Clarkson’s
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THEY'RE CALLED NEBRASKA'S BOHEMIAN ALPS, and they cradle timber-lined streams and provide breathtaking scenery as they meander from north to south down the eastern portion of the state. During the late 1800s, Czech-speaking immigrants who were fleeing the Austro-Hungarian Empire found a safe haven here, one reminiscent of all they missed of their homeland.
Clarkson, pop. 655, is perched at the top of Colfax County in the center of Nebraska’s Czechland. Early settlers, originally situated a mile south along Maple Creek, picked up and moved entire buildings to Clarkson’s present location when it became evident that the railroad was not headed in their direction. The first business “rolled into town” in 1886, just as the last tracks were laid.
The train left in the early 1960s, but Clarkson’s Czechs have stayed put. Since the beginning, they’ve been joined by just enough Irish, German and Austrian folks to make life interesting. Still, everyone knows that, if you’re from Clarkson, you might as well be Czech.
“Wilbur’s actually the official Czech Capital of Nebraska,” Mayor Chuck Hamernik said as he showed us around town, “but we’ve got a higher percentage of Czechs here.” It’s a friendly competition and, besides, Clarkson has had its own Czech Festival for 47 years, has turned out a respectable number of state and national Czech queens and, since celebrating its centennial in 1986, has added a rodeo to the June festivities. No one’s too worried about Wilbur.
On a hill northwest of town rests the Bohemian Cemetery, established in 1888, several years before the diphtheria epidemic swept through. Today, hand-planted pine trees divide the dearly departed saints (Catholics on the west side and Protestants to the east), and Czech folks from near and far pilgrimage here to discover their roots. Pine Street, Clarkson’s main drag, is home to Clarkson Public Library which devotes a generous portion of shelf space to books on Czech genealogy, culture, language and dress.
Next door there’s the new medical clinic and, on the same side of the street, the Czech Hospitality Center and a law office. Across the street sits The Brass Rail, Clarkson’s only restaurant and bar, and the post office. Worshippers have their pick between two churches: New Zion Presbyterian and Saints Cyril and Methodius Catholic Church. Folks are proud to have their own dentist and nursing home. Otherwise, businesses peddling farm implements, irrigation supplies and hay grinding services remind us that this is farm country.
The first brick building on Pine Street, built in 1889, now serves as Clarkson Historical Society. It’s packed with traditional Czech clothing (kroj), weapons, tools, furnishings and relics from Clarkson’s first businesses – deemed “one of the best collections of Czech immigrant historical memorabilia in the U.S.” by the Czech Republic’s own cultural consul.
Not quite five feet tall, Gladys Karel is the gatekeeper of Clarkson’s history. “I’ve got a couple of boys who’ve agreed to install an elevator so we can finally use that spacious second story. As you can see, we’re about out of room,” she said. “We tell people that, if they give it to the museum, they’d better not ask for it back.”
On the corner, the historic Opera House is also being renovated. The wood floor has been refinished, the tin ceiling is scheduled for paint, and Clarkson High School’s shop class recently repaired the original theater seats. The building serves as a community center for plays, traveling entertainment, family movies at Christmas and a great deal of polka dancing year-round. Hand-painted backdrops from the 1930s still grace the stage.
But it’s the two-story house across the street that gives Mayor Hamernik pause. A broad smile emerges beneath his mustache as he tells about the home owner, an avid hunter who began hanging his dead deer from the catalpa tree out front.
“I started getting some calls from mothers whose children walked to school beneath that tree,” Hamernik said. “So I told him I’d sure appreciate it if he could hang them elsewhere. I didn’t tell him he had to; I just told him it would be nice.”
The hunter removed the deer carcasses from the tree and replaced them with a large painted sign that read: “Sorry, Mayor said no deers in tree.” Now he hangs his “deers” from his tractor in the side yard, 50 feet away and in plain sight of school children from either direction since the house sits on a corner lot. Someone snapped a picture of the crude sign, and Hamernik keeps it in his office just for laughs. “Aw, he’s just a good old stubborn Bohemian,” Hamernik said.