A Bittersweet Deer Season Memory

This picture was taken in November, 1967. It is a small deer but Dad said back in the day, "there just weren't that many deer".

 39 years ago today. Saturday, the 16th of November, 1985, my Dad didn't go with us deer hunting on opening morning. He said he "just didn't feel like it". While my brother Ralph and I were gone to the deer woods, Dad carried a bucket of fertilizer down the driveway to put on some grass he had sown. When he came back to the house, he told Mom that he was hurting in his chest and down his arms. It took a little bit of persuading, but she finally got him to the hospital. When we came in from hunting, there was a note on the table letting us know where they were at. We hoofed it to West Plains Memorial Hospital and found him in a room, clothed and aggravated that they wanted to keep him overnight for observation. It was a good thing that they did.

About 10 o'clock that evening, while I was working at the church, someone informed me that Dad had just had a massive heart attack (remember, this was before cell phones and we didn't have a telephone at the church).

Dad was in ICU when Ralph and I arrived, things looked pretty grim. He eventually was moved to a room but they said 80% of his heart was destroyed. He stayed at the West Plains hospital for a little over two weeks and then was transferred to St. Johns (now Mercy) in Springfield, MO. On Sunday the 7th of December, 1985, a blood clot moved into his heart and he graduated from earth to the Glory World.

The first day of every deer season, is a bittersweet day for me. I now hunt with my son-in-law, two of my grandsons and occasionally, My brother and my niece, Claire. I sit in the deer stand and tell stories to my Grandboys, Lucas and Liam - And today - I told them this story.

I am so glad I have good memories of my Dad. He taught me well and I hope I can pass it on down the line....

  

My Mom - The "Snake Handler"

Mom and Dad at the Homeplace - circa 1980

My Mom was a beautiful, old-fashioned, Ozark born and bred lady. She became a follower of Jesus as a young woman, was introduced to the Old Time Pentecostal way, accepted it, and never looked back. But something about my mom, that a lot of people did not know is this - My mom was a "Snake Handler"!

Now, before you let your imagination run away with you; she wasn't one of those weirdos that use snakes in church as part of their worship ritual. But there was that one time...

Before I was born, when my brother Ralph was just a toddler; Mom and Dad lived in the Estil and Ruby Vonallmen house at the Howell/Oregon County line. It was an old house with no insulation and (evidently) some holes where critters could get inside.

One summer day, before mom put Ralph down for a nap, she wanted to wash his face. When she pulled out a kitchen drawer, curled up in between the dish rags was a huge Black Snake!

To be perfectly honest, if that would have been me, there would have been a kitchen to repair or replace!!

Not my mom...

She very carefully pushed the drawer back in without disturbing the slumbering snake. She then proceeded to rock Ralph to sleep and put him down for his nap.

Then mom did what any sensible person would do. She called her Pastor!

Their pastors at that time were Brother Harold and Sister Maurine Essary, and they lived down the road a piece at the Victoria Mission parsonage. When mom called, Brother Harold was not there. So Sister Maurine and an older daughter, Dianne, were drafted into service! When my mom told us this story, she said they showed up with shovels, rakes, pitchforks and sundry other "Snake Killing" implements!

When Sister Maurine and Dianne were ready with weapons in hand; mom carefully pulled the drawer out, carried it out of the house and unceremoniously dumped the dish rags and the old serpent out into the yard.

Then the proverbial "Fur" began to fly! There was thumping, whacking, hacking, stabbing and stomping, dirt and dish rags flying until finally old Mr. Snake gave up the ghost!

Yep! The pastor's wife, the pastor's daughter and my Mom - Snake Handlers Extraordinaire!

(Mom was also an "Armadillo Assassin" - but that's a story for another time!)

The Value of Second Impressions

John and I in October, 2023

The cowboy philosopher, Will Rogers, famously quipped, "You never get a second chance to make a first impression". While Mr. Will is technically correct, I'm glad for the opportunities I've had to get those second impressions.

And such was the case with my late good friend, John Stevens.

I met John early in my surveying career while I was working for a local surveying company. John worked as a Land Surveyor for the U.S. Forest Service and our company had several contracts for work in the Mark Twain National Forest. I really don't remember our first meeting but I do know that my first impression of John was not that rosy. He was gruff, abrupt and very, very sure of his opinions. In his defense, my boss at the time had the bed-side manner of a water buffalo so it was inevitable that they would clash.

In the late 1980's, I went to work for Riggs-Norsworthy Surveyors, a company owned by my brother Ralph and Rolan Norsworthy. We also had contracts for surveying in Mark Twain and I was destined to have John as the COR (Contracting Officer's Representative) for several of my projects.

For those that may not know, surveying is not an exact science. It is an opinion and believe me, most surveyors (myself included) can have a very high opinion of their opinion! 

When John, myself and my brother would discuss corner evidence found, statutory procedures, proper line clearing, tree blazing and a myriad of other situations; things could get a little testy. But I soon realized that I had not seen the real "John" in my first encounters. And so, my "second opinion" was formed.

I found out that John would listen to, and consider your thoughts on a survey question. And he could be persuaded (although begrudgingly so!) to change his mind.

I realized that John was genuinely interested in mentoring young surveyors such as myself. He would brook no foolishness but if you were willing, he would share his knowledge and wisdom. There have been many a time I have sat down with John and his side-kick, Johnnie Young and discussed a difficult section breakdown or conflicting corner evidence. I always came away bettered from the experience.

John was a meticulous proof-reader. On one project I had in the Hercules Glade Wilderness, I tried to sneak some humorous plat notes by him. It didn't pass muster. He found them and politely asked for them to be re-written!

John was a man of integrity and principles. When we were contractually obligated to the Forest Service, John represented them to a T. We would go out to lunch after one of our meetings and would offer to buy his lunch. He would have none of it. He didn't want even a hint of cronyism or favoritism to smudge his career.

On a personal level, John was a friend. After his retirement, most of our contact was through Facebook and at MSPS meetings but I was always glad to "swap howdys" with him.

Last October, when John's cancer returned after years in remission; I went to visit him and Jan at their home in Rolla, Missouri. We talked and laughed about the good old days and some of the crazy situations we ran into. We had prayer together and I left, promising to visit when I passed through Rolla again.

I received word this morning that my old friend, John Stevens, has made his crossing to his heavenly reward. It was my privilege to cross paths with him and someday, maybe we can survey off a little corner of heaven together!

Please keep Jan and the family in your prayers.

John with Bob Shotts at the 2001 Rendezvous at Loggers Lake

John with Johnnie Young at the 2002 Rendezvous at Loggers Lake

Take Me Out To The Ball Game

My Dad loved sports. College Football, Major League Baseball (the St. Louis Cardinals) and basketball... especially basketball. My fondest and most enduring memories are of him sitting in his recliner, a portable radio* in his lap, listening to the games. Occasionally, he would have to shift the antenna and adjust the tuning dial to pick up the AM stations that were broadcasting the games, KMOX St. Louis, "3 DoubleU E" (WWWE) Cleveland, WBAP Fort Worth-Dallas and the lowly KWPM West Plains, Missouri.

Every now and again, Dad would get a "hankering" to see an in-person sports game. Now, we didn't travel to a Cardinals game or to Columbia to see the "Mizzou Tigers" and certainly not to Kansas City to take in a Chief's game. Most of our "in person" attendance to sporting events were sitting in the truck, on the street outside of the West Plains "American Legion Baseball Field", watching the "Zizzers" in action! (There was usually a bottle of Pepsi involved and the occasional bag of peanuts to insert in said bottle of Pepsi!)

But there were those nights when Dad went all out. He'd say "Let's go down to the Central Gym and watch the city league games.

West Plains had (and I guess still does) city league basketball teams. These teams were made up of local men who had passed the High School age but still felt they had enough steam to be competitive on the hardwood court. The team was usually sponsored by a local business and consisted of six to seven members to allow some sort of rotation.

The games were played in the old Central School Gymnasium, which at one time was the West Plains High School Gym 

Looking at the picture above, it seems that by the time we attended these games, the front part of the gymnasium had been removed and the front was the tall, arched portion.

The games were, for the most part, a civil rivalry but there were those times when tempers would flair and contestants had to be separated. The referees were hometown guys and did the best they could to keep the game from becoming a free-for-all. Although this has been almost fifty years ago, I can remember a couple of the players for sure and some "maybes". Tim Cherry and "Big" Mike Forbes are two that really stick out in my mind. Perhaps the readers of this blog can help me with the "maybes"!

Overwhelmingly though, the best part of all of these outings was just spending time with my old Dad. We didn't have any deep personal talks, we didn't discuss the problems of the world; We just sat on the old wooden bleachers, occasionally making a comment about a play or a shot, and watching the back and forth of the game.

I have no memories of sitting with my Dad in a football stadium or basketball arena with thousands of screaming, fanatic fans. No recollections of the roar of the crowd when a homerun sailed into the outfield seats or when a player was thrown out at the plate. But I do have these pleasant, sentimental, heart-warming memories of a Father that just took time to do the little things...

*("Why the radio" you ask? We did not have a television growing up so our link to the outside world was the radio and a daily newspaper.)

Although I cannot relate entirely to the song "Take Me Out To The Ballgame", I love this rendition by Carly Simon.

Mom's Unique Shell Game

 A post on facebook, prompted this blog entry. It showed several opened plastic Country Crock butter containers, with the caption "Growing up, I never knew if I was opening the butter or leftovers"

This reminded me so much of my dear old Mother, that I just had to tell a story!

Mom was not a hoarder but she did save certain things that other people would just throw away. One of the things on this list was small plastic containers. When the food in the container was used (butter, cottage cheese, cake icing, etc. etc.) the container was washed and put in the cabinet, ready for those small portions of leftovers. Our refrigerator was usually occupied with an array of these containers, with only my mom knowing the contents of each and every one (or so I thought!). 

In the old slight of hand shell game, a pea is put under one of three walnut shells lined up on the table. The short-con operator (the swindler) then shuffles the shells, arranges them again in a row on the table and asked the mark (the one getting swindled) to choose the shell with the pea. Depending on the ability of the con man or the luck of the mark, the right shell is chosen (or not).

One cold winter day, mom had packed my lunch with something hot in my soup thermos, cornbread or crackers for the thermos contents, perhaps a banana; and a plastic cake icing container full of strawberry shortcake. With coffee from my Aladdin Thermos, I was all set for a great lunch and dessert, while warming up in the truck.

I ate all of what mom had packed, saving the container of strawberry shortcake until last; a grand finale of sorts.

When I opened the cake icing container, with my spoon poised in the air, ready to dig into the succulent, sweet, delicious dessert... I saw brown... oblong things... in a brownish gravyish stuff...

It was cold PINTO BEANS!!!

Yep! I had been duped! cheated! played! Hornswoggled! By my own Mother!! Egads!

We all had a good laugh and mom was super embarrassed; when I got home and told her and the family about the "The Brown Bean Swindle!"

We Remember... All

Memorial Day - The day traditionally set aside to mourn our American Soldiers who have fallen in the line of duty. Through the years, this remembrance has expanded to include all those who have passed away.

Every Saturday before Memorial Day, my family, my brother Ralph Riggs and his family, all meet at various cemeteries and decorate the graves of our loved ones (And there is the traditional stop at the CrossRoads Store at Crider to get a candy bar and a Sodee Pop!) We have done this for at least thirty-five years.

There is also another tradition that is observed.

In the southwest corner of Ledbetter Cemetery at Crider, Missouri, there is a little red granite gravestone. In my childhood, there was just a rough stone marking the gravesite and I was told that a black lady was buried there. Through the years, by visiting with my Mom and others, and doing some history research, I have pieced together the story.

Aunt Mime and another un-named black lady were slaves, owned by Turpin Good Scoggin, who lived in the Crider area. Evidently, Aunt Mime became unruly and to punish her, Scoggin set her free. Although this sounds like the best thing that could have happened to her, it was a severe punishment. As a freed slave in the pre-Civil War era, she had to depend on the support of neighbors in the Crider community, to give her support and shelter. There were kind-hearted people that took her in and she was a fixture in the Crider area until she died in 1921.

Although the community took her in, it seems they weren't quite ready to let her be buried among "the white folks". So her grave was relegated to a lonely corner of the Ledbetter Cemetery.

On our yearly visits, we would recount this story and one year, a new red granite stone was found marking Aunt Mime's gravesite. When she was old enough to understand, Claire, Ralph's oldest grandchild heard the stories of the former slave and her heart was touched. The next year when we went to Ledbetter,  Claire and her "Papa" placed some flowers at Aunt Mime's stone.

This tradition continued on Saturday when new flowers (and a couple of cacti) were placed by Claire and Ralph to decorate the stone. In a world that seems to be increasingly dangerous, angry and hostile, it is gestures like this that give me hope and brighten my day.

A Place Called Pucky Huddle

Back in the early 1990's, we contracted with the U.S. Forest Service to do a bevy of road surveys. These were basically compass/chain/clinometer surveys, down existing log roads, in preparation to widen/cut/fill/ditch them into public access roads. 

Some of these roads were in the Salem-Potosi district of the Mark Twain, and it was there, we ran on to the most unique store I'd ever seen.

We were about 30 miles northeast of Salem Missouri (or 30 miles southeast of Cuba - not Castro's) at a wide spot in the road called Davisville. An old store stood at the busy "downtown" area, which reminded me of the old fashioned country stores from my youth.

Pucky Huddle store as I remember it in the early 1990's 

We walked into the store, and at first glance, its appearance and smell was like the other stores I had visited. At second glance (actually a bug-eyed stare), something was definitely different.

Down the middle of the open area of the store, there were two long tables with 3"-4" "sides", setting end to end. And on those tables...

There was heaped every kind of new merchandise you can imagine. Pairs of new blue jeans, new skillets and pans, cans of pork-n-beans, corn and tomato juice, boxes of candy bars that were just ripped open and thrown up on the pile, shoes in the box, boxes of corn flakes, sacks of dog food... If you wanted a particular item, you just had to root through the pile to get what you needed! It gave a whole new meaning to the term "Rummage Sale"!!

With stunned looks on our faces, we wandered to the back of the store. And got another surprise...

There was a post office area in the back-left part of the store and a sign above it that read "Post Office - Pucky Huddle, Missouri"!

The post-mistress was a short, feisty, older lady and when we questioned her about the name, she replied "Well, it IS officially Davisville, but we can trace Pucky Huddle back farther."

I worked on a project near Davisville recently and detoured over to show my crew the Pucky Huddle store. I didn't know that the old store had burnt down in 2013. A new store has been built on the old foundation site but alas, it was no longer in business.

I found a few pictures on Facebook of the store building which show it in the different stages of its "life". (I searched for the owner(s) of these pictures to request permission to publish but was unable to locate them.)