The Solar Eclipse Saga

Viewing The Eclipse - "The Riggs Method"

Star Date: August 21st, 2017

Location: Parking lot west of Riggs & Associates office

To view the eclipse, I used an old vernier reading theodolite - a Lietz TM6 - with a solar filter that fits over the eyepiece. We used this filter many moons ago to make solar observations to determine true north by the position of the sun. This was referred to as the hour/angle method and you used a "Timecube" to get the horizontal position of the sun at a specific UTC. With this filter attached, you can focus in on the sun and it will not damage your eyes or the instrument.

There was a problem though. When we performed solar observations, we had to do them in the early morning or  in the late afternoon. In the middle of the day, the scope had to transit so far vertically that we couldn't see through it. The base would be in the way. Well... the eclipse was at 1:17PM in West Plains and the sun was too high in the sky to use the instrument setting on the tripod.

Have I mentioned that I am a genius?

I put the instrument on the tripod, put it through the lowered back window of my truck, wadded up some padding on the top of the tripod so it would break the plastic rainguard and rolled the window up! Now the instrument was steady on the tripod and wouldn't move around and mess up my viewing.

All I had to do now was use the locator on top of the scope to site on sun and then use the motion knobs to fine tune it.

Then I used my old Fujifilm FinePix A340 digital camera, which fit snug, right up against the eyepiece, and started snapping pictures!!

You can't see it in these pictures but through the scope, you could actually see the mountains in profile of the edge of the moon! And you could see the sunspots on the sun very clearly.

Chris Webster, our draftsman, fixed up a pair of binoculars on a tripod and you can see the sun projected on the paper I'm holding. Just another method of viewing and it was pretty cool!

"The Crack At The End Of The Wall"

I grew up reading "Hardy Boys" books. The adventures of  brothers Frank and Joe, and their sidekick, Chet, filled many hours of my growing up years. After my brother, Ralph, introduced me to the books at the old public library on East Main Street, I never looked back. Who can forget "The Secret Of The Old Mill"? or "The Wailing Siren Mystery"? and "The Disappearing Floor"? Good, clean, wholesome reading!

I know my little story will not come up to the standard of *Franklin W. Dixon but let me tell you the true story of: "The Crack At The End Of The Wall"...

I began my school days at the Junction Hill C-12 Elementary School. I did not attend Kindergarten, but in 1970, when I started first grade, it looked exactly as it appears above. My first grade class, with Mrs. Beulah Story as teacher, was the one right behind the basketball goal in the picture.

When the school was built, there was not a separate classroom for each grade. There were six classrooms, so some of the grades had to share a room. I confirmed with one former teacher, Mrs. Nondes Good, that she taught 3rd and 4th grade in one room in 1963. She also said that the 7th grade was divided between the 6th grade room and the 8th grade room. I also visited with former teacher, Mr. Bobby Vonallmen, who started teaching at Junction Hill in 1961. He said that the 1st and 8th grade had their own classrooms with the other classes being divided between the remaining rooms and he taught 4th and 5th grade together. (And as a side note: He was also the boys PE teacher for all the upper grades!)

Taking all this into consideration, it seems that some of the rooms were larger than others. And then sometime, in the years before I started school, they divided the larger rooms with a wall...

And a few years down the road, I made a discovery...

When they built the wall dividing the room which would house the 6th and 7th grade classes, they did almost a perfect job. "Almost" being the key word. The end of the wall, opposite the windows fit perfectly against the inside block wall. The end that was against the outside wall where the windows were... not so good. At the end of the wall, about three or four feet up from the floor at the bottom of the window, there was a crack...

This crack was between the end of the wall and the window, and it reached all the way to the ceiling.

I discovered this crack at the end of the wall by mere accident. Our teacher, Mr. Herndon, had moved me to the very back corner of the classroom so I was not directly under his gaze every moment of the day. I was forever more looking for ways to occupy my time in class. Besides studying.

I kept hearing the teacher lecturing in the 7th grade class, very clearly. So I knew there was some kind of opening into the class next door. Upon further investigation (at intervals when Mr. Herndon wasn't watching) I discovered the small open space between the window and the end of the wall. "The Crack"!

Well... I had a good friend, Eric, who was in 7th grade, so we conspired to fix a method of communicating using this secret passage. After all, adolescent boys have so many important messages that they need to send back and forth to each other...

I brought a long, thin piece of copper wire to school, and while the teacher wasn't looking, threaded it through the crack, into the 7th grade classroom.

In the 7th grade room, where the wire came through the crack, was right on top of a row of book shelves. So... Eric found some excuse to go back to the bookshelf and attached a note to the end of the wire. I pulled it through to my side, read it, attached an answer back and sent it back through the crack.

This worked famously for a couple of days. Then, things got even better. Eric somehow persuaded the teacher to move him to the back corner, right across the wall from where I sat!

This made it so much easier and faster to send our important missives.

So we sent our messages back and forth, back and forth and enjoyed the fact and we were getting away with secret, high level communication, right under the teacher's nose.

We might have gotten away with this clandestine communication until the end of the school year....If I hadn't been so slow. Alas! It was impatience that brought the whole surreptitious operation down in flames!

Eric had passed a note through to me and I was attempting to answer it. Before I could get a reply written and passed back, Mr. Herndon stood up and started lecturing on some important (I'm sure) 6th grade subject.

I figured, "No Problem". Surely Eric can wait until Mr. Herndon finishes.

How wrong I was...

A few minutes into his lecture, I began to hear a rustling behind my head. Now, I didn't dare turn around, because the teacher's eyes were roaming back and forth across the class as he talked. And all of a sudden... He stopped talking, his eyes bugged out and he was looking RIGHT AT ME!!

Actually, he wasn't looking Right at me. He was staring at something right above my head and right behind me!

It seems that, in his extreme impatience, Eric had decided to get my attention. He had found a HUGE sheet of paper. Rolled it up into a long tube. Flattened it out until it would fit through the crack in the wall. Stuck it through the crack until there was about two foot sticking out on MY side... And was WAVING IT UP AND DOWN!!! LIKE A HUGE, NARROW WHITE FLAG!!!

Uh Oh!!!

Mr. Herndon had this quirky habit. He was left handed, so he would snap the left thumb and forefinger then make a fist and smack the heel of his left hand into his right palm. Over and over, while he was lecturing.

Here he came, slowly down the aisle between the desks, snapping his fingers and smacking his palm.... He walked right back to the corner where I sat, reached above my head, grabbed the still waving paper banner, and jerked it all the way through the crack and right out of Eric's hand!!

Then... He just stood there... Wadding up the paper... Staring at me with his black beady eyes... Not smiling... His mustache twitching... "Mr. Riggs! Get your desk and move it right up in front of my desk. It seems I need to keep an eye on you."

I moved my desk to the "honored" place, right in front of his desk. The front of my desk was actually touching the front of Mr. Herndon's desk!!

Almost immediately, he went next door and informed the 7th grade teacher of our covert activity... And guess what? Eric also had the honor of being moved to the head of the class!!

We didn't receive any other punishment, but the humiliation was enough.

The school year ended. I attended West Plains Junior High my 7th grade year. But I have never forgotten the rush of excitement, the thrill of danger, the humiliation of discovery, in the undercover case of: "The Crack At The End Of The Wall"...

*Franklin W Dixon, "author" of the Hardy Boys Books, was actually a pseudonym for Edward Stratemeyer the original creator of the series.

The Day That Dad Popped A Wheelie

In my "growin' up years", bicycles were the preferred mode of transportation. No Skateboards or Scooters for us! Besides the fact that we lived on a DIRT ROAD, which was not commodious to skateboard or scooter riding; there was a certain manly stigma associated with riding a bike.

I was still in the "slightly less manly" tricycle stage when we lived on the farm at County Line. My older brother Ralph, however, had already graduated from "Tri" to "Bi" so Dad and Mom purchased him a brand spankin' new Bike!

If I remember correctly, it was a hot, muggy summer evening, when Dad decided to "strut his stuff'. Ralph had been riding around the back yard at the farm house for a while, when Dad posed him the question... "Ralph, can you pop a wheelie??"

Now... Knowing my brother like I do, I would say that "wheelie popping" had already been attempted. And I am also sure that he attempted to perform the feat for Dad.

It must have fallen way short of Dad's expectations. Because the next thing out of his mouth was "Here. Let me show you how to do that!"

So... My Dad climbs on the bike.

You know how, when you're young, everybody is old? At this time, in the late 1960's, my Dad was old. At least in his middle thirties. I had never seen my Dad on a bicycle... And I don't believe I ever saw him on one again...

Dad sashayed around the yard while Ralph and I watched with anticipation for the big wheelie. I think Mom was just watching with with a sense of foreboding...

On one of his trips around the yard, Dad must have figured that it was Show Time! He pulled up on the handle bars of the bike, pulled the front wheel off the ground and Popped A Wheelie!

....Only the "Wheelie" kept "Popping"! The front wheel kept coming up, up, up... Until Dad slid off the back of the banana seat and hit the ground, Ker Thud! Right on his Bohunkus!!

Now Ralph and I knew better than to laugh. But Mom had no such inhibitions. While she was running over to see how badly Dad was hurt, she was laughing, snorting, giggling and trying to act concerned, all at the same time! Ever been there?!?

After we found out that the only thing really damaged was Dad's pride, we all had a good laugh!

In the next few days, a patch of dead grass appeared in the yard... In close proximity to where my Dad performed his one and only bicycle exhibition. Now I'm sure it had nothing to with my Dad's derriere hitting the terra firma with the force of bunker buster bomb...

But it was forever a reminder to our family, of "The Day That Dad Popped A Wheelie"!!!

*I'm pretty sure that the bike Ralph is riding in the picture above, is the one that Dad popped his wheelie on. And...this picture is taken at the Conklin House, at Junction Hill, in the summer of 1969.

Ivory Soap Memories

I've been having some sort of irritation in my eyes. I wash them out with my regular soap, Irish Spring, and everything is fine for a little while. Then, it starts to feel like I have something in my eyes. The best I can explain it is this... It feels like morning "eye boogers" but you can't rub them out. Sometimes (Gross Alert!!) I can even wipe white sticky "boogers" from my eyes... The other symptom is that direct sunlight seems to make it worse.

I decided to try a new kind of soap.

So... I went to Wally World and bought a three-pack of Ivory Soap. When I opened the soap up this morning to begin my face wash, Tami happened to be in the room. So I stuck the bar out to her and said "Here. Smell this and tell me what it reminds you of."

She took a whiff of the Ivory Soap bar and then said "At school...."

I interrupted with "EXACTLY!!!  It reminds me of School!" More particularly, it reminds me of art classes when I went to the Junction Hill Elementary School.

It seems like every year, we had an art class that included carving "something" out of a bar of Ivory Soap. The teacher would announce that we needed to bring a bar of Ivory Soap to school for an art project.

Our family used Zest...

Zest would not work Dove wouldn't either. Even "Clean As A Whistle" Irish Spring would not work. It had to be Ivory!

So the bar of Ivory Soap would be procured, taken to school and readied for the future Michelangelo's to sculpt. As I am typing this, I am wondering... Did they let us use knives to carve with?? Third and fourth boys with sharp knives? I'm lucky to still have my fingers! My old school friends are lucky to still have their fingers. And other appendages...

Every one of us started out with confidence and a determination to carve the best "whatever" that anyone had ever seen. A Turtle? A Dog? A Fish? The best I can recollect, the teacher had only a few patterns and we had to choose one of them. Otherwise, some smart alack like me would have tried to carve the Statue of Liberty or The Eiffel Tower.

As it turned out, I would start carving... Let's just say a turtle. After working on it for a few class periods, I would despair of caving anything remotely resembling a turtle and try to convert it into a fish... or a snail... or an egg... My high hopes would descend into low expectations.

What I usually ended up with was something that faintly resembled Quasimodo... with no teeth, missing an arm, both legs and an ear, complete with the wart over his left eye...

How did the teacher keep a straight face when she complimented us on our masterpieces? And not break out in hysterical laughter??

I do know this; when I stuck that bar of Ivory Soap up to my nose, and breathed in... I was transported back to a simpler, uncluttered little world of good memories....

You can read more about Ivory Soap Here

"I Have A Dream"

Our beautiful "Heart of the Ozarks" was not always the laid back, friendly, peaceful place that it is today. During the Civil War (or the War of Northern Aggression... depending on what side of the Mason-Dixon you were on) our area of the Ozarks was basically deserted. It became a violent battleground of Union and Southern sympathizers, with brother against brother, neighbor against neighbor and family against family. This resulted in guerrilla bands burning the courthouse and most of the buildings in West Plains and causing the residents to pack and flee north or south, depending on their ideological leanings. I have heard the arguments that this war "was not about freeing the slaves!" And I would agree, that it was not fought totally over that issue. But the Emancipation Proclamation and the slaves being freed at the end of the conflict tell me, that it was not an insignificant, little happenstance at the end of a bloody five-year war.

I was born four months after Dr. Martin Luther King gave his famous "I Have a Dream" speech at the "March on Washington" on August 23rd, 1963. I was a child during the civil rights upheaval of the sixties and early seventies and it seemed far away and unimportant in my "world." Most of the black people in our town were well respected, hard working people like the white folks... with a few bad apples... just like the white folks. However, the people of color all lived on the "Hill", had their own church and their own cemetery.

I do remember the "N" word being used in jokes in my elementary and high school - although there were no black children in my elementary school and only two in my high school. I am deeply ashamed to admit that I also joined in on some of this talk but I couldn't have told you the names of more than than three or four black people.

When I consider the presence of racial prejudice in the West Plains of today, I am really clueless. I still do not have a lot of contact with the people of color in our town. I have a couple of friends I swap howdys with when I meet them but no close relationship with them. Our West Plains college campus has increased the number of African Americans and other people of color in our city, but again, I have no real contact with them. Maybe I should work on that?!?

This brings me to the real purpose of my post. When Dr. King gave his "I Have A Dream" speech; I'm sure, in a small way, he had this in mind... An annual tradition of my great niece, Claire Riggs.

Every Memorial Day for years, even decades, our family has went to the family cemetery plots and decorated the graves of our ancestors. For many years, (at least the years she has been aware of the significance of it), Claire has decorated the grave of Aunt Mime, in Ledbetter Cemetery near Crider, Missouri.

Aunt Mime's Gravestone

Why is this so significant?

Aunt Mime was a former colored slave.

Sometime around the 1850's, Turpin Goode Scoggin* moved from North Carolina, into the Ozarks near the settlement of South Fork. In addition to his family, he brought with him, two female slaves. In the years that followed, according to certain accounts, one of the slaves "became unruly" so he set her free. This left her homeless so she had to find someone that would take her in. Scoggin had family near Crider, Missouri, so one of these kind-hearted souls took her in. She established her place in the household and became "Aunt Mime". From my recollection of comments of people that knew her, (such as my Grandma Fox) she was a kind, sweet lady and not "unruly" at all. 

Considering that Aunt Mime passed away in 1921 and was set free in the late 1850's, she lived quite a long life! Even in death though, she never gained the status of "all men are created equal". They buried Aunt Mime in the southwest corner of Ledbetter Cemetery, away from all the "white folks", and marked her grave with a large rock. An unceremonious end for a life of labor, heartache and trouble. In later years, a small granite stone replaced the rock with the words, "Aunt Mime - Died August 1921

This story of "Aunt Mime", I have heard since my childhood. This was the story, in the fine oral tradition, that was repeated to Claire. It touched her heart and made her want to "do something" for Aunt Mime. So every year, at Memorial Day, Aunt Mime gets flowers on her grave. Some ninety-odd years after her death, she is remembered and mourned by a "white" young lady.

It just may be that Dr. King's "Dream" is coming to pass. Not with marches, protests and riots. But with the telling of a story that touches the tender heart of the younger generation...

Claire Riggs at Aunt Mime's grave

Claire Riggs and "Pawpaw" Ralph Riggs decorating Aunt Mime's grave. You can see how isolated it is, in the far corner of the cemetery (although there is a new grave nearby)

*As an aside - Turpin Goode Scoggin was appointed the first County Surveyor of Howell County in 1859.

Folks I Have Met - Rev. & Mrs. James Suits

Some folks have been around for quite a while but for some reason, our paths never crossed... until fairly recently. Two such people are Rev. and Mrs. James (Jim) Suits. Brother Suits has been preaching many years but it is only in the past ten to fifteen years that I have been able to become acquainted with them. Where have they been all my life?!?

My wife Tami,  remembers Brother Suits preaching youth camps and special meetings when she was a teenager. I have heard the name "Brother Suits" all of my life but the opportunity never arose to meet him or Sister Suits.

I have had that opportunity for a few years now and whenever I can, I go to be in their presence. They are two of the most down to earth people you will ever meet. Their singing, his preaching, the humble spirit they possess and present, is truly refreshing.

Recently, when the Suits were in revival meeting at the Hilltop Holiness Church in Willow Springs, Missouri, I was able to attend and took this picture.

Shoulda Been An Ophthalmologist

My friend and fellow professional, Dr. Richard Elgin, has written a book. A memoir of his "hitch" in the Army. The title of the book, "Shoulda Played The Flute", speaks to a choice that Dick was given; Fly helicopters in Vietnam or play the flute in the Fort Polk Army Band. I believe the title speaks for itself.

I have stated that my Dad, Leamon H. Riggs, was a "Jack of all trades, and Master of most of them". Whatever he put his hand to, he usually was successful at. So... Since Ralph and I were accomplices in most of these endeavors, it just follows that we could have turned out to be most anything! A carpenter, a real estate agent, a tax preparer, an auctioneer (I think I still have the training records), an auction clerk, maybe a "horse trader". He ran a successful "Moving and Storage" business and a "Second Hand" store. He bought, repaired and sold tractors and farm equipment, built and sold trailers and various other kinds of mechanic work. By working with my Dad, I acquired a myriad of skills, that have stood me in good stead throughout my life.

We had a shop full of tools. Wrenches (box-end, open-end and pipe), screwdrivers (straight and phillips), sockets (standard - no metric), hacksaws, hammers, mauls, a welder and... a cutting torch. For the mechanically challenged, this is a "cliff-notes" explanation of how a cutting torch works. The handle, like the one in the picture above is connected to bottles of Acetylene Gas and Oxygen by two hoses with knobs to control the amount of Acetylene and oxygen delivered to the torch tip. The Acetylene is ignited at the tip by a striker (sparks) and then oxygen is slowly introduced to make a blue/white flame at the tip. This flame is held to a piece of thick metal you want to "cut" and will heat the spot where you want to start the cut. When the "spot" is red hot, a lever on the torch handle is pressed which introduces a rush of oxygen at the tip, which superheats the "spot" and basically melts the metal and blows it away. You keep the oxygen lever pressed and as you move along the line you want to cut, it continues to superheat and blow the metal away in a line approximately 1/8" to 1/4" wide. Pretty neat huh?!? I watched my Dad do this hundreds of times and observed how he adjusted the knobs, heated the metal, when he pressed the lever... And... the very first time I ever picked up the torch, I knew what to do and did a decent job of it!

The job of metal cutting was not without its hazards. Dad wore safety goggles and leather gloves but with superhot pieces of molten metal (we called it slag) being blown around, things were bound to happen. Such as... One day a piece of slag fell into my Dad's open (Andy Griffith style) boot top. Wowser! That was ONE time I saw my Dad get excited!

I have never really figured out how it happened but one day, Dad had a serious encounter with some slag. As he was cutting, something got in his eye.

What followed is not a mystery - I was there...

Dad worked around for a while with his eye watering and hurting. I guess he figured that eventually, whatever it was would just wash out. He would pull out his hanky, wipe the tears out and try to keep working.

Finally, he had had enough. "Ray, I've got to get whatever this is, out of my eye."

My thought was "Good, good! Let's go to old Doc Hayes and git'er'dun!"

That's not what Dad had in mind...

He pulled an old chair out of the shop into the sunshine and sat down in it. Then he leaned his head back, held the affected eye open with his fingers, and said... "See if you can tell what it is in my eye."

In the bright sunlight I examined his eyeball and in a few seconds, I saw the problem. As he was using the cutting torch, a small piece of the slag got behind the safety goggles, burned onto and stuck to his EYEBALL! Dad ALWAYS wore the safety goggles so to this day, it is a mystery how this happened.

I told Dad what the problem was and I'm thinking "For sure now, we are going to the doctor." Didn't happen...

Dad merely reached into his pocket, pulled out his Case pocket knife with the razor sharp blades, handed it to me, and said... "Get that off of my eye."

Shoulda Been An Ophthalmologist.....

My Dad was not mean and even though he would get frustrated at us boys, I never heard him raise his voice. He was stern, somewhat taciturn but could and did find humor in life.

But... It never crossed my mind to refuse to do what he told me to do.

With trembling hands, I opened the long, sharp blade on his pocket knife.

With the fingers on my left hand, I held the eyelids back from his eyeball, exposing the tiny piece of slag burned onto the eyeball.

I forced my right hand with the knife to be steady...

And carefully scraped the offending little piece of slag off of Dad's eyeball....

In a few seconds, Dad sat up, blinked his eye a few times, wiped the tears out of the eye with his hanky and said "Well, I think you got it. Now we can go back to work."

Shoulda Been An Ophthalmologist.....

I have told this story numerous times and it still seems almost unbelievable. My Dad basically entrusted the eyesight in one of his eyes to a gangly, pimply, immature teenager! However, as I look back at it through the lens of thirty-five plus years, I realize that Dad had more confidence in me than I had in myself and he knew me better than I knew myself...

Ralph lost the key to the lock on his storage unit so he used Dad's old cutting torch to cut the lock off! (I just noticed his "Andy Griffith" boot style!!)