Records and photos thought destroyed, existence nonetheless documented

Having a family member who was in the Klan, isn’t something most would be proud of. Whether for this or other reasons, no first hand local records are known to exist today. The thought is that any which did, were destroyed in shame, as the Klan kept official membership books so as to not allow outsiders into its meetings.

As to those who made the free presentation at 228 Helgerson Street Saturday by Betty Plombon, they learned an episode of history which, though local, also swept the nation at one time. With President Woodrow Wilson and then accepted history books on its side, a defunct terrorist organization known as the Ku Klux Klan which had been put down by force in the Reconstruction South, rose in the public imagination as a force for law, order, and even national unity in the early 20th century, following the 1915 release of D.W. Griffith's ‘Birth of a Nation.’ The Klan of the 1920s was different in certain ways from that of the Nineteenth century, in that members had cars rather than horses and the group incorporated a strong marketing element. Both the nineteenth and twentieth century klans differed from their backdrop, which stemmed from the Middle Ages and magic.

In 1924 at any rate, the Klan came to the Stanley Country, not receiving a strong or enthusiastic reception. This in part was due to local resident attitudes.

“Jesus didn’t say that, and neither do we,” one mom told her children whenever she caught them making derogatory remarks.

Nonetheless, the Klan did find some in the area who thought it was worth joining, for which there were several fees to pay headquarters.

Passing first through the Klokkan, or investigatory committee, and paying the klekktoken (initiation fee), there was an official klan robe, a membership fee, and an imperial tax. The robe is thought to have cost $2 for those who made their own, with the price inflated to $6.50 for an official one. Translated to today's exchange rate, the fees totaled over $400 In exchange for these, members were given a sense of being special, something the initiation ceremony tried hard to impart.

Alongside the basic fees, Klan members were also encouraged to buy swords and Bibles with the initials 'K.K.K,' thereby increasing the marketing end of the 1920s organization. While the Klan elsewhere focused on black and Jewish communities, Wisconsin saw it turn against Catholicism as the feared outsider, being the most numerous in the area. At the time, it was feared and/or rumored that the Catholic Church was looking to restore the Holy Roman Empire and that the Pope had sent agents to help achieve this.

In contrast to this backdrop of feared takeover the Klan presented itself as standing for separation of church and state-among other things-but also required patriotism and a belief in God for membership. Atheists, meanwhile, were among the nativist organization’s targets, with attempts made at recruiting members from organizations and fraternities like the Masons or Odd Fellow, who also required patriotism and a belief in God for members. But to gain members requires a local presence, in which case the question of how the Klan got in, comes up.

With radio the main means of communication, K. K. K. wasn't necessarily well known in the north, while it was strong in Indiana-and that, per a since deceased informant, is how it got in-through Worden township. Hoosiers come north to settle received visits from those back home who talked up the organization and suggested a local chapter, which soon took shape after dispatch of sales agents from Indiana, called 'Kleagles.' Meanwhile a subscriber sent Mr. Bridgman a column to reprint.

"Mr. Bridgman," the subscriber began. “Kindly put this item in your paper. I think it would open the eyes of some of our so called Christians here in Stanley that are Klans.-A SUBSCRIBER" The requested printing on page 8 of September 26, 1924, had Dr. George L. Cady, secretary's of the American Missionary Society, describe the Klan as the "most un-Christian and blasphemous organization of my time," and that, "Judas was a saint compared to one who will make the cross a symbol of hate and race prejudice." That being said, the Klan and its members often took great pains to insist they were Christian, while the Klan was rumored to be trying to enlist area Protestant pastors in the area to preach from the pulpit in the Klan's favor.

Making their rounds of the area's Protestant churches in late 1924 to early 1925, they At each appearance they left some kind of gift for the pastor and/or congregation in professed appreciation-but ultimately met their match in the church ladies from Our Savior’s Lutheran, also at Fourth and Emery. Arriving six strong to a service in January 1925 they tried to pull the same script that had worked elsewhere.

It didn't work. "Grand Puma," said one church lady. "We know who you are," then using the man’s putative legal name, though no official register is known to exist. Another annoyed church lady pulled the hood off one and said "I knew it was you," admonishing the man to get home where they "would talk about it later.” A third brought it home.

"This is a church," she said. “Shame, shame on you.” The men not expecting this opposition, beat a hasty retreat, upon which the parishioners cheered. The women led opposition, while the men were remembered as “being very silent.”

Klan activities went on in Chippewa County and the surrounding area, including a cross burning at Cornell of which the attendees soon found themselves in the spotlight, as a local priest took down license plates, matched these to registered owners through a friend, and made calls at their places of employment. The land on which the cross was burned was later bought by those the Klan held up for contempt, the result that Holy Cross Catholic Church now sits on the site.

The Klan hated Catholics as regional enemy. As such there was also Klan activity in the form of Cross burning in the Mount Nebo Cemetery, leading to friction between the self-appointed law enforcers, and the Jump River township government. Showing up at the board chair's home while he was away but the wife was home, the masked klansmen had a message: the board chair would have to stop, “or be sorry.” In the end though the Klan members, fell for a bluff.

"I'll shoot," the board chair's wife said after returning from inside with a rifle, never having fired a gun.

The ruse worked, and the neighbors she recognized by various means in spite of their hoods, took to the hills.

Returning home, the then town board chair—named Bill—wasn’t concerned about threats that had been made.

“No one in that crowd would even admit to being here last night,” he said dismissively. The fallout from divisions took years to heal, however.

While the Klan survived into the mid-20th century in Chippewa, Clark and Pierce Counties per the State Historical Society, and attempts were made by holdouts to revive the organization on a broader scale, things started going down by 1926, after Wisconsin Governor John Blaine declared the organization a menace and new tactics were used by opponents, without coming to blows.

An organization that thrived on secrecy, didn’t like openness, and members who had been initiated in ceremonies meant to inculcate their own importance, didn’t like ridicule. There is also speculation that the wives were pressuring husbands to resign, although on the nationwide level there was an auxiliary for ladies. Which brings on the final unmasking.

“It was a social organization, and if you didn’t join, they threatened you,” said one member when put on the spot about their involvement. Perhaps being made an offer one can’t refuse, should be a clue to the true nature of those who profess to stand for freedom—just maybe.