About This Site

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Amos Beals was an immense man, at least to my little kid eyes. Distantly related to my grandfather, Amos lived out in the country on a hardscrabble farm, and was perpetually clothed in a railroad engineer’s cap, bib overalls, or “biblicals” as he called ‘em, and brogan shoes. A shirt was optional, depending on the weather. He had hands the size of my baseball glove, a sudden roaring laugh, and a speech impediment that sometimes made him difficult to understand. He had three sons – all significantly older than I. His eldest was Max, who I hardly knew because he was off in school at the University of Illinois learning about animals and husbands, or something like that. Bobby, the middle son, was a quiet and thoughtful young man with quick dark eyes and a gentle way about him. He was a genius with horses – a horse whisperer long before the term was coined who taught me to ride when I was very young. Dale, the third in line, was a raucous, blond-headed fireplug, reckless, fearless, hard-charging, and my favorite. He burned brightly and died at only 31 in an altercation between his motorcycle and an immovable object. The prospect of going to Amos’ place on a Sunday afternoon made suffering through church even more painful. An hour is a very long time in the life of a child.

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The four of us – Ron, Eddie, Roy, and yours truly stood a few yards downstream from Dam Four and looked at the river. In normal times, we would have been on a rock outcrop about 15 feet above its sleepy green translucent flow. In normal times, we would have looked down into the water, watching it slip lazily around black and gray boulders, catching the occasional glimpse of the flash of a rainbow trout’s reflective side, the shadow dart of a pickerel chasing a minnow, the splash of a small mouth bass skittering in the shallows. In normal times, red-eared turtles would have festooned its banks, a heron might have been fishing near a stump, perhaps a fox fussing near the water. In normal times, it would have been a lovely springtime pastoral setting, its very beauty causing us to speak in hushed tones. Today, we had to shout.  These were not normal times. Instead of being 15 feet below where we stood, the river was 15 inches below our feet.

Playing God

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A young woman and I were visiting the other day and she confessed to me that she was a Catholic. While I subscribe to no particular religion myself, I certainly begrudge no one else his or her faith. But she seemed apologetic at her confession, saying that she wasn’t even sure if she believed in God. Her face showed some uncertainty, as if she thought I would think less of her.

To “believe” in God, it seems to me, indicates that in some way God requires our belief to be validated. I find that ridiculous, as ridiculous as I find a God who would demand my worship to make himself feel good, or would adopt a set of rules and regulations so complicated and stringent that only a few of us could ever qualify for the team. In an effort to help her understand, I told the young woman about fish.

Blackberry Bruin

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In 1975, my wife and I moved from a small cosmopolitan city to almost-Arkansas Missouri. In some ways it was de-evolution, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. From Greek bakeries, Jewish delis, jazz concerts, and Broadway-quality theater, we came to Myrtle’s Eats, grabbing suckers, Porter Wagoner, and drive-in movies. Being a small-town type originally myself, I made the switch fairly easily. My very adaptable wife followed close behind. We slowed down and settled in an area where the closest town, a bustling metropolis of nearly 2,000 souls was 15 miles away, over roads that would have scared the average northern tourist to death.

Double Indemnity

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As it happens sometimes in my narrow life, a friend started me to think. It was when she spoke of her wedding, her husband in his rented tux, and she in her linen suit with dyed to match heels, setting off on their road of life together many years ago…and some of the rocks that litter that very road. It brought to mind weddings, two of them to be exact, both of them mine.

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Bud Miller was born to lead. With 20 years service in the military, including the Korean War, when ex-Sergeant Miller retired and came home to our small town, he just couldn’t wait to get back in charge of something…and the Fire Department caught his eye. Our little volunteer fire department was housed in a rundown brick garage just off the small uptown business district. One ancient pumper truck constituted the entire fleet of firefighting vehicles and, three or four times a year the town whistle would sound, phones in the volunteer’s homes would bellow a continuous steady ring, and 8 or 10 stalwarts would get to legally drive like maniacs to the fire house and launch the wheezing fire truck to go put out a garbage fire or a blazing tool shed. Once a week the volunteer firefighters would hold an evening meeting at the firehouse to discuss business for a few hours. The rumor mill claimed the meeting consisted mostly of beer, cards, and the occasional “stag film,” but nobody ever got out of hand. So it was, so it had always been, until Bud Miller declared his candidacy for the exalted office of Fire Chief.

Planting the Seed

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“Got a minute?” he asked.

I’d seen him around the area for the past few days. He was busy, landscaping mostly, installing water features, planting trees. He was a hard worker and so old  I couldn’t even guess at his age. It didn’t seem to affect him. He labored like a young man, full of energy, vital. He stretched his back out and walked over.

“If you’re not busy, I got a job for you,” he continued, wincing a bit as he worked out some kinks. “It won’t take very long. I – I just need a little help to get some things started around here and I think you’d be perfect.”

His eyes seemed to look through me. Lying to this guy would be damned near impossible. I squirmed a little when he looked right at me, but his face was so kind it took the sting out of his gaze, and his voice was warm and rich.  It felt sorta like a blanket, ya know? I glanced around.

“Great job you’ve done to this place,” I said. “Really beautiful.”

“Well, thanks,” he smiled. “This garden is the showplace of the whole project. It turned out even better than the sketches. There’s a lot more you can’t see from here, miles and miles, but this here’s the highpoint.”

“Well, you do great work,” I said and smiled. “It seems like a lot of effort, though, for a man your age.”

He chuckled, “Oh, I’ve been around a while, no doubt about that. I think it’s important to stay busy if you wanna stay young. Every now and then I get this creative urge and the years just slip away. Next thing you know, I’m back at it, working my tail off. I don’t know. I need it, I guess.”

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Joggers and runners annoy me. Before my lovely bride Laura ventured off for several years occupying Afghanistan, allowing me to become a gentleman of leisure and relocate to my scenic country estate, we lived in an apartment in the city. While there, we acquired a canine, an Australian Cattle Dog, or Blue Heeler, to be exact. Heelers are athletic dogs and Digger, the dog in question, was no exception. He required several walks a day for exercise. On those walks, we often encountered The Jogger.

An Arresting Development

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When I first met Billy O’Neal I was just 21 years old, a rookie cop with less than one month on the street, full of high hopes and lofty aspirations, as yet untarnished by the darker realities of my job. One fine June afternoon, I rode with another officer to the city garage to pick up a repaired squad car and return it to the cop shop. The Lt. who dispatched me on the errand probably assumed that even a rookie such as I could carry out the task without incident. Silly he. The 10 block drive should have been simple. Neither one of us counted on Billy O’Neal.

Passing the Torch

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[editor's note:  This bit was originally done for the subjects a couple of years ago, but it was thought it would be a worthwhile addition to this site.  As such, it does not follow the same format as the other bits herein (the music is different and goes throughout the bit).  It is noted here so listeners don't wonder why it sounds different from the other bits.]

Roger and Sharon Sigler have lived in a rural portion of the Kansas City area for nearly three decades and, for many of those years, their across the road neighbors have been Gwen and Bob Wright. Gwen and Bob keep dogs, Great Pyrenees to be exact. Great Pyrenees are large white animals, similar in construction to Newfoundlands, and many of them weigh as much as an NFL punt return specialist.  Their bark is a cross between a lion’s cough and a damaged steam whistle, their jowls are pendulous, and one running in your general direction is reminiscent of an approaching avalanche. Subtlety is not a part of their make-up. The Great Pyrenees is an obvious dog, bred to control and protect livestock and property, and recognizes his calling nearly from birth. Like most dogs, a Great Pyrenees may sometimes not take himself too seriously, but he seldom has to be reminded of his duty.

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Ah, yes – the holiday season.  Most retailers and some consumers believe it starts in mid-September and continues through January 15. We are besieged by The Great Pumpkin, regaled with stories of The Pilgrims, who were, incidentally, not THE pilgrims but only pilgrims, beaten over the head by the Jolly Old Elf in such a perverted evolution of greed that the real Saint Nicholas is a lathe in his grave, and ushered into an uncertain future by and old man carrying a scythe eager to be reduced to an infant in diapers.  Bitter?  Not me.  I think the whole thing is a hoot.  It is the time of year when the overriding constant throughout the season of celebration was only recently released from prison.  Yes, Virginia, there is a Martha Stewart.

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Christmas Eve.  From the time I was a young child until my late twenties, I spent it at my favorite Aunt and Uncle’s farm.  My Aunt Myrna and Uncle Wayne, their son Gayle and his family, my grandparents, my mother and stepfather, me, and in later times, my wife, all gathered every year.  Entering from the cold into that farmhouse reinforced the fact that there is no scent on Earth like a home on the eve of Christmas where country women are cooking holiday dinner.  The tang of sage, the odor of baking sweet potatoes, the light dusting of flour on the countertop where homemade noodles and handmade rolls were just created combines with the warmth and humidity of a farmhouse kitchen to manifest a palpable texture in the room.  A pungent blanket of airborne taste that smacks of Currier and Ives, Norman Rockwell, and home.  It cannot be duplicated in a restaurant, or even in a city for that matter.  It requires cold, country, and family tradition.

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About 10 years ago, for the first time in quite a while, I went home for Christmas.  Well, that’s not exactly true.  Home is where my wife and I live.  I returned to where I spent my childhood, where I walked the river, hunted pheasants, stalked the elusive catfish, sledded on snow, skated on ice, horsed around with my friends, and spent time with my grandfather.  At the time, I had not lived in that area for over 25 years, and I found the memories of it more pleasing from a distance than recalled at close range.  Still, I went.