It was just an ordinary Sunday morning at Grandin Mennonite church. Even though it was December , there was no snow and the grass still had a hint of green. We were all sitting in the pews, and Lynford had just announced the 2nd song of the morning service,when we heard the back door of the church creak open and then shut. About 3 stanzas into hymn number 321, The Cross Is Greater Than My Sin, I saw them come in. Everyone turned to stare as was custom among the Mennonites, and startled as we realized they were “worldly”. A woman and young girl sidled up to the third row and sat down beside Emma Mast, who greeted her with a suspicious smile and the man and boy headed to the back bench, beside the Hindlel boys, who’s dad never came to church on Sunday mornings unless there was a fellowship meal scheduled for afterwards.

Loyal had always insisted that the church  have segregated seating ,even though all other churches in the area had mixed seating . He insisted this was to help keep the brethren’s minds pure. In case an elbow accidently was exposed. I determined they must have run into Mennonites somewhere before since they didn’t all sit together and determined to speak to the young stocky built boy after church. He appeared to be about the same age as I, and smiled sheepishly as he trailed into the church.

After what seemed to be an extraordinarily long sermon on the evils of Checkered shirts and bill caps, by Brother Abe, we were finally dismissed, and I made my way over and before you knew what happened we had hit it off like mashed potatoes and gravy. His Name was Timothy Lee Daryl Blackwell and he was 11, just a few months older than me, and he loving hunting as much as I did. He had gone to public school and knew a little about almost every subject we brought up, and even claimed he had once seen a girls bra strap at Piedmont middle school, which I found unbelievable and fascinating at the same time. His family, or rather his Mom, Bonnie, had recently come up with an itch to join the Amish, and they had even driven to Seymour Missouri to follow up on that. But once they realized they would have to learn to speak Pennsylvania Dutch, they decided to settle for being Mennonite. And Dan Byler over at Seymour told about the church at Grandin and recommended they commute there instead of 3 hours away. And the Blackwell family did, and I got a best friend to hang out with for the rest of my growing up years.

They already had a dinner invitation to Daniels Goods house for Sunday dinner, but my dad had hit it off with Daryl Blackwell and invited the family over for the next Sunday dinner. Tim rode home with us in the lime green 74 Plymouth Fury and the rest of his family followed us home from church and parked between the sandbox and the shop. After lunch Tim and I went over our guns and argued over whether a 22 or a shotgun was better for squirrel hunting. My brother Paul proudly showed him the pistol he had totally made from scratch. And Tim allowed that it was a work of art , and drew out a little sketch of a zip gun, which we had never heard of before.

We then headed to the barn and loaded up the trailer with 16 square bales of hay and set off for the back fields where the Hereford cows were wintered. Tim was absolutely thrilled with being on a working farm, and loved throwing off the hay bales and watching the cows enjoy their treat. He said that being a farmer was all he had ever dreamed of in life and that someday he would have one of his own. It was all boring to us, but we were happy to see his excitement and drove him around the 120 acres, back to the highlines down the steep hill behind Levis and then up through the west field by the chicken house and finally parked in the shed . He gave a huge sigh and said that it had been one of the happiest day of his life. He practically lived with us from then on , and attended school at Grandin.

We were inseparable after that, as all best friends should be. We spent hours arguing over everything, from vehicles, to guns , and girls. But we never got mad at each other. He got his driver’s license and a truck, a 67 ford f100 with an automatic transmission. It had the acceleration of a tortoise, but eventually it would get up to speed . And we thought we were flying.

And a whole new world opened up to us. That summer he and I drove up to Piedmont for a gun show. His truck had no radio , since it was previously owned by the Miller boys, so I grabbed an old am radio that was hidden in the attic of the shop. We stopped just up the road at the 40 acres, and within 2 minutes had the illegal radio hooked up and tuned to 940 am out of Poplar Bluff. We grinned as John Anderson came on , and sang along to “Just a swingin”.

We arrived at the gun show paid the entry fee , and as we stepped inside, we allowed that it was about as close to heaven as we were ever going to get. Rows and rows of shiny shotguns, pistols and knives caught our eyes we couldn’t afford anything except for a knife and some 22 shells. But a sign pointed out the back, and advertised skeet shooting for 50 cents a shell We had never done any before, but were fairly good at shooting squirrels on a dead run. So we caught on quick. We shot until we were down to pocket change, and then ate the Bologna sandwiches Tim’s mom, Bonnie had sent along with us. Too soon the day was over , and we had to head home . We found a rock station on the am radio and sang along to Melloncamp and Bon Jovi with our hands out the window as the warm Missouri breeze went whistling by.

But something changed as we got older. Blackwell got a job at the ranch and started associating with an older married guy from our Church. Dwight was the bishop’s oldest son and He and Tim would hang out after church by his truck talking earnestly. I asked Tim one time if he was ever going to fill me in on what was going on. And He replied” Hopefully you will never know.” I was hurt , but by then I had found out that girls were actually pretty to fun to hang out with, and I figured Blackwell’s business was none of my concern.

Now some of the church people had done some work for a Vietnam vet that lived up on B Highway. His Name was Cornelius Hawkridge. (Link below) A bit eccentric, he raised wolves for guard dogs, and appeared to have plenty of money, and a huge distrust for the government. Somehow, Blackwell and Dwight figured they could squeeze him for some easy cash since we didn’t have go fundme back then. They wrote an extortion letter to him, claiming they had been hired to kill him, but would be happy to renege on the contract in exchange for $50,000 in small bills. They tried to write with a foreign accent, but failed to come across as genuine. To make sure Mr Hawkridge received the letter, they placed it in his mailbox without a stamp, thinking he would pick it up before the mailman got there. He did not, and the mail carrier took it back to the post office, where it was processed and sent back out to the mailbox, postage collect, 15 cents.

The note demanded that cash be put in a box and hidden under a culvert by Saturday night in order to avoid the hit. The first thing Mr Hawkridge did upon opening the letter was to grab his AK47 and plot the demise of the criminals . Fortunately, he calmed down, and  called the police instead, and an elaborate stakeout was planned .

The boys got together that Saturday night just after dark and headed down B highway, slowing down as they passed Dennis Hindals rd. There was no traffic visible, so they stopped the truck and Dwight jumped out and scurried down the embankment to the culvert. Sure enough, there was a box there! Heart beating rapidly he scrambled back up the ditch to the truck, unaware that several snipers with night vision goggles had him in their crosshairs the whole time. They continued down the road, and tore the box open. Inside the box was a note, stating that Mr Hawkridge was unable to raise the funds on such short notice, and to contact him again as soon as possible. They knew that the gig was up , when they passed an unmarked crown vic going the other way. They threw the box and note out the window and mashed the gas pedal to the floor. But the road was blocked as they came around the corner to K highway and the unmarked car was now behind them and numerous Highway patrol cars ahead of them, blocking the road. Along with the federal marshals , FBI , and the sheriff’s department They stopped and obeyed the demands to come out with their hands up , as a chopper hovered overhead and within seconds they were cuffed and in the back of a police car and taken to the Poplar Bluff county jail for booking.

Word of the arrest spread quickly. “Son of local Mennonite Bishop held in Extortion scheme” Declared the Daily American Republic. And the next morning at church, the tension was as thick as pea soup. Loyal.,he Bishop called for an emergency Men’s meeting during Sunday school, and we all gathered in the school room to hear that we needed to make an exception in our church policy to help out his poor son who was in danger of losing his salvation at the jail amongst real criminals.

The church rule was we could never hire a lawyer for any reason, and Loyal asked us to vote on an exception for his son Dwight. Someone asked what would happen if they voted against it, and the Bishop replied. “We will talk to you after the service” . That was a code word for excommunication. He got enough folks to approve it, and Monday morning he hired the best criminal attorney in all of Southeast Missouri. Within days he had the worst of the felony charges dropped, Extortion by US Mail service. Which carried a 20 year prison sentence. The Lawyer argued that his clients had no intention of using the mail service since they hadn’t attached a stamp to the extortion envelope . The judge agreed with him , and he got the boys a plea bargain of 120 days in jail and probation.

Shockwaves went thru the Mennonite community like jello salad at a fellowship meal, and the demise of Loyal at Grandin quickly followed, as he was relieved of his church duties. Someone even chopped down the Mary Jane Dwight was growing in his garden, before the cops could search his residence, And kept that from adding to his time.

They both served their time, separately, and the Troyer’s all moved away shortly thereafter, And we were all disillusioned from the fallout. I moved away about that time, to Seymour, A few months after Blackwell moved there, But I was banned from associating with the Seymour youth. The preacher there thought I was corrupting the youth and asked me to leave.

Blackwell And I picked off where we had left off and he allowed that he didn’t care much for jail and was thinking about becoming a lawyer himself. I encouraged him, and added that he could handle his own cases from there on out , and save a ton of money. He didn’t think that was as funny as I did.

We drifted apart then, Both got married to girls Named Cindy and hardly spoke for years. But social media brought us back together and we take right off in conversation whenever we get together . Like there was no pause. Good friends like that are hard to find nowadays. And we both know the location of a hidden cave in Carter county, that can only be entered by diving under water and coming up inside to a rather large dry room. Tamblyn once said “Friends are people who know you really well, and like you anyway.”

https://www.vvaw.org/veteran/article/?id=4199