Do a Good Turn Daily

“Do a Good Turn Daily.”  The Girl Scouts of America slogan seems quite appropriate for such a vaunted organization.  Juliette Gordon Low, or as her friends called her, Daisy, founded the Girl Scouts in the year 1912.  She envisioned an association dedicated to the growth of young girls and over the years the scout’s numbers steadily grew.

Juliette Gordon Low declared that the mission of the Girl Scouts would be to “build girls of courage, confidence, and character, who make the world a better place.”  However, Daisy had no way of knowing, and could never have envisioned that three beautiful young Girl Scouts would never have the opportunity to make this world a better place.  In 1977 those three Girl Scouts were murdered.

How extraordinarily odd, camp counselor Michelle Hoffman thought.  Upon returning to her tent she discovered that her belongings were strewn about the inside of the canvass enclosure.  Hoffman further found that the contents of a box of donuts had been taken and there inside the box was a scrap of paper.

Unsure of the paper’s purpose she unfolded it and written on it was a message.  “We are on a mission to kill three girls in tent one.”  Hoffman immediately searched for and found the camp director.  Hoffman explained her findings inside her tent and handed the note to the director.  She, in turn, told Hoffman that it was obviously a prank, and the note was discarded.

Everything seemed to be just like any other night as the black comforter of darkness covered the Oklahoma landscape in the early morning hours of June 13^th.  The Girl Scouts were in their tents at Camp Scott in Mayes County, Oklahoma and it seemed as though tranquility and weariness had crept into the minds and bodies of the young girls.

But there was something in the air that night, and it was death.  And yes, there were those screams, those terrible screams coming from a tent somewhere in the Kiowa Unit which were heard at around 2:00 a.m.;  the bone-chilling screams that were reported to camp counselors.  But much like the threatening note found two months earlier, this too was discounted as unimportant.  After all, the earlier 11:00 p.m. bed check found nothing out of the ordinary.  All the girls were safely tucked into their sleeping bags.

Tent #7 was a four-person tent but only three girls were assigned to sleep there.  Doris Denise Milner, 10, Michele Guse, 9, and Lori Lee Farmer, 8 were carefree innocent young girls and so very proud to be Girl Scouts.  Each of the girls was so looking forward to the camping adventure.  Sadly, none of the girls from Oklahoma would awaken to the morning Sun.

The morning of June 13^th arrived and all the Girl Scouts were excited as they prepared to assemble for the morning roll call.  That is all save three.  One of the camp counselors walked leisurely amidst the tents on her way to the shower.  It was nearly 6:00 a.m. when she noticed a sleeping bag that was curiously out of place.

The sleeping bag was lying in a stand of trees located slightly outside the area where the tents were located.  As the counselor moved closer to the sleeping bag she saw something that chilled her to the bone.  There in the bag was the lifeless body of a young girl, no doubt one of the Girl Scouts.

A frantic search of all the tents led to the discovery that all three campers from tent #7 were unaccounted for.  The ensuing search for the missing girls soon resulted in a gruesome discovery.  The other two girl’s bodies were found not far from the location where the first girl’s remains were found.  According to Camp Administrator Barbara Day, the bodies of those two girls were found inside yet another sleeping bag.

It was apparent that the girls had been appallingly beaten, beaten so savagely that the three were unrecognizable.  Subsequent tests would reveal that two had also been raped.  How could this have happened?  Who raped and murdered those sweet young girls?  The sheriff’s department was immediately notified.

The investigation into the murders began and the feelings of shock and sadness that once filled the minds and hearts of those who looked upon the lifeless forms was soon replaced with anger and hatred.  The monster that killed those girls must be found and punished and there was hope that the discovery of several things having evidentiary value found at the crime scene would help.

A partial latent fingerprint was found on the lens of a large red flashlight.  The flashlight itself was discovered lying on the body of one of the girls.  On the blood-washed floor of tent #7 was found a size nine and one-half shoeprint.  A local property owner stated that between 2:30 a.m. and 3:00 a.m., he heard what he referred to as “quite a bit of traffic” on a sparsely traveled road near the camp.

The Oklahoma State Bureau of Investigation joined the Mayes County Sheriff’s Department in the investigation and a representative was quoted as saying, “apparently from viewing the scene and the bodies the little girls were beaten to death.”

Mayes County Sheriff Pete Weaver couldn’t hide his emotions when issuing his statement.  It makes me pretty bitter, very bitter.  “I feel like the investigation will bring results.  I just don’t think we have that many nuts in this area.

‘I don’t think he, the murderer, was being selective of the girls.  I think he was being selective of the tent.  It was an end tent and the closest one was fifty to seventy-five feet away.”

For days following the gruesome discovery law enforcement officers combed the area for clues and a suspect.  Every shack, barn, and house was searched, and then, and quite expectantly, they got a break.  The search of a nearby cave and the discovery of items inside that may have come from the camp ultimately led to the identification of a suspect.  That man was Gene Leroy Hart.

Hart was thirty-three years old.  He had previously been convicted of burglary and rape and had four years ago escaped from prison and the Mayes County Jail.  The search for Hart began and finally, after ten months, Gene Leroy Hart was arrested in a remote shack some fifty miles from the site of the murders.

Judge William J. Whistler presided over the turbulent trial and each day reporters from all over packed the courtroom and grounds outside the courthouse.  Hart’s attorney, Garvin Isaacs, continued to state publicly that his client was innocent.  There were innuendos that some of the, so called, evidence had been tampered with while other pieces of evidence may have actually been fabricated.

Somewhat surprisingly, Hart garnered quite a bit of support and many felt he was, in fact, innocent.  Law enforcement had to admit that they had no physical evidence proving that Hart was the murderer.  The lone fingerprint was too smudged to be useful and as for the size nine and one-half shoeprint.  Well, Hart did not wear that size shoe.

On March 20, 1979, the jury announced to the judge that they had reached a unanimously agreed-upon verdict.  Much to the dismay and even anger of many in attendance the jury announced that their verdict was, not guilty.

However, Gene Leroy Hart was not a free man.  Following the jury’s decision the prosecutor, in an attempt to console family members of the girls, reminded them that Hart would be going to prison to finish out his previous sentence.  Hart was to serve more than three hundred years.

Years later a DNA test was performed to determine if in fact Hart was the killer.  Blood, semen, and hair samples found at the crime scene were analyzed and it was hoped that the results would leave no doubt that Hart was the murderer.  The tests, however, found that although it was very likely he murdered the girls the findings could not unequivocally identify him.

Gene Leroy Hart did not spend three hundred years in prison.  He died three months after his not-guilty verdict.  Some say he was the victim of poisoning but the official cause of death stated that he succumbed to a heart attack.

Michele Guse’s father, Richard later helped pass the state’s “Victims’ Bill of Rights” legislation while Lori Lee Farmer’s mother Sheri, founded the Oklahoma chapter of “Parents of Murdered Children.”

Any thoughts of a restful night’s sleep for the parents of the three murdered girls vanished following their deaths.  They found that they were awakened by the terrible thoughts of the fear and pain the three must have endured.

Restful sleep also evaded many of the Girl Scouts who were lucky enough to have survived that dreadful night.  They too were awakened from their slumber as the nightmarish memories of those terrible screams that rang out in that dark Oklahoma night plucked them from their sleep.

The Fabulous Ginger Blue

It happens every year.  When the trees are filled with leaves, the meadows covered with green grass, and the Sun shines longer in the sky the tourists flock to McDonald County, Missouri.  The area of the state known as the Ozarks offers city dwellers a place to camp, float on the warm waters of Elk River, and just plain enjoy the relaxation that only nature’s great outdoors can provide.

Those wishing to camp by the river can be found at one of several great venues.  Kozy Kamp, River Ranch, Wayside, Shady Beach, and others offer campsites and easy access to Elk River.  A view of the gently flowing water on any weekend in the summer is a sight to behold.  The water is home to thousands of swimmers and folks floating in kayaks, canoes, and rafts.

I swear, there are some hot steamy late afternoons in the month of July when one might traverse the waters of Elk River stepping only on various forms of flotation devices and never once get their feet wet.  Well, that claim might be a little exaggerated but not by much.

However, if memory serves, some years back there was another venue that tourists loved to visit.  It was in the year 1915 that a resort was built alongside Elk River.  The location for the new tourist venue was about halfway between the McDonald County, Missouri towns of Anderson and Noel.

The idea for the tourist venue was the brainchild of Charles O. Williams.  Williams made a vast amount of money working in the railroad industry and he was a bit of an entrepreneur.  Williams’ idea was to offer a place for city folks to relax, and as he so succinctly put it, “return to nature.”

When considering the name for the new resort Williams settled on the name of a Native American, Ginger Blue.  Ginger Blue was a chief who, in the 1700s, lived in the Ozark area of Southwest Missouri.  As far as Williams was concerned the name fit perfectly with the concept of the resort.

But who were these people looking for relaxation and where would they come from?  Furthermore, how would those seeking a vacation in the Ozarks get to the Ginger Blue resort?  It was the information possessed by Williams regarding that last question that assured him that his venture would be successful.

As a former railroad executive, Williams was fully aware of the plans to expand the tracks of the railroad throughout the southwest portion of Missouri.  He knew that the railroad could transport tourists to Anderson, Lanagan, Noel, and yes, to Ginger Blue.

The resort lodge was completed near the banks of Elk River and by 1920 anxious tourists from places like Wichita, Kansas City, and Tulsa sat inside train cars carrying them to Ginger Blue.  As the travelers traveled along the tracks they perused brochures that enticed them to make the journey.

There were the tours of local caves, the healing powers of the two Sulphur wells that adjoined the grounds, and of course the warm slow-moving waters of the river.  Following a delicious meal at the lodge’s dining room, the whole family could walk to the river and cool off as the afternoons soon transitioned into cool evenings.

If one was so inclined, visitors were encouraged to bring with them their fishing rods and tackle.  The chances of removing a large catfish or bass from the waters of Elk River were excellent.

Usually, the arrival of the Memorial Day weekend and the beginning of June signaled the start of a busy tourist season for the area campsites and Ginger Blue.  Canoes had been repaired, the brush removed from the river gravel-covered campsites and Ginger Blue was ready to put its best foot forward.

Some years passed and ownership of the resort changed hands.  The former manager and new owner, Carl Corkins had great plans for Ginger Blue.  The new owner enlarged the venue and thousands of dollars were invested in renovations which would surely not go unnoticed or unappreciated by visitors.

The 130 acres of property were manicured and the forty rooms in the lodge were cleaned and painted.  The linens in the cottages that surrounded the lodge were washed or replaced and all-in-all, the resort was ready for the influx of summer tourists.

Not to be overlooked was the offering of evening entertainment.  Following the consumption of a well-prepared dinner guests could lounge comfortably outside the resort and watch the water as it made its way past the lodge or dance.  That’s right, live orchestras played in the open-air pavilion four nights a week.

In 1923 and as the month of May was coming to an end, Mr. Corkins made his yearly announcement.  It was something that was done every year but this year the event he described would be, at least to his way of thinking, monumental.

The formal opening of the Ginger Blue resort would be held on June 2^nd and 3^rd.  That’s right, the event, the extravaganza, was so tremendous that year that it would encompass not just one, but two days.  Reservations were made and rooms were booked.

The event would officially begin and 7:00 P.M. on the evening of the 2^nd.  A banquet was to be held in the dining room where a delicious meal would be enjoyed by all.  Following the meal, several well-known speakers would entertain the attendees with stories and humorous anecdotes.

Then, and after everyone had a chance to let their meals settle, there would be dancing.  A live orchestra would fill the night air with beautiful music offering a chance for couples to trip the light fantastic as they gracefully moved across the dance floor until the evening finally came to an end.

Over the years, thousands of visitors stayed at the resort and many friends were welcomed year after year.  It seemed that the lodge, the beautiful grounds, and the river found favor in the hearts of those looking for a place to get away from their big city life.

After a time, the desires of vacationers seemed to change and following the passing of Memorial Day there were empty rooms.  Fewer meals were prepared and the orchestra ceased to play.  The life of the resort ultimately came to an end when in July of 2003 a fire burned the lodge to the ground.

Over the past several years the Inn in Ginger Blue reopened and it is rumored that there may be plans to rebuild the lodge.  For now, the sixty-one or so folks living in Ginger Blue can only remember that which once adorned the banks of the Elk River, the fabulous Ginger Blue Resort.

A Beautiful Forty-Five Years

Is the glass half empty or half full?  There’s little doubt that two people looking at the glass see the same volume of water.  However, describing the proportion of the glass occupied by the liquid varies based on the way in which each person views the image; one with a positive nature and one with a more negative disposition.  At least that’s what I’ve been told.

There is little or no doubt that for most of my life, I have been a glass-half-empty person.  I don’t have an explanation for that character trait but since I’m trying to be completely honest there’s just no denying it.  As I think about that admission I’m not convinced the part of my nature mentioned is necessarily bad, it’s just the way it was and still is.

As I sit considering the matter I wonder if I can change the way I look at things.  You know, at least look at things differently going forward.  Then I might also consider another possibility.  As I reflect back on my life and those I knew is it possible to remember the events, my life, and those people who are now only living in my memory, in a different light?

Although my memory isn’t what it used to be, I recall in great detail a lot of the years I spent married to my now-deceased wife, Robin.  She was such a good-hearted person and I often wonder why she put up with me.  I remember the first years of our marriage as if they were only yesterday.

We started our lives together in that small one-bedroom apartment.  There was barely enough room to turn around but we thought we had the world by the tail.  She loved to cook and although money was tight Robin always made something special for dinner on Friday nights.

When I had the flu she made chicken noodle soup, brought me juice, and took my temperature.  I never said “thanks,” but I should have.  Robin often asked how I was feeling and a more considerate and caring wife I could never have asked for.

Robin was a loving mother and was always willing to compromise her well-being for that of our two sons, David and Rob.  She spent her spare time not with friends but at our son’s sporting events.  I remember her shouts and cheers when one of the boys caught the ball or scored a goal.

I awoke each morning not knowing what the new day had in store for me but I was sure of one thing.  My wife would be there beside me and whatever life might throw at me we would face it together.  There were those who found my esoteric nature perplexing but Robin knew me all too well.  She knew the real me. 

When the dark of night pushed the Sun from the sky Robin and I were together.  We talked about the day that was soon to be only a memory and we laughed about the things that then somehow seemed so trivial.  I truly believe that Robin taught me how to laugh at problems that earlier seemed so insurmountable.

We stood atop the Maine lighthouse and gazed at the night sky and the millions of points of light that decorated that vast blackened canvas.  Robin and I walked on the Florida beach and stood looking out across what seemed an endless body of water.  We held hands as the cool wind passed over the waves and washed our faces.

I laid next to her in bed each night and on those cold winter nights laughed when she winced and asked why my feet were so cold.  Her concerns only encouraged me to further warm them against her until we both fell asleep.

There was the time when she broke what she thought was my favorite lamp.  Afraid I would be mad, she painstakingly glued the pieces together and returned it to the sofa table.  I eventually noticed the restored lamp but I wasn’t angry.  In fact, I laughed about it when I heard how difficult the mending job was.  Robin never lived that botched restoration down and when she broke something I reminded her of her painful lack of rebuilding skills.

Robin loved to work in the garden and I remember the beautiful colors of the blossoms she nurtured and the sweet fragrance of the florae.  On late spring days, the scent of her garden was carried by the breeze and fell onto me as I left the house.  I remember that well.

After moving to Noel, my wife and I took long walks in the evening.  We walked along the path nestled between the pastures and hills and talked.  Robin talked about the beautiful hilltops and the Sun that eventually fell into the tops of the trees.

She loved the sight of the cows grazing in the fields and was especially fond of the calves.  She smiled as she watched them run as they tried to catch up to their mothers.  When there was little more than a strand of barbed wire separating the calves from her she talked to the babies.  They watched her with enormous curiosity.  Robin quickly adapted to our new life in Noel and she loved it.

For four and one-half decades there was more happiness than sadness and more laughter than pain.  I guess when I stop and calculate those years together and try to find a measure by which that time can be evaluated those two standards are just fine.  There were far more good times than bad.

Robin’s unbridled optimism and zest for life lifted me up when I was down.  The light in her eyes gave me the courage to carry on when I could see no hope.  There was always the knowledge that a better day lay ahead and the light of love that only a man and wife can share was never extinguished.

When I think back about those years spent with Robin I can’t help but wish there were more than forty-five.  I guess that’s only natural but I realize that is the old glass half empty me.  So, when I look at those years differently I am so very grateful that I had the pleasure of spending those wonderful forty-five years with her.

The recollection of those beautiful years lives in my memory and in my heart. The glass is now half full.

Hog Wild

Now, William Drake didn’t actually own the patch of McDonald County, Missouri ground.  The property’s owner, John Whittaker, allowed him to plant and harvest the corn grown in the rich soil and Drake benefited from the proceeds.  This tale of Drake’s dilemma and his solution was not originally told by Drake himself.

As a matter of fact, it was Whitaker who first brought this story to light when he produced something not seen in many years.  But wait, I’m getting slightly ahead of myself.  Let me start at the beginning.

Farmers are, and were years ago, cursed with all manner of problems.  There are those torrential spring rains that can wash away their crops and in the summer months, the lack of water falling from the clouds can bake what the farmers have planted.  The insects can devour what may look like a promising yield while there are any number of other perils associated with farming life.

In 1926 a McDonald County, Missouri farmer knew something had to be done.  William Drake lived three miles from the county seat of Pineville and, as any good farmer would do, had learned to deal with the floods, droughts, and insect infestations but there was something going on in a field of corn that puzzled him.  Something, some animal, living in the Sugar Creek Hill’s woods that overlooked the pasture was digging up his corn.

Granted, the soil itself didn’t belong to Drake but the corn that grew there sure enough did.  The planter of the corn gave considerable thought to the problem and all remedies were given substantial reflection.  Drake thought the problem might be an isolated one but the damage to the corn persisted.  Day after day remnants of the once healthy stalks of corn were found scattered throughout the field.

There came a day in the third week of October when Drake made a decision.  As he stood in the field looking at the mess that the yet unidentified animal had caused to a source of his family’s livelihood he made up his mind.  He could no longer abide the malicious destruction and whatever that creature, that varmint, was he needed to shorten its life.  And he needed to do it right then and there.

Now William Drake wasn’t by nature an especially ornery or ill-tempered person.  In fact he was considered quite affable, but dad gummit, he’d had enough.  Welling up inside Drake was the burning resolve to hunt down and kill that which angered him so, and he would show no mercy.  He was, to put it mildly, fit to be tied.  The only thing needed was the tool required to kill the menace.

Drake opened the closet door and there in the corner, behind the jackets, shirts, and coveralls was the device needed to kill the bothersome animal.  He reached for and grasped his Winchester model 12, twelve gauge pump shotgun.  Whittaker slid the forearm back and looked into the weapon’s receiver making sure it was not loaded. Then, from the shelf in that same closet, he took a box of shotgun shells in hand.  Possessing the items needed to kill the thing, he needed only to find it.

On a crisp October Thursday morning, Drake took to the woods.  He didn’t know how long it would take to find the animal but it didn’t matter.  He was determined.  With shotgun loaded and at the ready he walked through the woods of Big Sugar Valley.  Suddenly there was a sound and as his eyes moved to locate the source he saw it.

There it was; the wild hog that had angered Drake so was no more than twenty feet away.  The huge hog was eating acorns and it didn’t appear that the animal was aware of his presence in those woods so wasting no time he aimed the shotgun at the animal and pulled the trigger.

The blast was deafening as the twelve gauge shotgun spit the #4 pellets from the barrel of Drake’s gun.  The wooden stock of the weapon pounded against his shoulder and the recoil rocked Drake backwards.  Believing his aim to be true, he didn’t immediately fire a second shot.  He waited a second or so for the animal to fall to the ground, but the hog did not fall.

The hog was then certainly aware of Drake’s presence and charged the hunter.  Drake once again squeezed the shotgun’s trigger.  He was sure that the hog was hit that time but it did little or nothing to deter the angered animal.  The hog continued to quickly move towards Drake and was then no more than ten feet away.

Quickly, Drake aimed the gun’s barrel at the hog and once more, and for the third time, fired.  The animal slowed and Drake was certain that he had severely, if not mortally wounded the hog.  The animal’s movement slowed but did not stop.

Drake knew he needed to finish off the hog before it reached him.  He then dropped his shotgun and as it fell to the ground he reached for his hunting knife.  Drake removed the blade from its sheath and with one hand grabbed the hog.  With the other hand, and holding the knife he began to stab the wounded animal.

Drake stabbed the hog several times before it became lifeless and lay quietly on the leaf-scattered ground.  The wild hog, lying there in its own spent blood, was certainly dead and no longer a threat.  Drake was exhausted and with hands on his knees he bent over the dead animal to further examine his kill, and to catch his breath.  The hunt for the destroyer of his corn was over.

Whittaker waved to a couple of his friends as they stood on the Pineville town square.  One of the acquaintances asked a rather ordinary question.  “What’s new?”  Well sir, that’s all the prompting John Whittaker needed.  He reached into the pocket of his overalls and brought out something quite unexpected, the tusk of a wild hog.

All the men had to not only look at it but Whittaker’s buddies had to touch and hold it.  Then, and ever so predictable, came the question that Whittaker was waiting for; the question that he was hoping for.  “How did you get it?”  “Well, let me tell you the story about how I got this here tusk.”  Then, Whittaker began to tell the story of William Drake and the wild hog.

When the story reached its conclusion one of the listeners asked what became of the carcass.  Whittaker answered.  “The meat on that old hog was as tough after he died as it was when he was alive.”

A Passion for Their Crafts

Some men have what one might call an inherent passion for their work.  Maybe it’s that desire to create and express one’s innermost feelings that drives those folks.  A cabinet maker must make each and every joint perfect while the composer of music must find that each note fits perfectly in the composition.

Such was the case with two McDonald County, Missouri residents, Henry McKee, and Sheriff L.R. Smith.  In the mid-1920’s McKee owned some Ozark land near the Whittenburg School House.  It was a remote area of the county even by Ozark standards, yet McKee found the setting to be the perfect venue to practice his craft.  You see, Henry McKee was, pure and simple, a moonshiner.

Now McDonald County’s chief law enforcement officer, Sheriff L. R. Smith, also took great pride in his work, his craft if you will.  The sheriff, along with his cohorts, deputies Cecil Price, and W. G. Lee found great satisfaction in apprehending lawbreakers, especially those who chose to concoct the illegal moonshine brew.  Smith also found great delight when he was able to locate and arrest the lawbreakers before the federal revenuers took a hand in the matter.

Saturday, the 19^th day of December of 1925 was a cold, blustery day in McDonald County.  Most of the folks living in the rural Southwest Missouri area were thinking about Christmas and cutting enough wood to stay warm.  However, there were some whose thoughts turned to other matters, matters such as moonshine.

Henry McKee had a still out there in the deep woods somewhere and Sheriff Smith wanted to find it.  So, when a tip, a whisper in his ear, was passed on to him about the location of McKee’s still he wasted no time in making plans to find it.  Smith gathered up his deputies, Price, and Lee, and the three drove away from the Pineville, Missouri Sheriff’s office.

The informant hadn’t personally seen the still, but he learned, through conversations overheard, that it was west of Caverna and south of White Rock.  The moonshining operation was located at the head of a canyon.  Now Smith was somewhat familiar with the area described and knew about where that canyon was located.

The sheriff’s car was parked a short distance from the place described to Smith and the three peace officers, with weapons at the ready, walked as quietly as possible through the densely wooded hills.  When the site of the still came into view the three saw a blazing fire.

The fire heated the mash and steam that flowed through copper pipes was produced.  That steam went into a large condenser and after all was said and done, and if everything worked as it should, Moonshine flowed from a tube and into waiting containers.

The sheriff’s posse stopped to get a better look at the operation and decided that only three men were involved in cooking the brew.  Smith decided to make his presence known and he and his deputies ran toward the camp shouting, “Sheriff’s Department, get them hands in the air!”

Henry McKee was an old hand at the routine and immediately raised his hands.  However, the other two men, a fellow named Irondale and his brother, bolted on foot.  As the two ran up the hillside Smith fired one warning round from his .30-30 rifle.  The round threw up some rock next to Irondale and he quickly stopped and raised his hands.

The brother of Irondale continued to run so Price fired a warning shot from his shotgun.  The blast did not slow the pace of the man, prompting Price to fire a second shot.  It was clear that buckshot struck the moonshiner, but, as spry as ever, he ran through the woods and out of sight.

McKee and Irondale were arrested and the largest still in McDonald County’s history had been shut down.  Fifteen gallons of corn whiskey were seized, and twenty-five hundred gallons of mash was destroyed.  The still and the prisoners were brought to Pineville.

Later that day Smith and Price returned to the site of the still, hoping that they might come across Irondale’s brother.  There was no sight of him, but Smith and Price did run into Illus Coffee and Cordus Ford.  The two men had in their possession a jar of moonshine.  So, Smith and Price topped off what had been a productive day by arresting both unlucky men.  McKee was an old hand at this as he had previously found himself in a similar situation.

As I recollect, it was in March of 1924 when Henry McKee first fell into disfavor with the law.  At least that’s when he and two others, Roy and Kirk Lindsey, were caught practicing their illustrious trade, that of making moonshine liquor.  It was then that McDonald County Deputy Sheriff Joe Gaily led a group of law enforcement officers to a still secreted in a deep hollow.

The hollow was nestled deep in the woods on a tract of land which bordered property owned by McKee.  The group consisting of Gaily, Washington County Sheriff Lem Guinn, federal agents George Bousewen, S. M. Gurley, and C. F. Burns tramped through the deep woods to the still and surprised the men as they cooked the illegal brew.

McKee eventually entered a guilty plea and as he stood waiting for the judge to pronounce sentence, heard the judge’s order.  McKee was sentenced to pay a fine of $1.00 and serve ninety days in jail.

McKee continued to dabble in the production of the illegal elixir but not so as anyone would take notice.  Those McDonald County residents who considered themselves to be ‘Moonshine Connoisseurs” thought McKee to be one of the best at his craft.

Smith eventually left the sheriff business and became a successful businessman in Pineville.  The former public servant sometimes reminisced about his time spent as a peace officer and considered himself lucky to have survived a Monday in March of 1920.

Smith received a tip that a fugitive from justice, Harry Short, was staying at a house in Southwest City.  Acting on that information, he and former Sheriff Claude Havens went to the house and sure enough, there on the front porch stood Short.

The two law enforcement officers told Short he was under arrest but without shoes or a coat, Short asked if he could go inside the house and get further dressed.  Smith agreed and accompanied the man inside.

Once inside, the outlaw put his shoes on then picked up the coat.  Little did the sheriff know that secreted inside that coat was a pistol.  Short produced the pistol and fired three shots at Smith.  Only through Smith’s quick thinking and agility was he able to dodge the lead projectiles.

Smith then produced his sidearm and fired at Short who had taken cover behind a door.  Hearing the shots, Havens rushed into the house and a fourth shot fired by Short narrowly missed him.  Both Smith and Havens exited the house and took cover.

The house was soon surrounded by obliging and well-armed citizens who thought nothing of lending their assistance.  Smith soon ordered Short to come out with his hands in the air or he would be shot.  Considering his current predicament and lack of viable options, Short conceded to Smith’s demands and surrendered.

Smith later recalled that only a few years earlier, and under similar circumstances, then Sheriff Dick Jarrett was shot and killed in Southwest City by Tid Fisher.

Those who knew him well said of Smith that he enjoyed his time as county sheriff.  He felt as though he contributed to the growth of the rural Ozark County and considered himself more than up to the tasks associated with keeping the peace.

It was said that he became quite adroit at finding hidden stills and apprehending those operating them.  He was, by all accounts, more than capable at his craft.  But then, so was Henry McKee.

McDonald County Jail 1934

Gremlins in My House

Try as I may, I just can’t seem to figure out how someone, that unidentified, clever, and stealthy individual is getting into my house in the dark of night as I lay sleeping in my bed.  At first glance it might appear as though I’m taking this matter a trifle too casually however, once you’ve heard the whole story, you’ll better understand my rather laissez-faire manner regarding these incessant nocturnal intrusions.

These offensive intrusions are generally characterized by the movement of personal items or damage to my person.  I usually find the items that have been relocated so the issue itself is more a matter of inconvenience than anything else.  I will, in a moment, clarify that word “usually.”

The other indicator that someone, or something, has been inside my home is detected in the morning.  The sunlight coming through the window draws me from my sleep as I slowly wake up.  Sometimes, but not always, I move to the edge of the bed only to find that I have a sore knee or shoulder as if that part of my body had been struck with a hammer-like device.  I find that my neck often suffers from a similar soreness.  It is quite apparent that an intruder stealthily entered my house that night, then beat me with an unknown object.

Next, I sometimes wake up, find my way to the bathroom, and when I look into the mirror on the wall, I see things.  I find there are bruises on my cheek, forehead, arm, and sometimes a spot or two on one of my legs.  I can find no explanation for their sudden appearance other than to attribute their emergence to that same unidentified intruder.  This situation is by no means one that just started.  Oh, and there was that incident that occurred a few months ago.

Last summer I was getting ready to play golf at the local course located just across the road from my home.  I drive my golf cart to the course and when the golf outing ends, I return it to my garage.  That day I decided to wear a pair of brown leather golf shoes, a pair which I had worn many times before.

Following the round of golf, I removed the shoes and placed them on a shelf with other golf shoes.  Sometime later that summer I once again decided to wear those shoes, but I found that only the right shoe was on the shelf.  I searched the shelf, and the ground around it but could never find that shoe.  The shoe’s location remains a mystery even to this day.

Then there’s the issue of the missing screwdriver.  Oh, I have many screwdrivers, and some engineered for very specific jobs but the one I’m talking about was my favorite.  I kept it in a drawer in the laundry room and when others failed, that trusty screwdriver always came through.

Well, about a month or so ago I used it and as usual it did a fine job.  I sort of remember returning it to its place of storage, the laundry room drawer.  I say I remember returning it to the drawer because that’s where I stored it.  If I were to be completely honest my memory is not what it used to be so if I were to be quite honest, I would admit that I assume that I returned the screwdriver to the drawer.

Anyway, there came a day, and following the one mentioned, when I once again required the assistance of that screwdriver.  I opened the drawer and the tool which was normally in plain view atop some unmentioned junk also stored in the drawer was not visible.  After rummaging through the drawer’s contents, I concluded that the screwdriver was not there.

I stood there with the drawer still open, thinking.  “Where could that screwdriver be?”  Where in the world might I have put it?  Following that analytical thought process, I began searching all the possible locations searching for the tool’s hiding place.  I started with the obvious locations like all the toolboxes, other drawers filled with junk, the top of workbenches, and of course, my underwear drawer.  That might sound strange to you but in the past, I have found many lost things there.  No, I don’t mean underwear.

Some days passed and I began using another screwdriver.  It worked just fine but it just didn’t have the same look and feel as “old faithful.”  Then, one afternoon I needed to get something from the top-opening freezer in the garage.  I opened the door and saw a piece of green plastic.  I immediately knew it was the handle of the missing screwdriver.  How clever of someone to hide it there in that freezer.

That’s not all.  I sometimes find that someone has turned the garage light on.  The clever interloper sometimes raises the tailgate on my SUV and leaves it open and I occasionally find a door of the vehicle in a similar condition.

I have discovered the television remote control in a cabinet atop the microwave oven.  In that same cooking device, I have found uncooked frozen meals that I couldn’t have mistakenly placed there.  I have also discovered the cordless telephone in my sock drawer, an obvious gesture meant to annoy me.

Having given a great deal of thought regarding the identity of the responsible party for these acts, I have considered several possibilities.  Might the liable party be a mischievous nymph or possibly a devilish goblin?  If so, I wondered, why me?  Was there something that I had done that might have offended either of these two?  I couldn’t think of anything which may have deliberately or for that matter, inadvertently offended either of these two.

I suppose the culprit may be someone I know or even, just maybe, one of my neighbors.  I can’t unequivocally state, and this is a sad admission, that each and every one of those living near me would be considered beyond reproach.

I felt compelled to share this story with you because of an issue which came to light this very morning, the unexplained location of my brown leather wallet.  I always keep it on the kitchen counter but sure enough, it isn’t there.  I looked all over the counter and the floor below but no luck.  I haven’t yet found the billfold but I’m certain it’s somewhere in the house.  I’m sure someone, or something, sneaked into my house last night and hid it, but hid it where?

I have this incessant need to resolve issues, at least to my satisfaction and to the liking of my tiny mind.  Therefore, I have come to a conclusion.  I have decided to assign blame for these acts to mischievous little gremlins.

So, until evidence that may contradict that presumption comes to light, that’s the way I will leave it.  One, or possibly more, gremlins comes into my home at night using a yet unknown method to gain entry, relocates objects, and hits me. I would really like to find that darn left-footed brown leather golf shoe.  After all, I usually find objects that have been hidden.

The Madness of Murder

Large crowds were expected to attend the event.  The McDonald County Missouri Circuit Court’s August session was anticipated to be one of the most interesting and well-attended sessions in quite some time.  Although the sweltering August heat would show no mercy on attendees, the murder trial of W. Ara Slinkard was an event the likes most had never before witnessed.

Much like any welcoming host, McDonald County Sheriff L. R. Smith planned to spruce up the trial’s venue, the Pineville, Missouri Courthouse.  The setting for the well-publicized trial had to measure up to the level of anticipation in the minds of those women wearing their finest gingham dresses.

Repairs had to be made to the circuit clerk’s office and to show respect for the men who would arrive wearing their best overalls, the courtroom and hallway walls needed to be painted.  It is safe to say that when the work was completed the proud sheriff was well content with the revamped old courthouse.

Not to be outdone, the local merchants were also determined to put their best foot forward.  The owners of restaurants, diners, and hotels prepared for the anticipated influx of people.  It was thought that the trial, the attraction, would result in greatly increased revenue for local business owners.

There was little doubt that on the 4^th day of May in the year 1927 W. Ara Slinkard facilitated the early demise of Caverna, Missouri resident Chester A. Mellen.  However, a jury would have to determine if Slinkard was legally guilty of murder.  Those jurors tasked with that daunting task were E. C. Link, L.F. Sappington, J. L. Jayne, A. L. Bowman, Edgar Biggs, W. R. Wilks, L.C. Williams, I.B. Carter, J.D. Brown, I. L. O’Rourke, J.A. Roark, and H.L. Naramore.

The attorneys for the state were J. T. Pinnell and James A. Sturges.  The defendant, Slinkard, was ably represented by three attorneys, Lon Kelley, John Nance, and James Tatum.  The state’s case would rest on the premise that the motive for the killing was clear, robbery.

Pinnell told the jury that the room in which the mutilated body of Chester Mellen was found had been ransacked.  Several area residents testified that Slinkard seemed perfectly sane before and following the murder and it was stated that the defendant talked about his need for money.

Defense attorney Kelley called Slinkard’s mother to the witness stand.  She testified that her son couldn’t have killed Mellen as he was with her all day on the day of the murder.  Attempting to establish an acquittal based on insanity, Kelley called to the stand Doctor W. H. Horton and Doctor O. St. John of Pineville as well as a doctor from the state hospital in Nevada.

All three doctors testified that in their professional opinion, Slinkard was indeed insane at the time of the murder.  The three witnesses also swore under oath that the defendant’s mind was “still in a deranged condition,” as demonstrated by Slinkard’s attempted suicide.  The defendant reportedly used a razor to slash his throat following the murder.

The defense had one seemingly insurmountable obstacle to overcome.  Ara Slinkard had confessed to the murder of Chester Mellen.  His signed confession was to be introduced as evidence by Pinnell and most in attendance thought that would be the final nail, as the saying goes, in the coffin for Slinkard.

Knowing that the confession was his best evidence of Slinkard’s guilt, Pinnell saved its reading for late in the trial.  He wanted it to be fresh in the minds of each juror when they deliberated the case.  The confession signed by Slinkard and witnessed by McDonald County Circuit Clerk; Herbert Perkins was recorded on May 19^th.  The following confession was read aloud by Sheriff Smith.

“On the morning of Wednesday, May 4^th, I went into the home of Chester A. Mellen at Caverna, McDonald County, Missouri, and told Mellen I wanted my spade and crowbar which he had borrowed from me and never returned.  He told me that I was a liar, that he never had them.

‘He called me a liar a second time and I picked up a stick of stove wood that was lying by the heating stove and holding it in both hands I struck him over the side of his head.  I struck him the second time on or about the top of his head and after he had fallen, I struck him the third time on the head using the same stick of wood in striking all the blows.

‘I had not had my breakfast when I killed Mellen and after I had killed him, I went home and ate breakfast.  I stayed home about two hours and then went to town, Caverna again.  After I killed Mellen I put the stick of wood back where I got it.  I did not own a revolver at that time or since.

‘After worrying over my crime for several days I attempted to kill myself by slashing my throat with a razor.  Remorse drove me to attempt suicide.”

Those in the courtroom who had positioned themselves forward in their seats to better hear the reading of the confession slowly fell backward.  The women adjusted their dresses while the men tucked their thumbs under the straps on their overalls.  Some took handkerchiefs from their pockets and wiped the perspiration from their foreheads, and all thought the jury’s guilty decision was then all but a foregone conclusion.

The trial lasted two and one-half days.  Testimonies had been heard and opinions formed but the single piece of real evidence was undoubtedly Ara Slinkard’s confession to Sheriff Smith.  At approximately 4:00 P.M. on the third day, the jury announced they were ready to deliver their verdict.

The verdict was read by Jury Foreman, Edgar Biggs.  “We the jury find the defendant, W. Ara Slinkard not guilty on the grounds of insanity.  And we find that the defendant has not entirely and permanently recovered from such insanity.  We recommend that the said W. Ara Slinkard be returned to the State Hospital at Nevada for further treatment of insanity.” There were a few gasps from those in attendance and it is said that James Sturges placed his head in his hands, but in the end, the Jury had spoken.

The Ozarks on Canvas

For some ten years now, I have considered myself to be blessed with the opportunity to share my thoughts with each and every one of you.  I’ll admit that many of the stories written have no special place in my heart, but they may contain a splash of humor or may possibly be intended to pass on a bit of information one may find interesting.

Most of these stories are created using between 1200 and 1400 carefully chosen words.  When the inspiration wells up within me to share my innermost feelings with you, I try to share the image in my head with you.  You know the old saying, “A picture is worth a thousand words.”

Over the span of some seventeen years, I have become very fond of the region of the country I now call home, the Ozarks.  I find that the grassy pastures, tree-covered hills, and low-lying valleys seem to wrap me much like a cozy quilt would.  This area of Southwest Missouri has given me some peace of mind and it gives me pleasure to share my thoughts of the Ozarks will others.

That passion for the Ozarks and the need to share one’s feelings was also shared by an illustrator turned painter, Frank Nuderscher.  Nuderscher was born on July 19, 1880.  His father was a successful building contractor living in the bustling Midwest city of St. Louis.

Like many fathers, Nuderscher’s father dreamed of his son following in his footsteps and becoming part of the family business.  Frank, however, heard a much different calling.  He wanted to be an artist, a sketcher, and a painter.  However, Frank needed to prove, at least to his father, that this was not just some boyhood fantasy.

Then, and at the age of twelve, the opportunity he was searching for presented itself.  Nuderscher earned two dollars in compensation for sketching a bas-relief for a local stonemason.  His father not only had to admit that his son was serious, but the receipt of the payment also showed that Frank might earn a living as an artist.

The blossoming artist attended art classes in New York and Philadelphia and studied art while traveling throughout Europe.  Upon his return to this country, he enrolled in Washington University’s St. Louis School of Fine Art.  But artists, especially unknown ones, are only as good as their most recent work and Nuderscher needed something to announce his arrival.

In 1904 he received accolades for his painting of a well-known St. Louis landmark, the Eads Bridge.  The painting won first prize in the Artist’s Guild Competition, defeating many other aspiring artists.  The award was particularly rewarding in 1904 as St. Louis was hosting the World’s Fair.

The next few years found Nuderscher busy creating illustrations.  He found much of his time was spent creating advertisements and architectural drawings.  He also created illustrations for books and magazine covers.  The then-accomplished illustrator also began painting images of St. Louis.    

Nuderscher, for a time, was content creating artistic compositions based on the places he was very familiar with.  He put brush to canvas and painted the downtown area of St. Louis, the buildings, and the streets.  He had already painted his vision of the old Eads Bridge as it spanned the great Mississippi River ending in Illinois.  But then the painter of urban landscapes saw something that would birth a new passion within him.  He saw the Missouri Ozarks.

As Nuderscher aged into his 40’s he found that his lifestyle in the urban St. Louis area no longer suited him.  Realizing that his passion for the Ozarks could be satisfied in only one way, he moved.  The Painter moved to Arcadia, Missouri and his new life in the Ozarks only served to fuel his passion for the area, and his need to capture the landscapes on canvas.

It was then that the artist began to capture the Ozarks with paint and brush.  He painted such works as, “Ozark Landscape,” “The Rising Mists,” and “The Creek in Winter.”  His newfound passion was evident when looking at other works such as “Autumn Landscape,” “A Remnant of the South,”  “Missouri Farm,” and my personal favorite, “Missouri Cottage.”

When I gaze upon one of Frank Nuderscher’s paintings of the Ozarks I find that the oil-based remnants of the brushstrokes radiate an aura of peaceful tranquility and exquisite serenity.  I, of course, have no way of knowing what was in the mind of the artist when he put paint to canvas.  However, I want to believe that he found more in the Ozark region of the country than merely the beauty of the tree-covered slopes and pastoral valleys.  Maybe he also felt a sense of being part of something unique and magical as he painted each work of art.

Frank Nuderscher used his God-given talent to transfer the images seen with his eyes to canvas.  Yes, the feelings that well up inside me when looking at one of his works of art are truly mine, and mine alone but the inspiration comes from Nuderscher.

Some believe that the name Ozark was first given to the area by the English as they interpreted the French name for an early trading post.  Others believe that the name came from the French words, “Aux Arcs,” meaning the land of the arches.  However, it wasn’t the origin of the name or the name itself that steered Nuderscher’s paintbrush.  It was the natural beauty of the land of hills and valleys, that place I call home, the Ozarks.

The artist Frank Bernard Nuderscher died on October the 7^th in the year 1959.  I’m not sure exactly why he moved to the Ozark town of Arcadia, Missouri.  Maybe his passion for the Ozark landscapes lured him there or maybe he was searching for utopia far from the hustle and bustle of St. Louis.  However, I choose to believe that he was searching for inspiration, and I can tell you that for any artist, finding that source of inspiration can be like finding paradise, at least a kind of creative paradise that stimulates the mind and quickens the rhythm of the heart.

Frank Nuderscher was once asked why he painted the Ozarks.  He answered the question with a question.  “Have you ever been in the Ozarks?  Only those who are not familiar with Ozark land would wonder why anyone would paint the Ozarks.”

The artist Frank Nuderscher

Alive and Well in Ikaria

The arrival of mail isn’t what it used to be.  There was a time when cards and letters from friends and relatives awaited me as I opened that mail receptacle.  I couldn’t wait to see the return names on the pieces of mail and oh, how I looked forward to sitting quietly in an easy chair as I carefully opened each envelope.

Nowadays it seems like all I find in the mailbox seated on a pole by the street are advertisements.  Pages and pages of colorful pictures of articles of clothing that are, of course, on sale.  Some of the pages of slick paper ask why I haven’t taken advantage of the yearly sales of new vehicles.

But then, and quite unexpectedly, a few days ago I received a letter.  It was in a larger-than-normal yet ordinarily colored white envelope, but it differed from the boring mail I normally received.  The envelope had several odd-looking stamps affixed to the upper right corner.  I finally moved my eyes from the stamps to the sender’s name and address.  That too was odd.

No name was written on the envelope, although there was some scribbling which I found to be nothing recognizable, at least to me.  Then I read something that I was able to interpret.  The name of a town and country, Therma, Ikaria, Greece.  I wondered, who in the world did I know in Ikaria, Greece?  Maybe this too was nothing more than some sort of cleverly disguised attempt to relieve me of some money.

The correspondence, whatsoever it may be, wrapped in that oversized envelope garnered my curiosity.  I immediately considered the possibility that what lay inside may be a card.  Maybe, I considered, it was a Christmas card sent from someone living in Ikaria.  After all, Christmas day was a mere two weeks away.  However, who did I know living in Ikaria, and furthermore, where in the world was Ikaria?

Tossing the advertisements in the garbage can, I made my way to the sofa.  All the while that name, “Ikaria,” occupied my mind.  For the life of me, I couldn’t imagine who might be sending me mail from such a place.  I began opening the envelope even before I was fully seated, then I began to read.

“Hello nephew, it’s your uncle, Sonny.  It’s been a long time.  You might wonder how it is that I thought of you after all these years.  Well, I recently discovered, and quite accidentally, that you were the author of several books.  Once I figured out that it was you who had written those books, I ordered all four of them.

‘I must tell you that it took some time getting them as I no longer live in the U.S. but finally, and after a month or more, they arrived.  I just finished reading book number four and enjoyed each and every one of them.  It sounds as if you have found a great fondness for the Ozarks.

‘I now live on the Greek island of Ikaria.  I moved here some forty years ago and have found the peace and serenity I was always searching for.  I spend part of each day soaking in the warm waters of the natural springs.  It is widely believed that the secret to a long life can be found in those waters.

‘Well, I’ll end this now and I hope you are well, and happy, and I sincerely look forward to reading your next book.  Your uncle, Sonny.”

To say that I was somewhat taken aback by the card from my Uncle Sonny would be an understatement.  I thought for a moment.  Let’s see, the last time I saw him was during my last year of high school.  That would be about fifty-six years ago.  I kept calculating.  I recalled that my mother’s brother was two years her senior in age so that would mean that he was at least; Could that be right?  Sonny would be at least 101 years old.

I now find it hard to remember what Sonny looked like.  I do seem to recall that he was a thin man who seemed to have a lot of bad luck.  As a child, I remember that he used to show up at our house every two or three years.  There always seemed to be some sort of catastrophe in his life and I remember that he and my parents often sat in the living room late at night talking.  I also recall that my father’s voice would sometimes be raised.

Sonny never stayed with us for more than a few days and my father and mother almost never talked about his stay after he left.  Whatever the source of his catastrophe was it seemed as though money would help.  I sometimes saw my mother hand him some rolled-up paper money as she hugged her brother and said goodbye.  She once told me that he was going through a “stretch of bad luck.”

I decided to reply, via a card, to Sonny but first wanted to know a lot more about the island of Ikaria.  I learned that the island is characterized as a peaceful place where inhabitants lead a relaxed and carefree life.  The hot waters Sonny referred to are fabled to cure ailments and extend one’s life.

In fact, studies have shown that the hot spring water contains small levels of radioactivity.  Studies have shown that the average life expectancy for those on the island exceeds those in the United States by ten years.  Apparently, it is quite common for Ikaria Islanders to live, and remain active, well into their nineties and even one-hundreds.

The residents believe, and maybe rightly so, that the Gods blessed the Greek island and those who choose to call it home.  The island is referred to as the “Land of the Immortals.”  Having satisfied my curiosity, I wrote to Sonny.

“Uncle Sonny, yes it has been a long time since I last saw you.  As I now give it more thought, it seems like it has been more than fifty years.  Thanks for thinking about me, and thanks for the card.  As you might expect I was surprised to learn that you now live in Ikaria.  It sounds like a beautiful place and now that you have exceeded the century mark in the years of your life I can only surmise that the island must agree with you.

‘Thanks for the kind remarks regarding the books and I’m so glad that you enjoyed them.  I may not again correspond with you, at least in this life, but know that I have spent, and will surely continue to spend, many sleepless nights imagining how your life must be there on that beautiful Greek island.  Live longer, and be happy in the Land of the Immortals, Stan.”

Dreams of Picnicking

How very odd I thought.  With the cold harsh conditions of winter, no more than a few weeks away, why should it be that I was thinking of something associated with the warmer months?  Thoughts of a basket filled with fried chicken, potato salad, and deviled eggs certainly had no place in my head as the frost-covered mornings were all too common now.

Images of closely cropped grass growing beneath the branches of a leaf-filled tree were now nowhere to be found.  The warmth of the Sun on my face was little more than a memory of the summer now passed.  The Spring flowers that brought such color to the landscape had been replaced by hard patches of dry featureless dirt.  Nevertheless, I couldn’t help but think of picnicking.

Maybe, just maybe, going on a picnic was one of those things from the past that was now considered to be outdated.  I hadn’t heard the word “picnic” in many years, so possibly folks no longer found the idea of enjoying a meal while sitting on the grass on a sunny afternoon appealing.  So, and with that thought in mind, I wondered if picnicking was really that popular, especially in McDonald County, Missouri.

In August of 1903, 25 members of the Neosho Rebecca Lodge enjoyed a basket lunch picnic.  The outdoor dining was held at Beaver Springs in Anderson.  Not wanting to appear inhospitable, ladies from the Anderson and Pineville lodges were also invited.  By all accounts, it was a beautiful day which was enjoyed by all.

Liberty School teacher Emma Naramore was surprised to learn that her visit with her Parents Mr. and Mrs. J.W. Naramore in September of 1912 would find her at a picnic.  The three, accompanied by the educator’s friend, Frank Woods of Noel attended a picnic sponsored by the Independent Order of Odd Fellows, often simply referred to as the I.O.O.F.  All were captivated by a speech presented by the organization’s Grand Warden, G.M. Pritchett.

A beautiful warm evening in June of 1914 was the setting for the Methodist Sunday School to celebrate “Children’s Day.”  That Friday the Methodists gathered for a picnic near the rock ledge on J.A. Price’s Cowskin farm.  Not only did everyone satisfy their appetites but all enjoyed singing and recitations.

A slight change was announced for the yearly ‘Old Settlers Picnic.”  The July of 1915 event would also invite “New Settlers” to McDonald County.  The goal of that year’s picnic was to bring together both the old and new residents of McDonald County.  It was thought that the newer residents should be recognized as they had chosen to become a part of the community.

The Reverand Earle A. Blackman, widely known as “The Fighting Parson” due to his role as a chaplain in World War I, was the main speaker at the June 1928 I.O.O.F. picnic.  Those attending eagerly gathered in Noel to listen to the Reverand’s inspirational words.  To say that attendees, enthusiastic picnickers, were enthralled by the eloquence of the Reverand’s words would be quite simply, putting it mildly.

A 2:30 P.M. starting time was announced for the Southwest City parade in July of 1938.  Ozark Smile Girl Ms. Boonetta Walker graced the event with her presence and led the parade.  The daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Orve Walker of Noel enthusiastically returned the waves of the cheering onlookers.  Large crowds attended the multi-day rodeo and that year the list of cowboys entering the competition was larger than ever.  All were seeking the $500.00 grand prize.  The advertised attractions for the American Legion sponsored event also included, as one might expect, a picnic.

It was in July of 1938 that the McDonald County Extension Association held their very first picnic.  The venue for the event was the famous Truitt’s Cave in Lanagan.  Farm families from all corners of the county attended the picnic which began near the noon hour.

Prior to, and following the picnic, those in attendance served as the audience to demonstrations and speakers.  Missouri State Director of Extension J.W. Burch spoke about the factors essential to successful farming.  Presiding McDonald County Judge, J.S. Armstrong briefly offered comments about the benefits of the extension services.

Havenhurst was the beautiful venue for an old-fashioned picnic in August of 1939.  The day was filled with speeches, contests, rides, and refreshment concessions. Former Congressman J. Manlove spoke briefly, and Cecil Beavers played guitar and sang cowboy songs.  The large crowd thoroughly enjoyed the carnival rides supplied by Cap Tiller and M.G. McGrew.

In April of 1942 beloved Five Points school teacher Ms. Doyle Laughlin took her students to Roller.  There the group gathered on a Friday to enjoy an afternoon away from the classroom and have a picnic.  Several parents also attended, and all the students agreed that the afternoon free of math, English, and history was wonderful.  Without exception, all expressed their appreciation to Ms. Laughlin.

I’m quite sure that picnics were a very popular form of recreation in the days gone by.  They were places where good friends could gather to enjoy the wonderful blessings nature had to offer and it seemed as though food carried in baskets tasted better at picnics.  Oh, how great were those deviled eggs.

With all my might, I tried to remember a time when I had been on a picnic.  Could it be that I had lived my entire life without experiencing that day in the Sun?  Wait, there was that afternoon in the summer of 1967.  My girlfriend Robin put a few sandwiches and some potato chips in a bag.  She included a couple of homemade chocolate cookies and two cans of Coke.  “Do you want to go to the park for a picnic,” she asked.

I remember thinking that I had never before been on a picnic but thought her idea was a good one.  The two of us walked to St. Ferdinand Park, sat on a bench as the Sun warmed our faces, and ate bologna sandwiches.  Now that I remember the afternoon more clearly, I recollect that I do enjoy picnicking.