The Battle of Third Street (Updated!)

To really appreciate this blog post, you hafta go back and read a post from 2016. Read it HERE and then come back and read this post.

I'll wait..............

OK. Now you know the story of the Battle of Third Street.

But here is the "Rest Of The Story!"

A year or so ago, Tami and I were waiting at El Charro (south) for a table, when a gentleman I have known for several years came in with his wife. We exchanged pleasantries and then Jim Woodworth said, "I read your story about the snowball fight you had over on Third Street". I thanked him for taking time out to read my little story and then he said; "I just wanted to tell you that I was one of those men in the back of that dump truck!!!" Whoooboy! He remembered every detail just as I had told the story!!! We had a good laugh and now that I think about it... I should have BOUGHT HIS DINNER for being so ornery, all those years ago!!! 

Jim Woodworth

The Thanksgiving Pheasant

Popo and Momo Riggs
(Elmer and Alma)

When I think of Thanksgiving, somehow an image comes to mind of a little house at 1310 West Main Street in West Plains, Missouri. This was the only house that I remember my Momo and Popo Riggs ever living in. When I've had the chance to be inside that house recently, I am completely bewildered and think; "How did they fit the whole Riggs clan inside that house?!"

But they did... And I have the pictures to prove it!

Christmas or Thanksgiving 1967 at 1310 West Main. L-R around the table. Aunt Yvonne, Aunt Lorene, Uncle Bill, Uncle Ronnie, Popo, Momo, Dad and Mom
In the background - I think it is Rita

It seems that I recollect a Thanksgiving or two that the bird of choice for the meal was Pheasant. Instead of turkey, Momo cooked a pheasant. And just where did this bird of the ring-necked variety come from? Well, let's just see where this fine-feathered tale leads us.

Popo was a bird hunter. With his bird dog, Ole Bob, he took every opportunity to roam the fields hunting that elusive covey of quail. As a matter of fact, my Dad said that the first day of quail season was just like the first day of deer season is now; every quail hunter took the day off work and hunted!

Every few years or so though, Popo ranged further afield.

He would load up Bob, his shotgun and other hunting gear, and head out west to the pheasant fields. I remember him going to hunt with Howard Simmons, who had a farm in Red Cloud, Nebraska. And it seems that a time or two, he took the president of West Plains Bank, Dan Gohn, with him on these hunting forays.

Usually though, he would incorporate a visit to his sister's house, in with the hunting trip. And of course, Momo went along.

Uncle Guy and Aunt Ora (Riggs) Jones lived in western Kansas in the town of St. Francis. Their only child, Vaudie, had a farm with her husband, Ward Wiley, in eastern Colorado near the town of Idalia. Ward, Vaudie and their children, Patricia, and twins Sally and Susan; raised grain crops so it was a paradise for pheasants!

On one such trip, a funny thing happened that really sums up the personalities of my Popo and Momo Riggs.

I have said, from the perspective of fifty-plus years, "Popo was the most impulsive person, I have ever known." When Popo got excited about doing something, he got "tunnel-vision" and just did things without really thinking about the consequences. (If you need further evidence, read here) 

Momo, on the other hand, was always calm, cool and collected. Nothing seems to rattle her or shake her up. Now, this may have been a "learned" trait from living with Popo...!

As they were driving across the vast expanse of nothingness called Kansas, a stop had to be made for fuel and a bathroom break. Popo wheeled into the service station and while he was fueling up, Momo went to use the "facilities".

After he finished fueling up and paying the service station attendant, Popo jumped into the truck, started it up and roared off down the road to the west.

But Wait... Isn't there something missing here?...

Yep, you guessed it... Popo had driven off and left Momo in the ladies room!!!

When she came out of the restroom, there was neither hide nor hair of the truck, the dog or Popo to be found!

And Meanwhile... Popo was smoking the road west, talking to an empty passenger's seat. Yes, I really said that... He was so focused on getting to Colorado that he didn't even realize that Momo wasn't in the truck... Until he was a few miles down the road and he suddenly came to the realization that Momo wasn't answering!!!

I have heard Momo tell her part of the story many times. When she concluded that she had been abandoned, she just found a comfortable place to sit, and waited... calmly... Until Popo came high-tailing it back to get her!

Her words to Popo after he had attempted an apology... "Awww Pa, I wasn't worried. I knew you'd be back to get me. I just found me a place to sit and rest until you did."

And so, the Thanksgiving Pheasant didn't wind up in the roaster pan, surrounded by dressing, without a few laughs to help him along in his journey!

Momo's Dressing Recipe

Popo with Ward Wiley and a couple of pheasants

I noticed that the name on the side of the truck is "W.T. Barton - Alton, MO" so I guess Popo had borrowed a truck or Mr. Barton was his hunting partner. (Feel free to give more info on this in the comments)

Mister Pot and Old Man Kettle

Sometimes, the meaning of idioms are lost with the passage of time.

I have been accused of "Beating Around the Bush" and there really is no sick like being "Sick as a Dog." But really and truthfully; when was the last time you saw it "raining cats and dogs"? (I know, I know... it was that time when you stepped in a poodle...) However, when an old idiom is played out right before your very eyes (and ears) the story just begs repeating.

I was working in the southern part of a southern county in southern Missouri when I happened upon a gentleman by the name of *Mister Pot.

We were traversing along an old trail that was the eastern boundary of a rural subdivision. The original surveyor had set large nails at the angle points of the meandering old road and we were locating and tying them with our traverse.

A few hundred feet down the trail, we passed by the driveway to Mister Pot's house. With human nature being what it is and knowing that "curiosity kills the cat", it wasn't long until Mister P strolled down his driveway and initiated the conversation with the usual question; "You gonna widen the road?"

This question, more often than not, precedes a ten to fifteen minute discussion on how you're not widening the road, just finding the old markers at the angle points; and No, you didn't begin your survey at the brass marker, in the concrete post, on top of the big hill, five miles to the north; Yes, we are licensed surveyors; No, that "thang" does not take pictures... *sigh*

When we had satisfactorily answered his questions, Mr. P had a final word of warning for us that went something like this....

"Now you got to watch out for Old Man Kettle that lives on down the road there. Let me tell you, He-Is-A-Weirdo! At night, he gets out and sneaks around, peeking into people's houses and crawling around their yards. Why, the other night, I caught him out in my yard, in full camouflage, face painted and everything! I took my shotgun and run him off! I tell ya! He's dangerous!"

To say the least, he got my attention!

We continued to traverse and about an hour or so later, a pickup truck makes its way down the narrow trail toward us. When it pulled up beside me and stopped, the passenger's window was rolled down so I stepped over to explain what we were doing.

The first thing I saw when I leaned down into the window to talk with the driver, was a rifle with a scope... Which thankfully was leaning on the seat with the muzzle pointed toward the floor. There was also a couple of handguns, of quite a large caliber, lying on the seat, within easy reach of said driver...

By the vivid and colorful description given by Mister Pot, I knew that this had to be "Old Man Kettle"!

For the second time that day, I answered the "usual" questions and received Old Man Kettle's sage and scholarly (but quite useless) advice, that I should start my survey from "The brass marker in the concrete post, on top of the big hill, five miles to the north."

When our conversation about surveying was complete, Old Man Kettle had some parting words of caution for me, that went something like this...

"Now you got to watch out for that ole Mister Pot that lives up toward the county road there. Let me tell you, he's a Blue-ribbon Weirdo! He gits out at night and sneaks around, crawling around people's yards, just a dirty peeping-tom I tell ya! Why, the other night, I caught him out in my yard, in full camouflage, had his face all painted! I took my pistol and run him off! I tell ya! He's dangerous!"

After he had moseyed on down the road and we had had our laugh (because "Laughter is the best medicine") I realized that the old idiom:
"That's like the pot, calling the kettle black" had not lost it's relevance in our "Post-Modern" world!

*Real names are not used to protect the reputation of the kitchen utensils 

History Does Repeat Itself

These Ozark Hills are chock-full of legends, myths and folklore... with plenty of history to keep us on an even keel. And while some of this history is distasteful and painful to recall; most of it makes me proud to be an Ozark Native Son.

And sometimes, history repeats itself.

On April 5th, 1971, sometime before the stroke of midnight, it started to snow. It continued into the next day and when it finally quit, we had five to six inches of wet, heavy snow on the ground.

Spring had already sprung but someone forgot to inform Old Man Winter!

I was seven years old and we lived at the Conklin house at Junction Hill. April 6th was on a Tuesday, so I'm pretty sure that school was dismissed for the day. The forsythia bushes were in bloom and the wet, heavy snow, blowing in from the north, weighted down the evergreen limbs. All this is shown in the pictures below. (I'm really grateful to my Dad for being a "picture taker" and documenting this weather anomaly.) It was also documented by West Plains' very own, unique, dedicated weather-lady; Mrs. P.S. Kriegh!(See the chart below)

This morning, April 7, 2018, Forty-Seven years and a day later, West Plains received another snow. Not as much as the 1971 snow; but enough to let you know OMW (Old Man Winter) still had another puff left in his snowpipe! (However, our temperature this morning of 24° was significantly colder than the low of 31° in 1971)

Our old 60's model Ford Econoline van and 1968 Chevrolet Impala are snow plastered on the north side. Center picture, on the horizon is where the Junction Hill Church is located.

This was the back yard of the Conklin house, facing toward the southwest. Center picture is the forsythia bush, in full bloom, covered in snow. 

The little evergreen tree southeast of the house, weighted down with snow. 

This is the historical weather information that I pulled from the NOAA site for April 1971. According to their map, the location of  the reporting station for this information was somewhere near the west end of West Main Street - Where Mrs. P.S. Kriegh lived!

2018 - Possibly an half-an-inch...

The view of our front yard (And the flowers in the pot are fake!!)

Sledding! (Dangerously)

The winter of 76-77 was a humdinger. We returned to school after the Christmas break and it started snowing... And snowing... And snowing. Then... Sleet. Freezing rain. More sleet and freezing rain. Until we had almost a foot-and-a-half of snow and ice on the ground.

And then it got cold...

On January 11th, 1977, West Plains set a record low of 19 below zero. Needless to say, the snow and ice didn't melt, the road and streets stayed ice packed and we were out of school for three weeks!

We had moved to town from the Farley Place in the spring of 76 so this was our first of two winters, living on Third Street. Dad had bought Wayne Spear's moving business so we were kept pretty busy, moving people that didn't want to move themselves in the nasty weather. But when Dad didn't have work for us to do, we rambled all over the west side of West Plains.

Now when I say "we", it's not like I had a mouse in my back pocket. "We" was meself, my brother Ralph and the boy that lived next door east, Bobby Moran.

In our wanderings up and down the streets and back alleys of the "west side", one day we discovered the perfect sledding hill.

On the west side of Peoples Park, between Halstead Street and Utah Street, there was an alley.(I didn't realize it until I went to take some pictures, but it is actually a short portion of Cass Avenue, with a street sign to prove it!) Only the city trash truck, propane gas trucks and an occasional resident used it, so we didn't have to worry about a lot of traffic... On the alley.

We would start at the top of the hill, at Utah Street. By the time we reached Halstead, when we had reached Mach 4 speed and 80 Gee's... There was NO stopping for traffic! After a couple of close calls with a car or two, we got smarter (or less dumber, depending on how you look at it...) and posted a "lookout" at Halstead Street to warn the sledder that a car was "coming". Actually it was magnificent display of arm flapping, hand waving, leg kicking and other bodily gyrations and contortions, while screaming at the top of your voice - "CAR COMING! CAR COMING!"

The sledder would then have to make a difficult, split-second decision. Which is going to hurt worse? Turning the sled into the trees, vines and bushes on the one side of the alley? Or hitting the garage or the wooden yard fence on the other side of the alley? OR...the "Nuclear Option" -  Just keep it straight and hit the unsuspecting vehicle passing by on Halstead  Street!

Even if there was no traffic coming, there were decisions to be made once you hit the bottom of the hill at the street - some with potentially serious consequences..

If you just went straight... you would cross the street at supersonic speed, fly through the air off the hill, down into the park, slide over a very steep bank behind the Howell County Volunteers building.... And right into the side of a 1000 gallon, steel propane tank... However, if you would steer slightly to the left, you would miss the bank and the tank and come to a nice smooth stop on the little street beside the park pavilion. BUT, if you over-steered to the left... You would run smack into a big ole elm tree!

If you were a dare-devil (or were just a few lettuce leaves short of a taco) you could steer HARD to the left, fly through the air, off the street into the park and miss (hopefully) the elm tree to the left side, and slide all the way down to the creek that went by the pavilion. HOWEVER... If you steered TOO hard to the left, you might just dead center the electric pole...

Decisions, Decisions!

We played hour after hour, day after day in the alley, until most of the kids in the neighborhood were sledding down our "ski slope". But good times don't last forever, and one afternoon, our sledding fun came to a screeching halt.

Mike Rader's house faced Broadway but he parked behind the house, which was on "our" alley. And since it was right behind their house, Mike's daughters joined in on the sledding fun. On their last trip down the alley, they decided to go "piggy-back". One laid down on the sled and steered and the other one laid on top of her and hung on like a burr in a mule's tail.

When they got to Halstead Street, they took the straight-slightly left option, and sailed off into the park... But with the additional, top-heavy weight, the sled didn't turn as quick as it should and they were headed right for the bank and the propane tank! The young girl on the bottom, steering, gave a hard jerk to the left with the handle... And when she did, her sister riding on top, rolled off...

...Down the slope, down the bank... And smacked her head right into the end of the steel propane tank!!

When we all got to her, there was blood and she was crying but not in hysterics. We bundled her up and since Ralph was the oldest (a junior in High School) he carried her up the hill to the Rader's house.

When Mrs. Rader came to the door, we were all standing there, with Ralph holding her daughter, bleeding and crying. It was just natural for her to get a tad excited. So we gave a short explanation, gathered up our sleds and headed home.

I'm not sure the exact severity of the wound, but I do know that measures were taken to prevent it from happening again.

That evening, when Mike came home and found out about his daughter's accident, he un-slicked our sledding slope. He took wood ashes and spread them all over the area of the alley, right behind his house! This was right in the middle of the slope and the ashes melted a big bare spot! Sledding Over!

This week, while the snow was on the ground, I went and took some pictures of the "alley". As I stood and looked up and down the white, narrow track; I was reminded of Good Times, A Scary Time and the fun that we had... Sledding!(Dangerously)

Standing in Halstead Street, looking up the alley toward Utah Street.

The view from your sled, if you were going straight. You can see the elm tree, across the road and slightly left.

Another view of the elm tree with the electric pole to the left. The block wall was not there in 77 and there was no curbing on Halstead Street.

Another view straight on and the big elm tree. Where the trees are farther down was where the propane tank was.

Looking west, up the alley. Big ole elm tree again!

Standing in Halstead Street, looking south. There was no curbing in 77.

The Launching Pad! Standing in Utah Street, looking east down the alley.  The back of Mike Rader's house is where the black, oblong object is on the left, about 200' down.

"On Frozen Pond"

My brother Ralph and I - "On Frozen Pond"

In 1981, a film debuted starring Katherine Hepburn, Henry Fonda and Jane Fonda. It won a Golden Globe Award, an Academy Award and was nominated for eight Oscars. The film was Henry Fonda's final film and was titled "On Golden Pond". Having never seen the film (and probably not likely to), I cannot give it a rating or attest to its quality.

This little yarn however, is not about a big screen movie with over-paid actors.  It's about two brothers on an Ozark hill farm, that spent a winter's afternoon playing and sliding...

"On Frozen Pond"

We moved from the farmhouse at County Line to the Conklin House at Junction Hill in the late fall of 1968. It was a ranch style house with a garage, a single level barn, a chicken house and an outdoor johnny. (which was only used when you couldn't make it to the house!) There was a fenced in "play yard", a large garden spot (complete with rocks), a six-acre pasture, a couple of stands of timber...

And there was a pond.

How do you describe an Ozark farm pond? And really catch the ugliness? the smallness? the mudiness? the unsanitariness? And winsomeness and charm of a place a young lad can wile away the hours, in any season of the year?

Our pond was in the hollow, down the steep hill below the chicken house. The dirt had been dug out down to red clay mud and then piled across the hollow to form a dam for the water. After a few rains, (if it was gonna "hold" water) a small, shallow pool of dirty clay-colored water would form in the pond.

If the pond would continue to "hold", it would get larger and deeper, the mud would settle and the water would get clearer. Somehow, fish would begin to grow in the pond, in addition to frogs, turtles, snakes and other charming creatures.

In the winter time (at least the winters before Al Gore invented Global Warming) the pond would freeze over at least once during the season. This would happen after a few days of below-freezing weather and usually some snowfall. But even after you KNEW that the pond was frozen enough to slide on, you didn't dare get out on it!

There was a ritual to testing the ice for "slideability."

After we had tested the edges of the ice for thickness by stomping, and sliding a little around the edges; we had to get Dad's stamp of approval. Dad didn't take to well to pestering and whining so just had to ask once... and then remind him every thirty minutes or so!

Dad would eventually make the trek down the hill to "check out" the ice.He would stand on the edge of the ice and stomp... and then listen. He would walk out on the ice and listen to the popping and cracking the ice made under his weight. After a few minutes of this, he would deem the ice thick enough (or not thick enough.) I really haven't figured out his method of testing but we never ended up in the drink!

Since we didn't have skates, my brother Ralph and I did the next best thing.

By trial and error, we had found out which pair of our shoes were the best for sliding on snow and ice. They had to be slick enough to slide smoothly over the somewhat rough, snow-covered pond ice. But not so infernally slick that you couldn't even stand up in'um! - Somewhere between leather soled dress shoes and Converse tenner-shoes.

And we slid... We raced each other. We chased each other. We had contests to see who could slide the farthest and fastest. We tried to turn in circles while sliding. We tried turning mid-slide and sliding backward. It was a glorious hour or so of cold, icy, improvised fun!

Eventually though, our hands got cold, our ears were froze, our clothes were wet and cold; so we headed up the hill to the house.

I feel somewhat sorry for the kids of today. With all the video games, online-gaming sites, cellphone apps and the other knick-knacks that modern technology has provided to them; I hardly think they size up to a wintry afternoon spent "On Frozen Pond".