More than a century has passed since these lovebirds tied the knot, but their modern North Carolina-mountain romance lives on.
Carl Sandburg met Lilian Steichen in 1907 and married her six months later. They were wed for 59 years. Photo is from 1923.
Some men buy their wives roses. Others wash the dinner dishes or plan romantic getaways. But Pulitzer Prize-winning poet Carl Sandburg expressed adoration for his wife, Paula, by giving her goats a lift.
Ask any oldtimer who lived near Connemara, the couple’s estate in Flat Rock, North Carolina, and it will be confirmed: Carl was often spotted driving around town with a Toggenburg or Nubian in his backseat. Decades before Uber emerged, Carl was building a ride-sharing legacy of his own. Except, rather than inebriated frat brothers or distracted businesspeople, Carl was transporting his wife’s herd of champion dairy goats.
“That’s such a testament to his love,” Georgia Bonesteel says of this quirky act of service. “Though Carl and Paula had very separate interests, they supported one another.”
Carl and Paula Sandburg had three daughters: Helga, Margaret and Janet.
Bonesteel started volunteering at Connemara in the early 1970s, not long after Carl passed and the property was subsequently sold to the National Park Service. Though she never witnessed the star-crossed lovers together, Bonesteel has heard tell of their quixotic matrimony. Retrospectively, it was strong, stable and unmarred by deceit or vitriol. But, at the time, few understood the lyrical love language of Carl and Paula Sandburg.
In 1945, when the couple rolled into the southern Appalachian town of Flat Rock, locals surely raised eyebrows. Though Paula eschewed slacks for dresses, she and her husband challenged all other gender norms. On any given day, Carl could be found writing or sleeping in the white-framed home while Paula, whom he called “Mrs. Fixit,” tinkered with fencing and fed goats.
“The Sandburgs were unconventional in many ways,” says Bonesteel. For starters, she notes, they were proud socialists who met at the Wisconsin Social-Democratic party headquarters. That’s where their love story begins.
Postscripts of Endearment
It was December 29, 1907, and Carl Sandburg, then calling himself Charles, was plodding toward 344 North Six Street in Milwaukee. The son of Swedish immigrants, Carl had dropped out of school at the age of 13 to drive a milk truck. In the years to follow, he worked a series of odd jobs: porter, bricklayer, farm laborer, hotel servant, fireman and advertising copywriter.
He even served in the military, attending West Point for two weeks before failing a math and grammar exam. That stint qualified him as a veteran for college admission at Lombard College in Galesburg, Illinois. But, after four years, he dropped out to be a traveling salesman.
In short, Carl was struggling to find his place in the world. But finally, it felt like he was gaining some footing. On that brisk December day, he was starting his new job as an organizer for the Social Democratic Party of Wisconsin. He was also about to meet the love of his life, Lilian Steichen.
As described by Helga Sandburg—the couple’s youngest daughter—in “A Great and Glorious Romance: The Story of Carl Sandburg and Lilian Steichen,” Lilian was preparing to return to her teaching position in Princeton, Illinois, after spending Christmas with her parents.
Before heading to the trolley, she stopped by the headquarters to say goodbye to her friends when Elizabeth Thomas, the secretary of party leader Victor Beger, introduced her to Carl. The two talked and Carl invited her to dinner. Lilian politely declined his advances, providing her mailing address instead.
Though Carl was instantly smitten, Lilian had her reservations, particularly regarding Carl’s poetry. In a letter to Carl dated February 15, 1908, Lilian condemns the literary form altogether, advising her epistolary courter to “grow toward maturity and move on to greater things.”
But by February 24, Lilian is applauding Carl’s verses and the two are exchanging letters fervently. A handful of these early communications reach 50 pages and are bookended with breathless postscripts. On April 23, 1908, Carl writes:
“P.S.P.S.S.! No, I will never get the letter written and finished. It will always need postscripts. I end one and six minutes after have to send more. All my life I must write at this letter—this letter of love to the great woman who came and knew and loved. All my life this must go on!”
Carl meant that quite literally. In June 1908, when Carl was 30 and Lilian was 25, the two wed and began their life as husband and wife.
A Man and Woman of Many Names
When Carl and Lilian tied the knot, there was no wedding ring. The couple also tweaked the traditional wedding vows to omit the obey clause, says John W. Quinley, a western North Carolina historian and expert in all-things Sandburg.
“It was a rather avant-garde change of gender roles,” Quinley notes.
Carl and Lilian did something else rather unusual in the warmer months of 1908: They renamed one another. Lilian’s family, who immigrated from Luxembourg, long called her “Paus’l,” a term of endearment meaning “paws” or “pussycat.” But when a younger cousin struggled to say “Paus’l,” the family adopted “Paula” instead.
While visiting the Steichen family farm near Menomonee Falls, Wisconsin, Carl heard this tale and decided to officially rename his love.
“My father liked that name and accepted it for my mother’s ever after,” Helga writes in her 1978 book. In those balmy days at the farm, Paula decided she too would do some renaming. Nixing the formality of “Charles,” she referred to her poet as “Carl,” “Cully,” “Carlo,” or “Sandy” thereon.
Literally and figuratively, Quinley says, the two made a name for one another. Though Paula by no means edited Carl’s work, the University of Chicago graduate and polyglot read each poem with a sharp eye.
“If it wasn’t for her encouragement, he may have given up,” Quinley notes. “Carl was in his mid-30s before he ever had a breakthrough poem.”
Carl reciprocated the support. After moving to Chikaming Farm, an estate Paula designed on the shore of Lake Michigan, he encouraged his wife and the couple’s three daughters—Helga, Margaret and Janet—to garden and raise geese, ducks, chickens and rabbits. When Helga begged for a dairy cow, it was Carl who suggested they buy a dairy goat instead.
In 1935, Paula did just that. By 1937, she had built a herd of advanced registry does and bucks and emerged as a household name in the world of dairy goat farming. When Paula was asked to travel to agricultural schools to give speeches, her dear Carlo came along. But he wasn’t always met with fanfare.
“Sometimes people wouldn’t know who he was,” says Quinley. “They’d ask Paula, ‘Is that your husband? What does he do?’ Paula, who was quite famous at that point, was who they really wanted to see.”
A Parity of Poetry and Goats
Carl was unperturbed by his wife’s success. That much is evidenced by the family’s big move in November 1945. With hopes of giving the goat herd more space to roam, the Sandburgs loaded up their station wagon, filled a trailer with 16 blue ribbon does and set off for their new 245-acre estate in Flat Rock—a place Carl described as an “affectionate parity of poetry and goats.”
By the time the Sandburgs moved to Connemara, Paula knew what Carl “needed as a writer and celebrity,” says Paul Bonesteel, director of the full-length documentary, “The Day Sandburg Died,” and son of Georgia Bonesteel. “Paula created a home life that supported him working late into the night and having time alone.”
Carl and Paula Sandburg challenged the conventions of 20th-century matrimony. As her husband built a literary legacy, Paula, shown here in 1916, would build a legacy as a dairy goat farmer.
That’s not to say Carl was cold or aloof. When he wasn’t writing, the poet was exploring the footpaths of Connemara with his bride; listening to records or the radio with his daughters; reading with Paula; or enjoying her cooking, which he always celebrated despite it being very simple and basic. Carl also offered the occasional taxi ride, driving Paula’s goats to and fro (today, no one quite knows his ultimate destination). But more than that, he provided Paula with tireless support.
In a letter to “Dearest Paula” dated December 30, 1960, Carl generously describes her herd as “delphiniums created by God.” Later, in a letter dated July 14, 1961, he waxes poetic about Jennifer II, a Toggenburg doe that produced a world record of 5,750 pounds of milk. Carl, or “Carlo” as he signs, writes:
“Today came those two photographs of Jennifer II. Profile and rear. I tell people you are a champion breeder of a champion, that you are a geneticist, a naturalist, an ornithologist, Phi Beta Kappa and a sweet gal. This is so near a real love letter that I’m going to quit here and sign.”
Needless to say, Carl and Paula spoke a love language only they understood—an eccentric vernacular steeped in literature, farming and political ideologies. But in wading through the couple’s countless communications between 1908 and Carl’s passing in 1967, one truth can be distilled: they cared for one another, fiercely.
“Both of them were ‘comrades’ to each other: partners who understood what each was working for, be it socialism, poetry, Lincoln, family or farming,” says Paul Bonesteel. “They respected each other’s talents enough to know that love was essential.”
The story above first appeared in our May / June 2022 issue. For more like it subscribe today or log in with your active BRC+ Membership. Thank you for your support!