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| Julia Addington |
Iowa in 1869 was prairie grass, muddy
boots, the smell of wood smoke, and cornfields so wet you could probably grow
rice in them. The Civil War was over, the railroads were slicing across the
country like a drunk with a butter knife, and women were—well, not running for
office. They were mostly running households, running after children, or running
out of patience. But in Mitchell County, one small, unstoppable teacher decided
she was done grading papers and ready to grade society.
Julia
Addington wasn’t loud, or rich, or politically connected. She didn’t have a
campaign slogan. She probably didn’t even have time for one, because she was
busy teaching actual children who probably didn’t wash their hands or
understand personal space.
She’d
been born in New York in 1829, which was so long ago that “light” was still a
luxury item. Her family just kept moving west until they ran out of
trees—Wisconsin, then northern Iowa—places where the “curriculum” was
basically: don’t die, and try to spell your own name before winter sets in.
Julia
loved learning. She taught everywhere—Cedar Falls, Waterloo, Des Moines,
Osage—basically, if there was a building and two kids who could sit still for
ten minutes, she was there. One of her students later said, “She never raised
her voice, yet no boy ever dared to cross her.” Translation: terrifying in the
most polite way possible.
