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 theatre, we came to Myrtle’s Eats, grabbing suckers, Porter Wagoner, and drive-in movies.  Being a [...]]]>

Blackberry Bruin

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 theatre, 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.

In that part of the Ozarkian Outback, rural bridges were one-lane affairs – open if the creeks weren’t up.  In some areas, streams ran directly across the road.  If it rained, you stayed home.  Pick-up trucks outnumbered cars three to one – before pick-ups were fashionable.  Rifles and buggy whips graced rear truck windows, women did not wear short-shorts, the average unskilled wage was half the federally mandated minimum, education was optional, Red Man and moonshine the drugs of choice, and if you didn’t mind living on a dirt road and fording a creek to get home, you could rent a two bedroom rock house with a cellar on significant acreage for $75 a month – which is exactly what we did.  We cooled with open windows, cut our own wood for heat, lighted with kerosene, kept chickens and pigs, sometimes missed television, and got by.  Then we had a visitor.

I remember my 10th birthday – and not only because birthdays that end in zero are milestones, but because it was one of the few times I actually went anywhere with my mother.  On the evening before that auspicious day, she and her husband loaded me, Merv Fritz, and Wes Roy in their car [...]]]>

I remember my 10^th birthday – and not only because birthdays that end in zero are milestones, but because it was one of the few times I actually went anywhere with my mother.  On the evening before that auspicious day, she and her husband loaded me, Merv Fritz, and Wes Roy in their car and took us to a Dairy Queen in the city for banana splits.  After the Dairy Queen, we went bowling.  After bowling, we went to the Steak n’ Shake, for goodness sake!  A little perspective here – these were the “good old days”, over 50 years ago, before fast food, in the time when families still ate together, at home, while actually sitting at a table.  Then, after Steak n’ Shake, came the really big deal of the evening.  We went roller skating!  Such an event was huge!  Wow!  More perspective – back when Andy, Barney, and Aunt Bee were living in Mayberry, how many times did Opie get to go to Mount Pilot for his birthday?  Opie and I had a lot in common.  We’d never heard of soccer moms, play dates, or that hideous term “Stranger Danger”.  We spent summer evenings on the porch, or catchin’ lightnin’ bugs, or at the free movies in the park.  We hung out with friends until after dark, and something like a cell phone could only have been used by Flash Gordon, Dick Tracy, or Captain Video and his Video Rangers.

Christmas Eve.  From the time I was a young child until my late 20s, 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 [...]]]>

Christmas Eve.  From the time I was a young child until my late 20s, 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.

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 [...]]]>

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.

Her name is Bethany and she is the niece of a friend.  I first met the young woman when she was about 8 years old – a loud, angular, elbowy girl.  She was below average in looks, not superior in intellect, and seemed to have trouble relating to adults.  She and I were not significant [...]]]>

Her name is Bethany and she is the niece of a friend.  I first met the young woman when she was about 8 years old – a loud, angular, elbowy girl.  She was below average in looks, not superior in intellect, and seemed to have trouble relating to adults.  She and I were not significant members of each other’s world, and I had little reason and even less opportunity to pay attention to the child, so I didn’t – but I do recall thinking that she took up too much room for a child her age and size.  I would see her every year or so, out there on the periphery of my universe, and as I watched her get older, I watched her get larger and heard her get louder.  In retrospect, I see it as a cry for love and attention.  At the time, however, she was just annoying.

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 [...]]]>

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 an 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.

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 them – and brogan shoes.  A shirt was optional, [...]]]>

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 them – 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 blonde-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 immoveable 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.

Amos and the boys were country to the bone.  They kept hens for eggs and fried chicken, cows for milk, butter, and cream, cattle and hogs to butcher for meat, an orchard for fruit, and a garden for veggies.  They fished in the summer, trapped in the winter, and hunted all year long.  Between the house and the barn was a low shed with fenced pens on two sides.  The north side housed the bird dogs, the south side was where the ‘coon hounds stayed, and the beagles ran loose.  Such was their country life until Amos ran afoul of prosperity.  Success sneaked up on Amos Beals, a man who was fully ready to work from dawn ‘til done just to get by.  When his eldest son, Max, announced his intention to marry, Amos went down the road a ways, cleared an acre or so of cornfield next to the road and, with the help of Bobby and Dale, began to build Max a three bedroom house with an attached garage.  As they were pouring the driveway, a fella from the city drove by, stopped, and offered Amos about three times what the house cost him to build.  Amos took the money, went down the road a little farther, and began building Max a four bedroom house with a basement.  He sold that manse at a very handsome profit as he and Dale were planting a maple tree in what was soon to be the front yard.