames got closer, hotter as the entire structure—bathed in fresh, oil-based paint and scrubbed in turpentine—combusted. Desperate, people climbed under, over, and on top of fallen bodies to slip through the narrow sliver of an exit. Beneath the pile, the fear of flames gave way to a desperate fight for air as men, women, and children were trampled. They gasped for air each time the weight above shifted, before a new set of feet violently expelled it from their bodies. Those on the very bottom perhaps suffered the least. Insulated by a mountain of bodies, the terrified screams were but a muffled ringing. Lack of oxygen dulled their senses.

Alice screamed as she saw her boy engulfed in flames. All she could do in the moment was try to save her youngest son, Eugene. Alice clutched the six-year-old close to her chest and fought like hell to make it through the narrow aisle between the stationary desks, over the bodies of those fighting for breath, and through the sliver of opening in the door. When Alice and Eugene made it to safety, she tripped over a mass of bodies just outside the door and fell, exhausted and terrified. Opening her eyes, she found some relief: her eight-year-old, Edward, was safely outside. But before she could embrace Edward and cry for Dow, he said he forgot his toy and ran back inside the building, ignoring his mother's screams for him to stop. Then she lost consciousness.

William Coffey’s eyes were wide as he assessed the obstacle course of furniture and mountain of bodies between him and the door, and he knew he could not make it. He decided instead to open a window, saving himself and others. With all his strength, he jolted the window open and found steel mesh protecting the school from vandals. As he and others frantically pushed, pulled, and kicked at the wire, the sudden rush of air created a backdraft that further fueled the fire. Men strengthened by a lifetime of farm work did all they could to dislodge the mesh to no avail. They moved to a different window but found the same result while adding still more oxygen to the room.

Brighter, hotter, taller, the flames moved like a fast-growing cancer.

In the front of the room, stage right, William and Annie Curtis huddled over their two daughters, looked each other in the eyes, and knew: this was their last night on Earth. Between them and the door were 50 wooden desks—half of them already burning—walls of flames, aisles clogged with bodies, and a heap of human beings. The windows were blocked; they were trapped. They told their daughters everything would be okay, the fire department was coming. But they knew they were wrong, so they held each other, said they loved each other, and waited to die in dignity—as a family.

Those that made it outside watched in helpless horror without means to extinguish the fire. There was no fire extinguisher, no water hose, no well, not even a bucket. Unable to stop the blaze, some focused their efforts on rescue, pulling bodies ensnared in the narrow opening—with limited success. Others focused their efforts on removing the window mesh, but it was too strong. With all their might, men beat, pulled, twisted, and wrenched the metal, but only a small portion of the corner of one window was freed. Through the tiny opening, one child was saved. The rest were trapped.

The scene outside was chaotic. In the cold, dark night, parents frantically searched for their children, their only light the scorching orange glow of the still-burning pyre. Among the chaos, Louis and Ethel Edens desperately asked Ethel's Aunt Alice Noah where their daughter was. Three-year-old Mary was sitting in Aunt Alice's lap when the mayhem began, but they did not see her now. Burned horribly, Aunt Alice assured them Mary was safe. She shielded the girl from flames as she fought through the crowd and made it outside, she said. Once they were safe, Aunt Alice handed Mary to an adult and collapsed, near death. Louis and Ethel darted from person to person looking for Mary. But no one knew where she was.
Within 12 minutes of the first flame, the building collapsed. It was clear to those outside that no one else would be saved. Survivors loaded the injured into Model-Ts—the ones that had not melted in the heat of the blaze—now acting as ambulances. But they did not get far as the drained radiators overheated. By then, the flames could be seen from Hobart, and the call for help went out.

* * *

Daisy Rogers was tired. The senior telephone operator for the Hobart exchange had put in a full day’s work and was looking forward to spending Christmas with her family. Then the phone rang. It was work. Something horrible happened, and they needed her help. When Daisy walked into the telephone exchange building, she saw just how badly help was needed. Every available operator was in a frenzy, so she sat down and got to work. For three consecutive days, she was 911 operator, news reporter, town crier, and counselor—calling every doctor and nurse in the phone book, directing aid, answering phones, jotting down news to relay the next time someone called for an update. Nearby, telegraph operator Margaret Lewis rubbed her fingers raw sending messages for help. With the telephone lines down, she was Hobart's sole link to Oklahoma City.

* * *

Across the country, children awoke to pure Christmas joy. Parents watched as the little ones discovered Santa's surprises and teared open carefully-wrapped presents. Then, when the kids scurried away to enjoy their new toys, their parents picked up the newspaper and clutched their chest. "Christmas Eve Party Ends in the Death of 32," read the headline.

* * *

When the sun rose over Kiowa County that Christmas morning, the devastation came into full view. Volunteers picked through smoldering ruins searching for victims. Bodies were driven to Hobart's City Hall—converted into a makeshift morgue—where friends and relatives somberly hunted for identifying items. A belt buckle revealed 15-year-old Walter Biggers. For nine-year-old brother William, a toy gun. For others, it was more obvious. The Curtis family was found huddled together in the exact spot they were last seen. Florence Hill was found shielding two of her students in a scene reminiscent of Pompeii. There was no Christmas wedding for Aubrey Coffey and Vesta Jackson. Claude Bolding and Gladys Clements would not wed either. Gladys, Aubrey, and Vesta were gone. Claude was in a hospital, horribly burned and thinking about what could have been.
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Families held individual funerals for those who could be identified. Those that could not—20 in all—were buried in a mass grave dug by volunteers from the telephone pole company. Clergy from every house of worship were at the graveside funeral on a blisteringly cold Friday morning. Hell hath truly frozen over.