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