In the 80s, then editor of the Herman Review, Owen Heiberg, wrote a series of myths about the life of our founding father, Herman Trott. Here is one of them. Check back for more.
Eyeball to eyeball with the Pullman Lake shark
by Owen Heiberg
Last summer a friend, for whom history is a hobby, suggested that we who live in Herman should re-name our town. The friend said that naming a town after an obscure employee of a defunct railroad lacks imagination. (Herman was named for Herman Trott, an obscure employee of a defunct railroad.) He said that we should name our town after someone more heroic. The friend offered his help. He asked. "What's the predominant ethnic group in your town?"
I said. "We have a relatively even mix of northern Europeans, but there are probably more people of German descent than of any other group."
"What you need to do then," he said, "is name your town after a German hero. to give you some ethnic pride."
I said "Bismarck is already taken. So is King of Prussia. Our good Catholics wouldn't care for Luther. Goethe is too hard to pronounce."
He said, "Go back much further than that ‹ way back to the time when the German people first began to realize their pride as a group of people."
"When was that?"
"When the Romans tried to take them over. You're all farmers, aren't you?"
"Some of us."
"You all talk about the weather, worry when it doesn't rain, feel good when wheat goes 60 bushels to the acre, and wear seed caps. don't you?"
"Most of us."
"You're all farmers, then. whether you farm or not. And. as farmers, you like to think of yourselves as independent, a little ornery, don't you?"
He didn't give me time to answer.
"Nobody tells you what to do, how to live, not the folks in the White House in Washington, not the folks in the State Capital in St. Paul, not the folks in the Courthouse in Elbow Lake . . . and not the Romans."
"The Romans?"
"Yes, the Romans, all those do-gooders who think they know how you should organize your lives to make them more efficient ‹ and more easily understood ‹ and controlled ‹ in Rome, or wherever those do-gooders live now."
"We don't want that."
"Of course not. That's why you need a hero ‹ a role model ‹ that fits the kind of people you are."
"Who do you have in mind?"
"Arminius.
"Arminius? I thought that was a place in Russia or Turkey or somewhere over there."
"That's Armenia. That's a place. This is Arminius. He's a guy. The two have nothing to do with each other."
He looked impatient, but I had to ask anyway. I was curious now. "Who's Arminius?"
"He was chief of one of the early German tribes and had been, at one time, a Roman soldier. He organized the German tribes into a fighting force strong enough to defeat the Roman army and to drive them out of the territory east of the Rhine River. The Romans never made a serious effort to capture that territory again."
"Sounds like quite a guy, but Arminius doesn't sound like much of a name for a man. This isn't Russia or Turkey."
He looked impatient again. "I told you Russia and Turkey have nothing to do with Armenius. And besides, Armenius was his Roman name. You don't want that."
" "That's for sure . . . But what do we want?"
"His German name."
"What was that?"
He looked triumphant. "That's the beauty of the name change. You can change the name of your town without changing any of records in Washington or St. Paul or Elbow Lake. The records keepers -- the Romans -- will never know."
I became impatient. "What's his German name?"
Again he looked triumphant. "Herman."
If my friend had meant this exercise that he had just run me through as a joke, I think could have forgiven him. But he didn't. He was dead serious. He thought that we should actually do it -- that we should change the name of "Herman" to "Herman" and that we should have a big, fancy ceremony to commemorate the change. "It'll get you on national TV, he said." "It'll put Herman on the map."
Undoubtedly there are members of our community who think my friends's advice is good advice. It's one of our traditions here in Herman to disagree and argue about significant community affairs. And that includes whether we should call our town "Herman" or "Herman."
And, as editor of the local newspaper, it is my duty to take bold and forthright stands on matters of community importance. It helps focus -- and fuel -- the argument.
I'm against the change. I am sure that Armenius was a very fine and noble warrior and man, the kind of noble barbarian that all of us here would like to be.
But my friend is selling the Herman that we already have -- Herman Trott -- our own local American folk hero -- short. (Herman Trott was short , of course. 5'3" in his stocking feet -- one of his feet was larger than the other, but that stocking had a hole in it, which compensated for the greater length and allowed him to stand ramrod straight -- but his height has nothing more to do with the naming of our town than Russia or Turkey do.)
I have already chronicled in this newspaper instance of our Herman's heroism. He tried to save the blueberry patch that once ran through Herman. He valiantly raced from the east end of town, holding his trousers in one hand and bucket of water in the other, to put out a fire that might have devastated Herman's first business district, which, at that time, consisted of Sven Frogner's general store.
Now, this year (1986), to celebrate Herman's Trott's 156 birthday -- February 25 -- and to reinforce his credentials as the man after whom our town should be named, I will tell you a brief but heroic story of how Herman Trott rid Pullman Lake of the shark.
The first thing to tell, of course, is how the shark got into Pullman Lake. That is easy. The snowfall during the winter of 1871-1872 and the rainfall during the spring of 1872 was unusually heavy -- so heavy that all the sloughs, lakes, and creeks rose to a level that even the oldest Indians in the area couldn't remember seeing such a thing before.
Big Lake, east of Herman, spilled over its banks, sending a rapid steady stream of water across the adjoining prairie, through what would become the south part of Herman under the railroad tracks, into Pullman Lake. And, since there were, at that time, no culverts or homemade dams to impede the progress of the stream, it was easy for the shark to swim from Big Lake to Pullman Lake.
That's how the shark got into Pullman Lake. (The overly inquisitive among you may ask how the shark got into Big Lake. The Indians of 1872 had a phrase that covered that situation. "Some questions you shouldn't ask." The White Man's version is, "Curiosity killed the cat." Back off. You know as much as you need to know.)
In 1872, Big Lake was a long way from the built-up part of Herman. Nobody worried about a shark in Big Lake. But a shark in Pullman Lake was another matter. The early trains took their water from Pullman Lake. People were talking about building homes on the shore of the lake. A shark in Pullman Lake was a crisis.
Herman Trott had a crisis mentality. Trouble made his blood bubble with excitement, surge through his brain. When there was a crisis, the top of Herman's bald head seemed to swell and throb in the shape of an egg as if he were hatching an idea.
He shared his idea with Sven Frogner. Sven agreed to help.. The two of them worked feverishly building a row boat, complete with safety belts. The belts were Herman's idea, too. You'll see their purpose soon.
Herman and Sven tied together all the rope they could find in the fledgling village, and on the end of the rope, attached a grappling hook. They filled a bucket with the entrails of a hog that Sven's wife had butchered that morning.
Herman and Sven launched the boat near the outlet to Pullman Lake, between where the John Kinsella and Willis Klason farms now stand. After taking ten strong strokes out into the lake, Herman and Sven rested their oars on the side of the boat. They used the belts to strap themselves to the boat. They baited the grappling hook with the pig entrails and dropped the hook into the water, playing out the line. Then they rowed slowly and evenly, trolling for shark.
They didn't troll long. One-third of the way across the lake, the shark hit, the hook took, and the coiled line hummed as it sped out the boat into the water. Herman and Sven had tied the end of the line to a ring fastened to the bottom of the boat. When the shark had pulled all of the line out of the boat, the boat jerked, then flipped, leaving Herman and Sven upside down in the water, strapped to the boat.
The shark circled back underneath them. Herman tapped Sven three times on the back On the third tap, both men wrenched their bodies quick and hard -- floating eyeball to eyeball with a shark is incentive -- to the left and righted the boat. Sharp fellow, that Herman. Those seat belts saved their lives.
Then, each man on an oar, they pulled hard and steady towards the inlet on the east side of Pullman Lake. Progress was slow. Ten good strokes forward. Then ten good tail strokes in the other direction.
The strong arms of Herman and Sven prevailed. They towed the shark to the east end of Pullman Lake, and, after being pulled one last time out into the lake and towing the shark back, tied the boat end of the rope to the locomotive that stood on the tracks near where the creek empties into Pullman Lake.
Steam power dragged the shark into the heart of town. A local artist sketched Herman and Sven in front of their trophy fish. And the local chapter of the Grand Army of the Republic held its first shark fry.
What is more heroic than saving a small town from a deadly shark? My vote goes keeping our town's name just as it is.
And, this Friday afternoon, when you drink a cup of coffee at Herman Trott's birthday party in the restaurants of Herman and Norcross, raise your cup high and say, "Thanks Herman, for saving us from the shark."
