Will felt uneasy about going to Hinton. He’d faced many barns filled with cows but never a room full of rambunctious boys. He hadn’t wanted on do it, but when Mary came down with a cold and hoarse throat, she could only whisper. “Will, you’ll just have to substitute for me. I told mother I’d do it, and I can’t leave them in the lurch.”
“But, Mary, I’m no teacher.”
“You know our history. You’ll just have to go.”
He knew that Mary would help him in a pinch, so he hitched Fanny and drove to the 4H meeting at the Hinton Town Hall.
“Boys, my wife — your parents knew her as Mary Tregonning — is sick, and she asked me to substitute.”
“Mr. O’Shaughnessy,” a tall boy called from the back. “No disrespect, but what can you know about mining? You’re Irish.”
“What’s your name, young man?”
“Bob Tredinnick.”
Will groaned under his breath — another Cornishman. What could he expect in Hinton? A room full of boys with parents straight from Kernow. “Well, young man, the Irish mined, too. A few of them did.”
“Just to haul slag,” another voice called. “They didn’t go deep.”
Will wanted to whack him, but he smiled instead. “Regardless, I can tell you about the history. I have a history minor from the University of Wisconsin.”
“You went to Madison?” the first boy said.
Will supposed that he’d established his credentials. “Do you know why we’re called the Badger State?”
“Well, of course,” the first boy said. “It was those Irish miners who dug shallow holes like the badgers who gave us that name. They didn’t know nothin’ ’bout mining.”
Laughter assaulted Will’s ears.
“Not just the Irish, my son. But many people think our state’s named for the animal.”
“How many badgers you see ’round here?” shouted a third boy.
“I agree with you. The Cornish made it professional, but let me tell you a bit more about our history. A hundred years ago, Hinton and Ashley Springs were the two largest cities in Wisconsin. Eight miles separated the two villages, eight miles of tree-covered hills, intimidating limestone outcroppings, a sharp valley with a stream so small it could be stepped over in the dry season but became a raging river during spring downpours.”
But Will knew that geography wasn’t the only divide between them. The more snobbish of Ashley Springs said the two villages were separated by eight miles of geography and a hundred miles of culture, but Will decided that was best unsaid.
“There was a time when the two vied for the region’s leadership and times when Hinton seemed to be winning.”
Shouts of “Hinton, Hinton” filled the room, but Will waved them silent.
“Although lead had been extracted here since before white men came to the region, the diggings were shallow openings in the ground that exposed surface lead. The early European miners — such as they were — the Irish and others, lived in the holes they dug into the hillsides. Although few of the animals were ever seen in the state, those miners who dug like the badgers that people had seen farther west came to be called by that name. Ever since, Wisconsin has been known as the Badger State.
As you well know, that all changed when Cornish miners trickled into Southwest Wisconsin during the early 1830s. You Cornishmen were professionals who braved deep underground shafts to extract the treasure that awaited your picks and shovels.”
The room erupted with whistles and applause.
Will bowed to the left, to the right, and at last, to the center. He had their attention now. “Well, these miners, these Cornish miners,” he held up his hand to still the outburst, “flooded the area as demand increased. And the Cornish immigration flow reached its peak when the price of lead exploded through the Civil War years and during America’s expansion westward. But after gold beckoned the miners elsewhere, the communities faded into off-the-map hamlets inhabited by retired farmers.”
“I bet they were Irish farmers,” the tall boy called.
“Yes, the Irish often farmed. My grandfather was a farmer. But unlike Ashley Springs whose economy revived when the zinc mines opened early in the 1900s, Hinton died under its rubble.”
A chorus of boos enveloped Will.
He’d planned to tell them that Hinton couldn’t afford the amenities that its neighbor to the east provided its youth; that Hinton only had a small three-shelf library, but no opera house, and they couldn’t attract an annual Chautauqua. But he decided to let discretion be the better part of valor and instead said, “But Hinton is on the rebound. I heard that your grocer, dry goods operator, and Chevrolet dealer have pooled their money and are looking for entertainment they can bring to your village. They want to make life more interesting for you and your friends.”
When the boys stood and cheered, Will knew it was a good time to end his history lesson.