The Government Pond

I know the title doesn't reflect it, but this is my post for Father's Day. And it all started with a Pickle Loaf Sandwich.

The other evening, I got a hankering for a pickle loaf sandwich. So I dropped by the Ramey's Supermarket deli and got a pound of thick sliced PL. A couple of sandwich's later, my mind started to wander back to when I was just a boy.

The Government Pond was built during the Great Depression by the Civilian Conservation Corp (CCC's). It is on the north side of Highway 160, about a mile and a half east of the Howell/Oregon county line. When it was built, it had a stone-paved dam and spill-way and a diving board. In my memory, there was just posts where the diving board had been and cattle roamed freely over the stone paving.

When I was three or four years old, Dad bought me my first fishing pole. It was a long hickory cane pole with hook and bobber attached.  It seems like the day he brought it home, he said those words that would excite any little boy's heart - "Let's go fishing". So I knew this meant a trip to the Government Pond.

There was usually a ritual to these trips. We lived on the farm which was a couple of miles from the pond. But we would drive right past it and journey on a couple more miles and end up at the intersection of Highway 160 and M Highway. On the north side of this intersection was an old country store, ran by "Willie" Willard. (Dad always called him "Williewad" - but not too his face!).

At Willies, we would usually pick up a package of hot dogs, a loaf of bread, some potato chips and soda pop. Other times, the main course would be chunk of boloney and a box of crackers. The hot dogs were rolled up in a slice of bread and washed down with a cold Pepsi in a glass bottle. Or, the baloney was sliced up by Dad, with his pocket knife - chunks cut to size (with the same pocket knife), placed between two crackers and washed down with a cold... Pepsi, Coca-cola, Dr. Pepper or Mountain Dew... all in cold, sweating glass bottles. This was usually eaten on the pond dam and when we finished, it was time to go worm hunting.

I know most kids today would not understand this, but there is nothing more satisfying that turning over a half-dried cow pile and grabbing for the big ole nightcrawler that is making an exit from the sudden exposure! And there is an art to knowing just how much "pull" to exert on a worm that is already half-way down his hole, to get him out and not end up with just half of a worm. The area on the north side of the pond was infested with huge nightcrawlers so it didn't take long to get enough for an evening of fishing.

There is also an art to fishing with a cane pole. You have to get the bobber and baited hook swinging back and forth like a clock pendulum - and when it is out as far as you can get out over the water, drop it down. Then, when you get a bite and set the hook, there's no reel to reel in your line - you just lift the fish out of the water with the pole or walk backwards and drag him out! Thankfully, my Dad took the time to show me how to do all of this.

While my brother Ralph and I were fishing from the dam, catching bluegill and perch, Dad was across the pond, fishing for bass. He fished with lures or plastic worms and not just from the bank. He would wade in and fish. Starting out shallow, he would eventually end up in water up to his armpits, holding his arms up out of the water to cast! It worked though. It seems like we always came home with a good stringer of fish.

I know he can't read this little blog post but - Thank you Dad, for being a good Dad.

Back to the Country Roads

 

Country Roads. The dirt, rock, gravel and mud packed thoroughfares that span the void between paved two-lane highways, four-lane expressways and interstates. They connect the farmer to the market, the rancher to the stockyard, the hunter to the game, the country to the city. They invoke feelings of nostalgia, romance and whimsy.

Country roads are also the subject of songs. Who can forget John Denver's 1971 hit single - "Take Me Home, Country Roads"? The Ozark Mountain Daredevils released "Backroads" in 1977, touting "no hitchhikers, semi-trucks or bikers" on "them" backroads. My personal favorite is "Back to the Country Roads" released by Charley Pride in 1972 and covered by the Osborne Brothers in 1974 (You can listen to it here).

During the Covid-19 pandemic, which began January of 2020, personal contact with world outside of immediate family was highly discouraged to the point of lunacy. There was a shortage of toilet paper, hand sanitizer, wet wipes and common sense. We lived in a world limited by facemasks and the "6 foot rule". It was during this season of madness that my wife and I discovered the calm, soothing sanity of the country roads.

We would climb in "Ole Red", our 1998 Ford farm truck, and travel the backroads. I'm sure there was a time or two that we crossed over into neighboring counties but our wandering was mainly confined to our home county of Howell.

In all of my years of working in Howell County, I thought I had traveled down every county road, log road and pig trail that there was. But as we were meandering down some old dirt road, I would remark "You know Tami, I don't think I have ever been down this road." These "drives" were adventurous, relaxing and soothing to the soul; during a crazy time in the world.

Even now, with Covid in our rearview, we still climb in the truck and take off on our therapeutic rambles. Counting deer is now a pastime as we wander over hill and dale.

The count is usually ten to twenty deer, depending on the time of day and length of the drive. Our record so far is fifty-two! Tami used to be surprised at how easily I could spot the deer - I told her "I learned from Louie L'Amour - you look for something that is out of place - something that shouldn't be there." Now, she is really getting the hang of it!

I think J.R.R. Tolkien sums up our little jaunts best with his quote from the book The Lord of the Rings

"Not all those who wander are lost"

O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum!

 "When I was a little boy, it was an awful long time between Christmases. It seemed like Christmas came every five years or so." This is a quote from Rev. Havis Crawford, an old preacher I knew many years ago. As I grow older (and older) this truth comes home to me more and more.

A year ago this December was a sad time for our family. My wife's sister, Anna, was in the last stages of her battle with cancer; my mother-in-law was going deeper into the grips of Alzheimers disease and our attention and concern was focused on them. I find it really hard to believe that twelve months have passed so quickly.

As I was doing my last minute, Christmas Eve chores and errands, my mind went back to a Christmas from my childhood. It's one of those good memories that hopefully I can relate to you.

From the time I was born until I was almost six years old, we lived on a farm at "county line". The name came from it being on the eastern side of Howell County, bordering with Oregon County. My Dad worked as a carpenter but he had cattle, some hay fields; and one large alfalfa field, situated on the east side of the place. The alfalfa field was surrounded by woods with a border of sage grass, and among the sage grass were a few small cedar trees.

I'm sure Dad had scoped it out before, but on this particular day, he loaded us up in the truck to go "find" a Christmas Tree. This was a family affair with all of us packed into Dad's 1960's Chevy, short-bed, step-side truck - Mom, Dad, my brother Ralph and myself. (And we did bring along our two dogs - My dog Midgee and Ralph's dog, Queenie!)

We drove from the house, through the barnyard gate, up the lane past the trash dump, to the northeast corner of the alfalfa field and parked on the north side. I really don't know if Dad made a pretense of "searching" for the perfect tree but we settled on a little cedar tree that was all by itself in an ocean of sage grass.

Dad cut the tree and we hauled it back to the house in the pickup bed. Our Christmas tree stand was ready so we set the tree up in it, tightened the screws into the base of the tree, set it on one of the end tables that had been placed in front of the picture window, put some water in the stand's bowl to keep the tree from drying out, put a "Christmasy" blanket around the bottom of the tree - then we were FINALLY ready to decorate!

Things have really changed in the Christmas decorating department through the years also. My Mom had only one (rather small) box of decorations. (Contrast that with me, hauling twelve large tubs of Christmas decorations from the basement for my wife this year!)

Since Dad's Christmas duties stopped short of the decorating, we (Mom, Ralph and I) proceeded to trim our little Tannenbaum. Our decorations consisted of strings of large bulb lights (non-twinkling), glass bulbs, silver "icicles" and a lighted star for the top.

There really must be a fireplace with a chimney for Santa Claus to slide down - but our house didn't have one. Mom took care of that by putting up a cardboard one that had a cheery fire, a chimney and a mantle to hang our stockings from!

The Bible tells us that there is "nothing new under the sun". I have found that to be true, even in Christmas presents. One of my presents in 1967 was Legos - In 2024, my grandson is all into Legos!

So, on this Christmas Eve, 2024, I am thankful for many, many things. My family - wife, daughter, son-in-law, grandsons, Riggs', Beans and all the extended aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews and cousins. My friends and fellow professionals, my health, my church and fellow believers and so much more.

Most of all, I am thankful for the greatest gift ever given, the babe in the manger...

"Behold, I bring you good tidings, of great joy, which shall be to ALL people. for unto is born this day, in the City of David, a savior who is CHRIST THE LORD!"

Wishing one and all a Merry Christmas and a Blessed and Prosperous New Year!!

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.)

A Very Fowl Comet

 

This is Merriam-Webster's definition of a Comet: "A celestial body that appears as a fuzzy head usually surrounding a bright nucleus, that has a usually highly eccentric orbit, that consists primarily of ice and dust and that often develops one or more long tails when near the sun."

However, if you want to hear Ray-Ray's definition, you'll hafta keep reading!

A few days ago, I decided to burn a big brush/trash pile behind our house. Over the course of a month or so, we had accumulated several large limbs, cardboard boxes, sacks of old clothes, boards and other trash.

Unbeknownst to me, we had also collected something else in the big mound of refuse...

We had several "free range" chickens that had been roaming around our property that I guess belonged to our neighbors to the west. And... it appears that one of these chickens was sitting on a nest, somewhere up in the middle of the BRUSH PILE!

I grabbed my lighter fluid and proceeded to soak three or four places around the pile, then touched it off with my trusty lighter.

For a minute or so, nothing happened except the flames went higher and higher. When the inferno reached fifteen to twenty feet in the air, something spectacular happened.

Out of the scorching, blazing, pile of fire and brimstone - A Very Fowl Comet appeared!!!

It was a flapping, squawking, smouldering, smoking white comet that came shooting out of the flames, headed for Arkansas or other parts south!!!

This was all pretty hilarious!... Until I realized that this flaming terrestrial comet was flying right into the neighbors dry hayfield!! Yikes!!!

Ole Leghorn must have burnt out before hitting the ground and I haven't seen nary a chicken around the place for a few days now!

Shawnee Creek Cottages

 

My wife Tami and I just returned from a wonderful vacation week at Shawnee Creek Cottages, east of Eminence, Missouri. I have worked in this area for many years, and always wanted to stay at one of these cabins. It was absolutely, one of the best vacation weeks we have ever spent!

Our #5 cabin was the one as far from civilization as we could get! It had a queen size bed, small kitchenette with apartment size stove and fridge, small table with fold-down leaves and a small couch. There was a smaller size television with Dish network and no WiFi. I have Verizon service and could get spotty 1g service. We had internet withdrawals but we found out, you do not have to have WWW to live!

There are five cabins on the property; three are two person and the other two cabins are larger and will sleep at least four.

Shawnee Creek ran about thirty yards from the cabin over a stretch of rocks and riffles so we left a window open at night and were lulled to sleep by its "grumbling and rumbling and tumbling"! And even the coyotes sang us a lullaby!

We were close enough to Eminence to pick up any supplies we needed and there were lots of neat sights to see, within reasonable driving distance.

If you are interested in staying at this nice getaway place, leave a comment or message me through Facebook for contact information. I don't believe they have a website or Facebook page.

Otis - A Church Dog's Tale

Otis - "The Original Church Dog"

I have been a member of the Junction Hill Pentecostal Church since before I was born. We had our first service on December 7th, 1963 and my Mom was in attendance. And on December 19th, 1963, I was born. We have been blessed with six good pastors over the course of 57 years... And two church dogs!

Otis was the first "church dog" and was owned by Pastor Mike Blue and his family. When the Blues resigned the pastorate, Otis stayed and became a part of Pastor Dwain Galiher's family. When Otis went to that "Big Rabbit Hunt in the Sky", Hank arrived to take his place. Hank reigned supreme for a few years until he also "Moved to the shady side of the barn".

Otis' pedigree was "Heinz 57" but he was primarily beagle. Otis was special and he knew it. My mother brought "doggie treats" to Otis so often, that he came to recognize her car and would meet her in the parking lot for his snacks! He lived a long and fulfilled life, but there was that one night, when his grip on life was down to a single paw...

On that particular night (actually around 2AM in the morning), I received a call from my pastor, Rev. Mike Blue. In my sleep dazed state, I heard "Brother Ray, I need some help! I think Otis has rabies!!" Well... That brought me out of my sleep and when I could coherently converse, I asked for some details. It appeared that Otis was howling as if in pain, foaming at the mouth and was snapping and biting at anyone who came near him!

Brother Mike was prepared to shoot Otis but the entire Blue family, Ladonna, Jessica and Brandon, pled for Otis' life with tears and lamentations! Brother Mike then told me, "I just can't bring myself to shoot him. Could you come and put Otis out of his misery??"

Being the hard-hearted executioner that I am, I got dressed, loaded up my trusty Remington 22 and headed out to the parsonage.

When I arrived, the whole family was on the back porch, crying and watching Otis in the throes of rabies. And it was just as Brother Mike had described and perhaps worse. Otis was foaming at the mouth, howling, moaning, snapping at himself and anyone that came near him.

However, as I looked at him, it seemed that he was snapping at one of his hind legs. When I got close enough, I could see that the coated cable that he was tied up with, had gotten tightly wound around one hind leg! It was cutting off blood circulation and causing Otis extreme pain!

I then informed the whole family that Otis didn't have rabies, but we would need to get the cable un-wound from his leg. There was great joy and rejoicing at this announcement... but the problem still remained - How in the cat hair were we going to get the cable off of Otis' leg?!?!

Well, I found some old gloves in my truck and when I had them on, proceeded to calmly talk to Otis and get near to him. I finally got close enough to pin him down and grab his muzzle with one hand and hold his body down with my knee and the other hand. Then I instructed Pastor Blue to see if he could get the cable un-wound.

Oh Wow! That was a sight to behold and a ruckus to hear! Otis went into second gear with his (muffled) howling, writhing, kicking and thrashing around!

The cable would not come off. I told Brother Mike to get some side-cutters and see if he could cut the cable. But the tempered steel strands resisted the jaws of the pliers. After we had tried and tried to remove the cable with as much ease and comfort to Otis as we thought possible, I finally said "OK, there's one final thing we can do."

It wasn't pretty...

I had Brother Mike to help me and we held Otis down, I straddled his body and then sat down on his head! I was facing the hind leg so I just told everyone to stay back and plug their ears!

I went to work on the cable and Otis went into over-drive gear!

With his mouth partly free, he began howling, moaning, snapping, whining and even screaming! He couldn't get up with my two-hundred plus pounds on him but it didn't prevent him from trying!

After I had worked on the cable for a few minutes, it came loose and the leg was free. I continued to sit on Otis and the sound reduced to whining, then whimpering and finally... Silence.

Having had some experience with dogs, I knew that when I let Otis up, he might try to attack anyone that was near. So... I instructed the entire Blue family to go back to the porch.

I carefully got up off of Otis while I held him down with my hands. Then I released him and ran like a scared squirrel!

Otis just laid there... Nothing... No sound, no whining, no tail wag, no movement at all...

"Is he dead?", was asked by the Blue family. I answered "I didn't think so" but I knew Otis might need some encouragement. I asked Pastor Blue to whistle to him.

When Otis heard the whistle, he jumped up, shook himself all over, started wagging his tail and trotted over to the family waiting on the porch!

There was great joy and rejoicing from Sister Ladonna and the children, but I will never forget Pastor Blue's parting remark...

"You know, Brother Ray, I'm gonna kill that dog!"

Hank - "The 2nd Church Dog"

This story re-told with permission from the participants and the events as recorded, are strictly from the story-tellers recollection

Special Thanks To:

Pastor Mike Blue and his family for the story

Pastor Dwain Galiher for the picture of Otis

Evangelist Davy Boggs for the picture of Hank

Winter, Whittier and My Old Dad

 

My Driveway - All Shoveled Clean!
(Thanks to Dave and Anna for shoveling off the first seven inches!)

When it snows, like it has this week, I think of winters past, my old Dad and the poem "Snow-bound: A Winter Idyl " by John Greenleaf Whittier.

I am sure that my Dad did not read poetry. He read the West Plains Daily Quill, front to back, every day. He would read the occasional book or magazine, but poetry... Naaah.

However, Leamon Riggs and the father of JG Whittier shared a common wintertime custom.

It was a ritual around the Riggs house. The morning after a big snowfall, he would roust my brother Ralph and I out of bed with the announcement, "Come on boys, it's time to shovel some snow."

In line sixty-seven of "Snow-bound", Whittier's father expresses it differently, but with the same meaning; "Boys, a path!"

After bundling up in coats, boots and sock hats; we grabbed the shovels and went to work. Our "tools of the trade" were usually a regular snow shovel, a couple of old grain shovels and a broom.

We would begin by shoveling paths. A path from the wood box on the carport out to the wood pile. A path from the back patio, down across the yard to the "little door" of the shop. Paths to the pickups and other vehicles parked near the shop. Dad would use the broom to carefully sweep the snow from the vehicles and then we would shovel path around them!

When all the "path-shoveling" was complete, it was time to get down to business. 

The apron on the shop was shoveled off, the gravel parking area in front of the shop was shoveled off and the patio was shoveled off.

Were we done? Not by a long shot! It was time to start on the driveway!!

You may think I am exaggerating but I remember times when we shoveled the entire driveway, from the carport down to the county road. A distance of two to three-hundred feet!

This was my dad's reasoning. Get the snow off the walking and driving surfaces before it gets packed down. If you get most of the snow off the surface, the sun will do the rest.

I have found that "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree"... "I'm a chip off the ole block" or some such idiom.

When the snow stops falling, I find myself, outside, snow shovel and broom in hand, making the snow fly!!

A path from the front porch to the carport. A path from the front porch, around the house to the back deck. A side path to the propane tank. A path from the path to the carport to my in-law's house next door...

And then the driveway...

From the carport, out to the county road...

As I am shoveling, my mind wanders back to those times spent with my dad. It wasn't extraordinary. It wasn't "fun". It was hard, backbreaking labor that at the time, I begrudged. Now however, it's a bittersweet memory of Winter, Whittier and My Old Dad...

Gentry

"Gentry"
(The red bow has disappeared)

If you drive Missouri Route 14, from West Plains to Ava, you will pass through some of the beauty and ruggedness that make these Ozark Hills famous. However, there is really nothing extraordinary, just hills, hollers, pines, hardwoods, glades... and a crooked, curvy highway.

But when my wife,Tami, and I travel it, there's that one certain place...

Tami and I had our first date on February 15th, 1985. I took her to a church sponsored Sweetheart Banquet and by late spring, we had begun dating steady.

On a particular spring evening, we decided to travel to Ava, eat at the Pizza Hut and look at a project I had been working on in town. After eating a good meal, and driving around the prosperous metropolis of Ava for awhile, we decided to mosey on home.

The sun had set by the time we left and it was dusky dark when we passed through the intersection of 95 Highway at Gentryville. Just down the hill east, right before crossing the Brush Creek bridge, there was couple of old vacant store buildings on the north side of the highway. There was a gravel area right in front of the buildings where you could pull off the highway...

And that's what I did!

Now, I didn't realize it at the time, but Tami was quite concerned. She knew I was a Christian, and surely, surely, I wouldn't be pulling off to "park"! "Maybe he just feels the call of nature" but that too would be very embarrassing! 

In the meantime (while her mind was racing) I had got out and asked Tami to lean forward so I could get something from behind the seat of my truck. I retrieved a little package, put the seat back, handed her the package and got back in.

When she opened it, there was a small stuffed "Bambi" deer inside with a red bow tied around it's neck!

To say she was pleased would be an under statement! Tami immediately dubbed the little buck "Gentry" for the burg we were near and then we traveled on home.

And now, when we travel 14 Highway and pass through Gentryville, we chuckle, remembering this little episode in our courting days and are reminded again of how much we love each other!

As we get close to Valentines Day, there are a couple of observations that I draw from this little adventure in our lives.

Number one, the gift doesn't necessarily have to be big and expensive, to be pleasing. As you can see, Tami has kept this little memento for almost thirty-six years!

Number two, make memories close to home, where you can easily be reminded of them in years to come. A trip to Hawaii or Cancun is nice, but usually, only pictures remain. As Tami and I travel about here in the Ozarks, we are always passing by someplace and saying "Do you remember when we were here...."

After 36 years, all that remains of the old store buildings near Gentryville is the foundations

Thanksgiving - From A Pawpaw's Perspective

On Thanksgiving, a little song always comes back to me from my childhood. "Over the River and Through the Wood" is a song about Thanksgiving. I know it has morphed into a sentimental Christmas song but if you read the words, it is actually about Thanksgiving. As a matter of fact, according to Wikipedia, the actual title is "The New-England Boy's Song About Thanksgiving". These are the verses that I remember...

Over the river, and through the wood,
To Grandfather's house we go;
the horse knows the way to carry the sleigh
through the white and drifted snow.

Over the river, and through the wood—
oh, how the wind does blow!
It stings the toes and bites the nose
as over the ground we go.

Over the river, and through the wood—
and straight through the barnyard gate,
We seem to go extremely slow,
it is so hard to wait!

Over the river, and through the wood—
now Grandmother's cap I spy!
Hurrah for the fun! Is the pudding done?
Hurrah for the pumpkin pie!

We usually didn't have snow and certainly didn't have a sleigh, but I can still remember the anticipation and excitement when we finally drove up to my grandparent's houses. At Momo and Popo Riggs' house, there would be cousins by the dozens and the little house at 1310 West Main would be filled with laughter, wonderful smells and general chaos! At Grandma and Grandpa Fox's house east of Crider, the atmosphere would be a little more subdued. Since I was the second youngest grandchild, there usually wasn't very many cousins to play with but there was room outside to wander and explore. And if that got boring, Dad and the uncles were always talking and telling old stories or... watching football on the TV.

These are the memories that fill my mind on Thanksgiving Day.

Now, however, it is different. I am the "Popo"... I am the Grandpa Fox.... In a little while, there will be a white van pull up in the driveway and two little boys will come piling out! They will come through the door looking for Pawpaw and Mayme and then off to their toy room. I know they may not remember everything about today, but hopefully, good memories are being made that they can recall in years to come.

Here are a few pictures of gatherings at the Riggs and Fox households. They may be of Thanksgiving or Christmas (I couldn't really tell) but they are representative of the many meals shared together through the years.

Grandma Fox's house at Crider 1972

Grandma Fox's house on 6th Street 1975

Momo and Popo's house at 1310 West Main 1968

Momo and Popo's house at 1310 West Main. Probably Christmas Late 60's

Our House 2019 - Chinese Thanksgiving Dinner! Cashew Chicken and all the trimmings!

Grandma and Grandpa Fox's house at Crider. 1969