by Diane Guest
Here, in this comfortable country of starched white curtains and well-fed livestock, no dramatic evidence remains of the fire. Nothing but a few faint echoes. Nothing until you realize that all the mighty white pines that were supposed to last forever are gone. There are trees, to be sure—birches, maples, oaks—growing sturdily on gentle, sloping hillsides. But nowhere is there a sign of the endless pine forest that predated October 8, 1871.
There is a museum in Peshtigo, Wisconsin, that houses a few relics from the fire. But only a few. Silent evidence that there wasn't much left to be saved.
And there are tombstones, some hidden in forgotten graveyards along meandering country roads, others tucked away in small, quiet corners of small, quiet cemeteries in small, quiet towns. In places, there are mass graves with markers that carry only endless lists of names and simple words like "All died October 8, 1871," or "All lost in the calamity," as if that would be enough reminder to last for all time.
On that night in 1871 nearly twelve hundred people died in a fire that has almost been forgotten. Almost, but not quite.