Sexy, Spicy Wading Contest Rocks Des Moines
Sexy, Spicy Wading Contest Rocks Des Moines
Debauchery stalks the Midwest. WNON, 12.
Of all the associations that might leap to mind when contemplating Des Moines, Iowa, the idea of a bacchanalia, a party gone off the rails, will stand well down the list. Des Moines represents America’s heartland, a place of morality and incorruptible standards. The city’s name means “from the monks,” a possible reference to a group of twelve Cistercian brothers who founded a monastery in the region during the seventeenth century.
What could be more upstanding and chaste than that?
New York. Chicago. These were the cesspools of American indecency—not Des Moines.
Nevertheless, in June 1908, American newspapers lit up with a scandalous story, an unbelievable account of a Coal Miners’ party that transgressed the line of Midwestern morality and upright conduct.
It all began tamely enough. The members of the North Iowa Coal club assembled on the shores of Clear Lake for their annual picnic. The hardscrabble miners—toughened by their days beneath the earth—wives, children, and sweethearts convened for a day of G-rated entertainment beneath the benevolent sun.
The party enjoyed a morning cruise around the lake; a five-inning baseball game between the miners and coal dealers; a fat man’s competition; and a hammering contest in which women raced to pound spikes into a plank. Mrs Beebe of Hampton, Iowa, nailed her board the fastest and carried off the prize of a silver spoon.
As the long day passed and the entertainment flagged, the event committee came up with a spicy proposal: a women’s wading competition. Ladies would walk into Clear Lake, hiking their skirts as the water rose, displaying legs and lingerie. The prize would go to the competitor who achieved the greatest distance from the shore—without wetting her clothing.
The ladies were reluctant. Tempting prizes—like apples in the fabled garden—were produced to undermine their rectitude. Fancy parasols, silk stockings, and French bonbons overcame moral objections. Seventeen succumbed and agreed to enter the event.
They prepared in a tent, stripping off shoes and stockings. The sisters who opted out of the competition formed two ranks, an honor guard stretching from the tent to the waterline. They unfurled their parasols to screen the competitors from the hungry eyes of the miners who flocked like bees to a flower patch.
The precaution proved unsuccessful; the men let out great whoops as the bathing beauties processed barefoot to the water’s edge. Eager-eyed miners jostled for position on the beach while others waded boot-high into the lake for an unobstructed view.
Emulating the tentative steps of a flock of herons, the women waded away from the shore. They hitched their skirts higher as the water caressed their calves, rose over the knee, and touched their thighs. Who would lift her dress the highest to win the prizes?
One after another, the women slowed, and stopped advancing through the warm water. The field dwindled to two competitors. Mrs. G. H. Reeves and Miss Olive Mott, daughter of the president of the Coal Dealer’s Association, dared each other to greater depths.
Reeves cracked first. She stopped; Miss Mott continued another five feet and claimed the victory. The judges—three men in a rowboat—plucked the winner from the water and conveyed her back to the shore. Her dress, and the lingerie hidden beneath, remained dry.
Olive took possession of her prizes: “a box of silk stockings, gold engraved garters, and a parasol.” She was also appointed to step out for the first dance at the ball scheduled for the evening.
What did it all mean? Is there a moral to this tale?
The editor of the Des Moines Daily Tribune regarded this shameful episode as a sign that Des Moines was entering the country’s mainstream. Sexualized behavior—women dancing on tables in night clubs—and eccentric practices—tea parties thrown for cats and dogs—were once confined to the East Coast cities. No one would be shocked to read an account of spicy wading in New York.
The events at Clear Lake signaled debauchery’s creeping spread across the country. Lascivious behavior was no longer confined to the great metropolis and Des Moines’ upright citizens wanted to catch up.
Let the reader ponder, concluded the editor, whether this was a good thing or not.
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