THE COMMUNITY HISTORY

Every community has a memory of itself. Not a history, nor an archive, nor an authoritative record—but a living memory, an awareness of a collective identity woven of a thousand stories.

A community history gives citizens a stronger sense of place and a firmer hometown identity. In preparation for a history of Mound, Minnesota, a small community just west of Minneapolis, I've written six feature articles that have been published in two Minneapolis suburban newspapers—The Lakeshore Weekly News and The Laker. Two of the articles can be seen below.

Take yourself back a few years. Let’s say—to a lazy summer day, sometime in the early 1880s. Your boss at Washburn Mills, in Minneapolis, has given you the day off—a reward for helping address some dust explosion dangers. And you’ve boarded James J. Hill’s six-car passenger train, working your way toward Mound City, your hometown (population 100).

First stop—Wayzata. You disembark, look out over the bay, and there they are, tied up at the docks—the great steamboats of Lake Minnetonka. And what a sight they are.

The City of Saint Louis. William. D. Washburn’s Saint Louis, launched in the summer of 1881, carried 1,000 passengers and was said to resemble a wedding cake, “all tiers dripping with white scroll work.” Each paddle box (she was a side-wheeler) carried a brightly painted scene, and two slender smokestacks rose elegantly from her oak and pine structure (fashioned at the Washburn sawmills). Built in Indiana and assembled in Wayzata, the Saint Louis set off on her maiden voyage carrying a sixty-piece band and flying the flags of ninety-six cities. J. J. Hill is said to have watched the launch—quietly and intently.

The Belle of Minnetonka. Launched by James J. Hill on July 3, 1882, the Belle was handed two critical missions: to serve Hill’s magnificent hotel, the Lafayette, on Lake Minnetonka, and to outshine Washburn’s City of Saint Louis. The 285-foot Belle carried 2,500 passengers and a crew of thirty-two —and with her bright red smokestacks, thirty-foot paddle wheels, and elegant electric lights, she was a sight to behold. The lower deck could accommodate twelve sets of square dancers; the upper twenty. And both decks, it was said, regularly overflowed with “fair women and brave men.“

A number of smaller steamers had preceded the Saint Louis and the Belle:

The Governor Ramsey, the first ship on the lake (1861), was a flat-bottomed, 50-foot sidewheeler. The Ramsey was later renamed Lady of the Lake—and still later carried the names Minnetonka, Mermaid, and Sue Gardiner.

The 28-foot propeller Minnetrista, launched in 1869, ultimately found her way to Jamestown, North Dakota (of all places).

The efficient 54-foot Rambler, built in 1874, was primarily a freight carrier—and was said to be capable of “running on a heavy dew.”

Some of the valiant little ships came to a fiery end. The 45-foot Katie May, made over from a tug, wasn’t very pretty—but she was plenty lethal. In June 1877, her boiler blew, taking both captain and engineer with her.

Almost two years later to the day, the May Queen, also equipped with the Ames Fire-Box Return-Flue boilers, exploded at Shady island—again, sending both engineer and captain to their respective rewards.

Next year, on a July 1 morning, a group of vacationers, gathered on the main dock of the Saint Louis Hotel, watched the Mary’s boilers blow sky-high. Few in the crowd were left standing, and another engineer met his untimely fate .

The Lake Minnetonka boats transported an array of visitors—from presidents (U.S. Grant) to religious figures (the Bishop of New Zealand) to card sharks (still unidentified). The ships’ names live on: the Hattie May (renamed the Tonka), the Saucy Kate (formerly the Katie May), the Minnie Cook (unseaworthy and swamped in a blow off Lookout Point), the propeller Fresco (rebuilt into the Why Not), the Ben Lennox (renamed the Manhattan)—the Lotus, Plymouth, Victor, Mayflower, Jeanette, Seventy-Six, Nautilus, Minneapolis. The list goes on.

The George, a 125-foot stern-wheeler, was launched with great fanfare. At the christening, six little girls, dressed in red, white, and blue, stood on the upper deck and loosed homing pigeons—signifying Peace and Prosperity. As twenty boats simultaneously blasted their horns, the George slid down its ways, floundered around in the water for a time—and nearly capsized. Marine design was still exploring its potentials.

But enough of this history. Mound City beckons. You board the Saint Louis, stepping carefully around her rich Smyrna rugs and mahogany furnishings—and race toward Excelsior. With new passengers aboard, you steam toward the New Narrows, now easily navigable. And then you’re in the Upper Lake, headed for Spring Park.

You enter Cook’s Bay, and the familiar sights of Mound City come into view—the Chapman House, Mound City House, Bartlett’s Place. It’s a beautiful sight—a welcoming setting. D. S. Dimond, the Excelsior newspaper editor at the time, put it this way: “The upper lake is nowise inferior to the lower, but on the contrary, in natural beauty and variety of wild scenery, much superior.”

You stop at the general store to greet a friend (the local calico vendor) and then head toward Busy Corners to meet your mates at the local billiard hall—perhaps to have a libation or two. It’s good to be home.

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They're Called Tonka Toys

Orlo J. Otteson

They’re called Tonka Toys, and early models now reside in the National Toy Hall of Fame, bumping up against the likes of Mr. Potato Head, Silly Putty, Slinky—and, from time to time, even exchanging sly glances with an aging Barbie. These “Tough Toys For Tough Boys” have worked their way into American popular culture. And it all started in Mound, in 1947, in an old schoolhouse on Lynwood Boulevard.

The schoolhouse had housed the L. E. Streater Company, a locally-owned manufacturing company that made kitchen cabinets and other fixtures. During the war years (that’s World War II), the company had also assisted the military effort, making ammunition boxes and other materials—and, along the way, acquiring expertise in metal crafting. During that time, Mr. Streater also produced and distributed some wooden toys under the brand name Streater Toys of Mound and Spring Park.

In 1946, Edward Streater, son of L. E. Streater, introduced two Tonka Toy prototypes—#100 Steam Shovel and #150 Crane and Clam—to a major New York toy fair audience. The response, however, was disappointing. Moreover, by 1946-47 the Streater Company’s postwar business priorities had changed, and toys had begun to move out of the Streater manufacturing picture—although not out of Edward Streater’s dreams.

Sometime in late 1947, Streater met with Alvin Tesch, a co-owner, with Lynn Baker and Avery Crunse, of the newly formed Mound Metalcraft Company. Tesch and partners put together a plan to manufacture a few small garden tools and assorted closet accessories. But Streater had another idea. Pressed steel trucks—affordable, educational, durable. Built to last—to be handed down through the generations. The Metalcraft partners, equipped with some metal crafting knowledge, listened closely—and decided to take the plunge.

The Metalcraft Company quickly reworked #100 Steam Shovel and #150 Crane and Clam and introduced both models to the 1947 New York toy fair. The prototypes found immediate acceptance—and Tonka Toys was off and rolling, and digging, and pumping, and hauling. Within a few months, demand had outstripped supply, and within a few years, the company had become a major employer and a community pillar.

In 1952, Russell Wenkstern, a former Mound High School industrial arts instructor, joined the company, providing valuable assistance. And throughout the 50s, 60s, 70s, and into the 80s, the business flourished, turning out a myriad of models—many of which have become collectors items. But, alas, it was not to last.

In 1983 the steel truck manufacturing process moved to El Paso, Texas, still turning out toys under the Tonka name. In 1991 the Tonka company was purchased by Hasbro, a major Connecticut-based toy manufacturer. And in 1997 the operation moved to mainland China—a long way from the “Little Red Schoolhouse” on “old” Lynwood Boulevard.

The Tonka Toy company no longer graces the Mound environs, but its influence and history still permeate the community. And the little steel toys are still going strong, now combining classic Tonka design with a techno twist. This fall you can purchase the newly released Chomper My Talking Truckbot, a “fun-loving, rock-chomping, dirt-digging excavator that talks and laughs with over twenty different phrases.”

So, why should we continue to care about the Mighty Dump Truck and the flat-fender Universal Jeep—and all the Mound-manufactured wreckers, vans, pumpers, and bulldozers that have remained “Tonka tough” and “Tonka lovable” through the years?

The toys remind us, perhaps, of a simpler day, a time when a thriving, community-based company could provide essential jobs and a reliable anchor. Perhaps they remind us also of our own early days and early dreams—of what we once were and what we chose to become. Our toys stir memories and reflections. Save your toys. Treasure them. Guard them. You’ll need them again—someday.