Native American Graves Found on Water Street Property

Every Ypsilantian is familiar with the story of Indian artifacts and bones that have been found over the years along the western bank of the Huron River from roughly the location of the Museum to south of Michigan Avenue. Less well known are other discoveries of burial sites throughout the city, suggesting a much wider scope of Indian burials in the area.

Modern-day Ypsilanti was once the site of the intersection of several Indian trails, including the Great Sauk Trail (now Michigan Avenue). Four tribes are thought to have lived in the area: the Huron (also called Wyandot), Chippewa, Ottawa, and Potowatomi.

In 1927, Wilbert B. Hinsdale published his study of the area’s indigenous people, “The Indians of Washtenaw County Michigan.” A former U-M internal medicine professor and dean of the school’s Homeopathic Medical College, Hinsdale’s lifelong interest in archaeology led him into the field after his 1922 retirement from medicine. He was put in charge of U-M’s archaeological collections and eventually became known as the “Father of Michigan Archaeology.”

The 1927 Hinsdale map showed a burial site north of Washtenaw, marked by a circle with a cross.

“The Indians of Washtenaw County” contains a map indicating several burial sites in Washtenaw County that include Saline and Ypsilanti. The symbol for the Ypsilanti burial site on the small-scale map is placed north of Washtenaw within the westward curve of Huron Street as it turns to the northern edge of the EMU campus. This placement, if accurate, suggests that burial grounds extended further north along the river than the Riverside Park area, possibly into the modern-day EMU campus.

In 1970, onetime EMU student Edward Heyman wrote a one-page memoir, preserved in the Ypsilanti Archives, of his encounter with a purported Native American burial site. As a student, he volunteered to help with a 1920s pine tree planting program on the then-northwest corner of EMU’s campus (now the site of the Student Center). “I was interested in the area,” wrote Heyman, “and especially in the fact that Professor William H. Sherzer, head of the Department of Natural Science, told us that the area was the site of an early Indian cemetery.” The group planted what later became known as Pine Grove.

In the 1940s, when the university planned to cut down some of the pines in order to build the Pine Grove Terrace Apartments, alum Heyman returned to look at the site. “Seeing the pine trees, which I helped plant years before, being cut down and basements being dug, I walked over to the area to see what was happening. In the debris of the digging were a dozen of more old, old bones. The man in charge of the excavation said they were Indian bones, that the digging had uncovered remains of several graves.”

The Pine Grove Terrace apartments were demolished in the early 2000s to clear space for the Student Center. The Center’s Kiva Room rises over the approximate location of the onetime graves.

There’s other evidence that the burial sites were not confined to the Riverside Park area. In 1914, burial sites were discovered in the Water Street area, at Parsons and Lincoln streets. In 1914, the Westfield and Fall River Lumber company had a lumberyard there. Behind it lay a gravel pit, where the graves were discovered.

“Men who are drawing gravel from the pit on what is known as the Jan Williams place back of the [lumber yard] for the state road have come upon three Indian skeletons,” said the June 11, 1914 Ypsilanti Daily Press. “”Monday morning Mr. Platt, who is in charge of the work, found a large copper kettle which was filled with seeds resembling pumpkin seeds but upon trying to get the kettle from the ground it fell to pieces. “This morning the men found two more smaller kettles which were extremely heavy and a few minutes later they unearthed three skeletons deeply embedded in the sand.”

The term “kettle” refers not to a teakettle but to the wide-bottomed copper cooking bowls found in numerous indigenous burial sites in Michigan and throughout the Midwest and Northeast.

The paper continued, “Upon the bones of two of these they found two bracelets and in the graves they found small white beads which were still fastened to a loose woven cloth. These also fell to pieces. A large double cross and a smaller cross was found, also two silver ornaments which resembled a whisk broom holder, the large one with a picture and the words ‘King of Spain,’ a small brush which showed the trace of color upon it and many other small silver pieces with fancy ornaments upon them. A spoon was among the collection.

“One of the skeletons was in perfect condition and the workmen scraped the sand away but when they attempted to move it, it fell in a heap.

“Professor Jefferson from the Normal College was on the ground and made several photographs of the skeletons and the various ornaments.

The Water Street location corresponds with local onetime county surveyor Charles Woodard’s 1893 memoir, which includes his childhood recollection of Ypsilanti in the early 1830s.

“At times hundreds [of Indians],” he recalled, “might be seen camped out on the banks of the Huron near the East Public Square [a onetime city park on the southwest corner of Michigan Avenue and Park Street] but I do not remember ever hearing of anyone ever being molested by them or even troubled by their begging food. . . They were better off than their white brothers, being better hunters.”

The site was neither studied or preserved using modern archeological protocols.

“Early this morning students from the Normal College as well as others began to arrive on the scene to gather relics,” reported a front page story in the June 12 Ypsilanti Daily Press.

“One small boy had several teeth which he had taken from one of the skulls; another had a collar bone, and still another a piece of the spinal column. Bert Vealey, one of the workmen, decided that if there was to be anything left to show, it would be a wise idea to take steps to care for the bones so he procured a box and placed them in it, and took them to his home on South Street.

The paper continued, “Oscar Lawrence found three bracelets, a silver crown, a silver heart, and two copper kettles. Lewis Green found a whistle made from a buffalo horn. Frank Fletcher found a large cross made from silver about ten inches in length. James Carer found a bracelet [and] silver buckle. Verne Vealey found a knife handle made of bone, also some quill shields. Ben Singer found a breast pin with three crosses attached and ornamented with two small silver bells.”

Although the site was destroyed, a memorial remains to the onetime indigenous Ypsilantians whose graves were found in the gravel pit.

The gravel was used in 1914 to build the state road M-23. Later, this road was called US-112 and subsequently US-12, or Michigan Avenue.

The road workers unwittingly commemorated in concrete the route that the Native Americans found in the Ypsilanti gravel pit may have traveled many times: the Great Sauk Trail.

Laura Bien is a local history writer. Have an idea for a column? Email her at ypsidixit@gmail.com.

The Photographer Who Inherited a Dead Frog

When in 1909 they read the will of Chicago businessman William Cooper, father to Ypsilanti photographer Charles Cooper, it turned out that Charles had inherited a dead frog.

Or, rather, the rights to William’s patent: a complicated bit of fishing tackle that pinned a frog in a lifelike pose.

The “Fisherman’s Friend,” as it was called, consisted of a trident-shaped bit of wire roughly four inches long. The dead frog rested on a little platform on the trident’s center wire, front legs dangling down. The two outer prongs of the trident held the frog’s legs extended backwards. A big hook curled up over the frog’s back. When the contraption was cast on a fishing line and reeled in, the frog would appear to be “swimming” through the water in a lifelike way, to tempt large game fish.

William Cooper had patented his invention in 1906. The patent application said that he had “invented certain new and useful improvements in Fishing-Hooks . . . the invention in this instance resides more particularly in the simplicity of the combination and construction, arrangement, and adaptation of the parts, with the added advantage of cheapness in the manufacture of the device.”

Though it seems a bit complicated, the three-year-old wire device was popular and already being sold around the country. In Ypsilanti, the “Fisherman’s Friend” was sold for fifteen cents [$3.50 today] at E. D. Carpenter’s hardware store at 124 Congress (Michigan Ave) and Shaefer Hardware at 23 Huron.

In 1909, Shaefer’s, on the west side of Huron, was just a few doors south of Cooper’s studio. Cooper’s photographic studio at 39 North Huron occupied the second floor of the onetime post office, at the southwest corner of Huron and Pearl streets. Cooper’s other neighbors on the west side of Huron included the cigar-maker Mathias Stein, the Weinmann-Matthews drugstore, the milliner Marian Clarke sharing a space with the dentist George Mills, and the offices of Ypsilanti physician Ellen Murray. Cooper’s studio was popular—there are many photographs in the Ypsilanti Archives that have the imprint of his name and business.

At his father’s death, Cooper moved all of the machinery used to manufacture the fishing device from Chicago to Ypsilanti, and installed it in the rear of his studio. He intended to carry on his father’s legacy. The local newspaper crowed about this exciting new Ypsilanti business in a front-page, above-the-fold story.

“Within a short time, the city of Ypsilanti will have added another industry,” said the April 27, 1909 Ypsilanti Daily Press.

“Mr. C. E. Cooper, the photographer whose place of business is situated over the post office was bequeathed a patent by his father and intends to start manufacturing on a large scale in the near future.”

Charles had reason to do so—the device was popular. The Press said, “Cooper’s patented snap swivel or the ‘Fisherman’s Friend’ as it is called, has been manufactured for the past three years in Chicago under the direction of Mr. Cooper’s father.”

The article continued, “The Sears-Roebuck Co., of Chicago, probably the largest mail order concern in the world, recently placed an order with Mr. Cooper for 400 gross.

“The Simmons Hardware Co. of St. Louis, Missouri, in a recent letter to Mr. Cooper declared that within a year, their corps of salesmen could handle the entire output of the Cooper company.

“The little contrivance has a decidedly bright future and Mr. Cooper intends to push it extensively within the next year [1910].”

At this dawning of Charles’ fishing tackle empire, tragedy struck.

Charles Cooper became ill in early March, 1911. The doctors summoned could not help him. He took to his bed for six weeks as his wife Matilda tried to help. It was no use. Charles Cooper died on April 18, 1911.

His death certificate says that Charles died of Bright’s disease, a onetime catchall term for several different kidney ailments. Charles was buried in Highland Cemetery.

His widow Matilda lived until 1931. She is buried with Charles in section 49 of Highland.

The cemetery overlooks the Huron River. It’s possible that long after Charles’ death, local fishermen were still enjoying the device patented by his father and sold in Ypsilanti, the “Fisherman’s Friend.”

Laura Bien is the author of “Tales of the Ypsilanti Archives.” Have an old-time Ypsilanti history story to share? Contact her at ypsidixit@gmail.com.

The Disappearance of Lula Kohlasch

When Lula Kohlasch abandoned her husband and children in the summer of 1905, the only thing she left behind was her wheelchair.

The July 19, 1905 Ypsilanti Daily Press said, “If any question as to the metropolitan character of Ypsilanti is still entertained, it will promptly be set at rest by the discovery that the city has its sensations as well as the larger cities. All this came to light this morning by the report of Mr. Kohlasch, a respectable and hardworking man, whose wife, Mrs. Kohlasch, is and has been for some time an invalid and a cripple.”

Charles Kohlasch worked as a day laborer. In 1900, 40-year-old Kohlasch lived in Plymouth with his 24-year-old wife Lula. The Press spelled her name Lura, and on various other records it appears as Lola, Tola, Tula, and Jula. The couple lived with their 3-year-old son Walter and infant Rosella. They had married 4 years prior in nearby Northfield Township.

The family moved to Ypsilanti and by 1903 were renting a home at 438 Chidester Street, midway between Catherine and Spring streets. Two more children followed by 1905. Lula likely had a hard time caring for the 4 children ranging in age from 8 to 2.

Mr. Kohlasch, said the paper, had had difficulty securing household help. He eventually found a good candidate in Detroit, and the young woman began working in the house. Everything seemed fine until “a young fellow,” said the paper, “who makes his home on Forest Avenue at his brother’s, saw the girl for the first time, took her walking and the couple forgot to return. They claim that they expect to be married soon, although the ceremony has not yet taken place.”

Kohlasch was again without help. The Ypsilanti Daily Press said that he went to Ann Arbor to ask a young lady who’d previously worked in the house to return. He likely wanted to hire some help before leaving on a short trip that he and Lula had planned. He’d just been paid for the month–$16, or $380 today.

When Kohlasch returned home, his wife and the money were gone.

Also missing were some of her skirts, blouses, and shoes, as well as 13-year-old neighbor boy Carl Pepper, who had wheeled Lula around town in the past.

“Mr. Kohlasch has reported the matter to the police department,” said the Daily Press, “who are endeavoring to locate the couple. The husband is a hard-working man and is well liked by those who knew them. Mrs. Kohlasch has had every comfort lavished on her by her husband and no explanation of her absence can be offered.”

Lula’s wheelchair was found, said the following day’s Press, at John Schaff’s home at 113 Miles Street.

The paper continued, “Warrants which were sworn out by the father of the boy for truancy and for the woman for abandoning her children are still in the hands of the Ann Arbor officials, who have yet not been able to serve them.”

Gossip swirled around town. “Neighbors claim that Mrs. Kohlasch was not so ill as was supposed,” said the paper. “It is said that frequently on Sundays they would have a violin player at the house and dance at these times. Mr. Kohlasch would join in the merrymaking.”

The paper continued, “When asked about this the husband replied that his wife enjoyed the music as much as any one and sometimes would get up and step around to the music just as any one who is full of life.”

Lula, said her husband, “‘was getting to feel more like herself and had been able to do more than for some time.’”

Kohlasch was asked if the couple had had problems. He replied, said the Press, “‘No, we hadn’t any trouble lately; that is to say since I called her down for being too friendly with the boy, but I thought I had a perfect right to do that under the circumstances. She just laughed at me, but their actions worried me some. I hate to think of her leaving her children so and going off in that way.’”

Pepper was in his last week of summer grade school taught at the Normal College, said the paper.

The Press reported that Kohlasch had left the children with a neighbor. It continued, “When asked if he would take her back [he] replied that the matter was entirely out of his hands now, as he had gone before the prosecuting attorney and the crime for which the warrants were issued is punishable by not less than three years or more than ten.”

Town gossip intensified. “The report that Charles Kohlasch does not look after his children, which has been circulated in some quarters, is not true,” said the July 28, 1905 Ypsilanti Daily Press. “Mr. Kohlasch is a hard-working, industrious man, who bears a good reputation among his neighbors for sobriety and honesty.”

The paper continued, “Since the departure of his wife over a week ago in company with a 13-year-old boy, it has been something of a problem to the father to see how he could care for his motherless brood and at the same time earn money with which to feed and clothe them. Kindly neighbors, pitying the little family, came to the rescue and cared for them until the father could straighten out his affairs and find out what to do. At this point the usual busybodies interested themselves in the matter and applied to County Agent Childs to have them sent to the state public school at Coldwater.”

Agent Childs refused the request, said the Press, and when a local priest offered to place the children in a Catholic children’s home, Kohlasch expressed gratitude but said, as noted in the paper, that “he had made arrangements for a housekeeper to come next Monday and that he will try to keep the little family together.”

He succeeded. The couple eventually reunited.

The reasons for Lula’s disappearance remain unclear.

The family soon moved to Missouri, where son Frank was born, and then Kansas, where daughter Fern was born. Eventually Charles and Lula would return to Missouri, where a separation awaited the couple.

For the moment, however, Charles had succeeded in keeping his family together during a sad and difficult time in Ypsilanti.

Laura Bien is the author of “Tales from the Ypsilanti Archives.” Have an old-time Ypsilanti story to share? Contact her at ypsidixit@gmail.com.

The Threat to Ypsi’s Local Economy in 1906 (Not Globalization)

Cheap goods shipped from distant places hurt the local economy. It’s better—no, vital—to shop locally. It’s also a waste of money to buy a cheap but inferior product from afar when a better, if more expensive local one will last longer.

These were the themes of a talk given at an Ypsilanti business association. The themes sound familiar in a globalized Internet age that offers the choice of whether to buy goods made elsewhere or online, or patronize an Ypsilanti store. “Buy Local” is now a familiar idea.

But it isn’t new. The talk at the business meeting occurred not in 2010 but in 1906. The goods from afar undercutting the local economy weren’t from distant countries or the Internet.

“Last night’s meeting of the Ypsilanti Business Men’s Association in Cleary College reading room was a fine one and the turn out of citizens was magnificent,” said the March 2, 1906 Ypsilanti Daily Press. “The singing of the Pease men’s quartet was a revelation to those that had never heard them and they were heartily cheered by their delighted hearers. The talk given by [downtown clothing store co-owner] Mr. Horner was one that should have been heard by every person in Washtenaw County . . .”

Fred Horner went on to discuss the decline of downtown trade from the farmers around Ypsilanti. “That the rural trade of merchants of Ypsilanti is not what it should be is evident from the fact that the question has been asked, ‘what is the cause of the decline?’”

Horner attributed the decrease in large part to mail order companies. “They scatter their catalogues promiscuously throughout the country quoting prices (that to the customer seem great bargains) and reap a harvest in return, when the same quality could be bought at home for the same, or less, and the freight or express saved, and have the satisfaction of having kept the money at home. It seems like poor policy for any person that has any interest in the welfare of his home market to send abroad for his supplies, even though he could save a few dollars in his yearly purchases . . .”

Most of the large mail order houses, or “catalogue houses,” were in Chicago. Sears, Roebuck & Company with its iconic catalogue dominated them all. Sears is likely the “large catalogue house in Chicago” to which a February 19, 1906 Ypsilanti Daily Press editorial refers.

“The pure food commission of Minnesota recently issued a bulletin disclosing the names of concerns which have shipped adulterated foods into that state,” said the paper. “In this list the name of a large catalogue house in Chicago appears four or five times. The report, which is a scathing denunciation of manufacturers and dealers selling impure foods, shows that catalogue houses sell goods that are not only inferior, but a menace to health, if not life itself.”

The paper continued, “The commissioners declare, and their report is based upon an analysis of samples purchased, that the house referred to sells evaporated milk labeled evaporated cream; wild cherry phosphate colored with coal tar dye; cheese containing borax, and stuff which it advertises as pure fruit jelly, but is a glucose compound artificially colored and flavored. Thus is the secret of the low prices of catalogue houses exposed. They buy inferior goods because they can buy them at a low price, but they advertise them as the best on the market.”

“The agricultural implements offered by catalogue houses never bear the names and brands that are known to the trade, unless there is a deliberate steal of a name or brand, as sometimes occurs. The machines are made from obsolete patterns, hurriedly constructed out of inferior material.” Agricultural implements were manufactured and sold in the city by, among others, O. E. Thompson in the former Thompson Block. The paper continued, “The same thing is true of buggies and carriages.” In years past, the Beach Carriage Company had produced carriages in Ypsilanti.

The article concluded, “The catalogue houses buy these goods at low prices. Why shouldn’t they? But they sell them at high prices, considering their value. When a concern has been convicted of selling inferior and impure foods intelligent buyers should be suspicious of its other lines.”

Or at least some of its lines. The 1902 Sears, Roebuck & Company catalogue has an extensive gun section, featuring rifles bearing the storied names of Winchester and Remington that evoke the romance of the Old West.

It also carried the Flobert.

In all caps, the catalog’s blurb for the gun reads “WE DO NOT RECOMMEND NOR GUARANTEE FLOBERT RIFLES. Buy a good rifle. It will pay in the end . . . We think No. 6R665 [elsewhere on the page] is the best value for the money.”

A genuine Remington rifle on the next page sold for $7.50 [$184 today]. The Flobert went for $1.60 [$39].

Although they carried some iffy products, the catalogue houses also employed many craftsmen in producing worthwhile goods, as noted by one editorial written by a Midwest merchant in the February 23, 1901 Sanitary and Heating Age trade magazine.

“Now, 60 miles east of me is a small stove foundry,” said the writer. “They make a good cheap cook stove. A Chicago house takes their entire output. Can any one, or any association, by entreaty or legislation, or by ‘Influence and wisdom,’ stop this leak for the legitimate dealer? We cannot influence our home customer with the plea that the catalogue houses are putting out ‘shyster’ goods, for they are not. The stove I speak of is a good one, and offered cheaper than I can sell it.”

Despite this assertion, the reputation of catalogue houses was so poor that the 1902 Sears catalogue, in its introduction, said that it would ship goods in unmarked packaging. Merchants reselling the goods would not be stigmatized. “As some of our customers, especially townspeople and business houses, request us to ship our goods in plain packages or boxes, leaving off our name and address, so that no one will know what they have bought or where the goods come from, we have decided to make the transaction strictly confidential.”

Town merchants had demanded the anonymity, but it was likely also a blessing for Sears–at least when shipping out Floberts.

Laura Bien is the author of “Tales from the Ypsilanti Archives.” Have an old-time Ypsi story to share? Contact her at ypsidixit@gmail.com.

Ypsilanti’s Failed Breakfast Cereal

Ypsilanti once had a chance of becoming an empire of breakfast cereals, like Battle Creek.

In 1909, electricity was still making inroads into the city. Only some houses were “wired.” Most were heated with coal. Cars were uncommon. Most women were homemakers, and most men’s commute consisted of a walk from home to another part of the city.

Many families got their flour from the Ypsilanti Milling Company on Cross Street near the river. The mill’s ad in the March 2, 1909 Ypsilanti Daily Press read,

“The Ypsilanti Mill is now running and turning out a STRICTLY HIGH GRADE FLOUR.

“Our BLUE LABEL brand is gaining new friends every day. Last week it was just a youngster. This week it is older and you will probably like it better.

“Further, we want you to try our ‘TIDAL WAVE’ brand. It’s a strictly high class patent and worthy of a little assistance from its friends in the way of trial orders.
“We have on hand BRAN MIDDLINGS, COTTON SEED MEAL, LINSEED MEAL, CALF MEAL, WHEAT HEARTS and GRAHAM.

“Our wagon is still running [for home delivery] and we want you to phone your orders in AT ONCE OR SOONER.”

The hydro-powered mill was an old one, dating from the 1830s. A feature article in the May 23, 1874 Ypsilanti Commercial gave an overview of the city businesses of the time. The piece mentions the city mill.

“[The mill stands] on the east bank of the Huron, above Cross Street bridge. It, or rather the mill of which this is an enlargement, was built in Territorial days [before Michigan became a state in 1837]. In 1865 it came into the possession of the Ypsilanti Woolen Mill Company, and by this company was sold to T. C. Owen, Esq., a nephew of E. B. Ward of Detroit, who is also an interested party. The mill is an immense structure. It contains seven run of stone, and at present is turning out 250 barrels of flour per day. It, in addition, grinds 30,000 bushels of grain per year, for the farmers of the vicinity.  . . A side track from the Michigan Central Railroad runs to the door of the mill.” The side track ran approximately where Rice Street is today.

Ypsilanti poet-farmer William Lambie raised wheat on his farm just north of town. In his poem “A Harvest Hymn,” published in his 1883 book “Life on the Farm,” he lauded the grain:

We see the God of nature in bounteous love bestowing,
In every year of life we reap the seed we have been sowing,
Till our barns are filled with plenty and cups are overflowing,
As we are marching on.
We have entered on a calling that will never know defeat,
For honor and for daily bread we work in summer’s heat,
Ever reaping golden harvests of the finest of the wheat,
When summer days are long.

1909 was a good year for local wheat production. The Ypsilanti Milling Corporation decided to put some of that wheat into a new venture. It milled it into a breakfast gruel similar to Cream of Wheat.

On August 6, 1909 the first ad for “Wheat Hearts” appeared.

“WHEAT HEARTS

“What are they? Well, we’ll tell you. They are our new breakfast food made from the very best wheat grown; viz, that around Ypsilanti, and ground fresh every day. Why buy breakfast foods made away from home when you can get something here which you know is fresh and which will cost you less money. Ask your grocer for Wheat Hearts.
“The Ypsilanti Milling Co.
“East Cross St. Phone 171.”

The ad ran again on August 10, 12, and 16.

Several local grocers also ran ads during that summer, often listing their goods and specials in the ads. Some listed oatmeal and cornflakes.

None listed Ypsilanti Wheat Hearts.

The Ypsilanti Milling Company’s ads for Wheat Hearts vanished by September of 1909. Perhaps no one wanted a hot breakfast gruel in August. Possibly a fall launch of the cereal might have helped it to succeed. At any rate, Wheat Hearts vanished from the scene. The Ypsilanti Historical Museum holds no packaging artifacts of this forgotten cereal.

Had it caught on, Wheat Hearts might have made Ypsilanti a breakfast cereal empire, renowned from Mackinac to Monroe. Trains could have shipped the cereal to cities around the nation. Citizens could have been humming the catchy Wheat Hearts jingle, perhaps along the lines of:

From the fertile Ypsilanti
To the pantry of my auntie,
It’s Wheat Hearts!
For some good starts!

Alas, it wasn’t to be. Wheat Hearts vanished from the 1909 papers and presumably from local stores—if indeed it had ever been stocked.

The only people who remember our failed foray into the breakfast cereal arena are local hermits poring over crumbling newspapers.

And they’re no help in promoting Wheat Hearts. They usually  have just a miserly cup of coffee—black, no sugar—for breakfast.

Laura Bien is the author of “Tales from the Ypsilanti Archives.” Catch her free talk with local historianJames Mann at Ypsilanti’s Senior Center Wednesday, July 7 at 7:30 p.m.. Have an old-time Ypsi story? Contact Laura at ypsidixit@gmail.com.

Next Page »