wisconsin v yoder



 

 


My Dad  was born in Plain City Ohio, son of an Amish farmer and Carpenter.  When he was 12 , the entire family moved to Iowa in search of stricter church rules. The cattle and farm machinery were taken to the local train depot  there in Ohio. And loaded on rail cars for the trip. The older Yutzy boys,  Dave and Henry , decided it would be an adventure to ride on the open flatcar seated on the wagon next to the corn planter.  As most brilliant  ideas go, the first part went swimmingly.  They waved to farmers and city folk as the train rumbled into the March  afternoon, and ate the sandwiches Roy Mommy, (My Grandma Yutzy) had sent along with them. But by the time they reached Spingfield Ill,  it got dark, and the weather turned cold. They reconsidered their options and none of them seemed promising. Shivering , they made their way to the livestock car, and huddled among the sleeping cows for warmth. The morning sun arrived about the same time they got to the Fairbanks train station and they arose. Stiff, hungry and cold, but with a good story to tell of their adventures.

They settled in on the dairy farm there in Buchanen county Iowa. And since there was no private  school, Dad and his siblings rode the bus to public school. The Yutzy children had always gone to Public school In Ohio, and were well accepted and respected there.  But the settlement in Iowa was new, too small for their own school.  And so they were  sent off on the yellow bus to Hazleton.  Unfortunately, there were Bullies on the bus, most of them Catholic, and they harassed the Amish kids relentlessly.  They quickly figured out that the Amish kids wouldn’t fight back, so they kicked and pinched  the  kids as soon as they got on the bus.  Dad was 12 , and scrawny  and from the first day he was targeted because of his size   they tore off his beanie and threw it out the window , and made fun of his hair with the strange Amish bowl cut.  At school the abuse continued, they were required to have tennis shoes for gym class, and Roy Dawdy, (My Grandfather) had bought each of the boys a new pair.  But the first day dad wore his , they stole them after gym class, and burned them in the trash bin after school.  When my dad came home after school, shoeless, Roy Dawdy questioned him, and dad told the story.  Dad had to wear his work shoes to school the rest of the year as the family couldn’t afford to buy another pair of new shoes.

A few months later the bullies again targeted my Dad on the school bus on the way home. They cornered him in the back of the bus so the driver couldn’t see what was going on, and beat him, until his nose was broken and his shirt blood soaked.  He got off the bus and tried to run to the house before he was spotted, but Roy Dawdy caught him at the door and roughly grabbed his arm.  Dad told him the story , even though he could hardly talk through the tears. He was then sternly told that if he ever caused trouble at school like that, he would be whipped .  And to never ever fight back or defend himself, as the Good Book requires you to turn the other cheek.

When dad became a father a few years later, he vowed that his children would never be forced to go to a public school.  But that would cost him a great deal of time , money and stress.

Dad married Mom in 1953, and they moved to Arkansas.  But the rocky ground proved to be unsuitable  for farming and the menfolk were forced to  take on carpenter work in order to survive   Then dad was hit while riding in a taxi, and had his leg shattered. They inserted a long steel pin to hold his bones in place but  He couldn’t work for months and the Yutzy’s almost starved to death.   Eventually they figured enough was enough, and moved back to Buchanan county Iowa, where dads family still lived.

They had jumped from the frying pan into the fire.  The local public school board had recently ordered that all teachers must now be state certified.  The Amish there had an established private school , with a local Amish girl as a teacher, for all 8 grades. However, they could not be counted on the public school roster , and the commissioners were upset by the lack of income.   So a letter went out to all Amish families, demanding that the kids go to public school or they would be considered truant. And in danger of legal action. The parents refused , and received a notice that they were in violation of state law and requested  that the protesting fathers appear in court the next day. The district justice found them guilty, fined each family $30 and warned that if the kids were not in school the next day they would need to appear in court the next evening  at 6 pm.  Every evening the judge would ask each man how they pled. Every night they all pled not guilty and were each fined an additional $30 . This was equivalent to 3 days wages in those days so it added up very quickly.  5 days a week, for 6 weeks, dad hitched up the buggy and drove the 6 miles to court and back.  This was in the busy harvesting season and he had to rush through the farm chores in order to make it into court on time .

Each night they were threatened with jail time and never knew if they would be coming home or sleeping at the jail.  One  night he was too sick to go, and stayed home. About 7 pm , the Sherriff  pulled into the driveway and took dad into custody and drove him to the courthouse. He was then charged with a felony of failure to appear which remained on his record for life.

A few days later an entourage of law enforcement vehicles and a truck with a trailer pulled up to one of the Amish protesters farms and backed up to the barn. They loaded up 2 of his prized Jersey milk cows and hauled them off to the auction to satisfy his debt for truancy.  Another Amish farmer was plowing a field with a team of Belgium’s, and the deputies unhitched the plow in the middle of the field and took the horses to pay the fines.

The following afternoon mom and dad were at the local hardware store picking up staples, when an announcement came over the radio. “The sheriff and other law enforcement are now at the Yutzy farm to attempt to collect on a judgment. No one appears to be home , so they are camped out awaiting the Yutzy’s return”.   A shock wave ran thru dads body and paralyzed him for a minute, right there by the nail and rope selection. After he was able to catch his breath he found mom and together they decided they might as well face the music. But first they finished their shopping, taking their good old time .  The ride home was silent, Amish are taught to hide all their feelings and emotions.  But Mom gripped his hand tightly and smiled at dad.  And he knew in his heart that God was on their side , and the words of Matthew 19:26 ran though his mind on a loop  “With God all things are possible “

Pulling into  the driveway  to their house in their double buggy, they could see that the yard was full of law enforcement vehicles and a taste of fear went through them. But  they looked straight ahead and the horse put on a show for everyone .He was a former race horse, and it seemed he wanted to show off for the audience  . Head held high , tail slightly raised , he trotted briskly along , scattering the reporters. Without any guidance  the horse  stopped at the fence rail on his own.   They were immediately surrounded by a gaggle of reporters, cameras clicking as they yelled questions .

At the center of it all was Sherriff Fred Beier and he rudely started to interrogate dad even before he could hitch the horse to the fence.  Dad interrupted him, and asked if they could discuss it in the house away from the pesky  reporters. The Sherriff agreed and they  sat down at the kitchen table. Mom added a stick of wood to the cookstove and set a kettle of water on the top.  They Sherriff stated that he needed to take something with him to satisfy dads debt, and Dad replied that he had nothing of value  except 40 acres of standing corn . Mom poured the two of them each a cup of  spearmint tea and the Sherriff leaned back in his chair. “Well. I guess we will just wait until then”  He said. “I hate to take anything you need to make a living, like work horses and farm machinery”  You folks have a great evening, I’ll get rid of the circus outside for you”  He ducked out the door and soon it was peaceful again on the Yutzy farm.

Several days later all the Amish received notice that next week all the kids must attend public school . The following  Monday a yellow bus stopped at the end of the Yutzy driveway. It was the first stop, so the bus was empty.  The Sherriff was following  the bus and when he saw that no kids boarded it, he drove up to the house and asked where the kids were. I don’t know” my dad replied.  “What do you mean”  the Sherriff demanded, “every parent should know where their kids are at all times”.  “They could be at the barn, or the neighbors  or walking to school”  dad said.  “How about this?” my dad offered   “Why don’t you bring the bus to school tomorrow morning  and pick up all the kids at once?”   “Well that’s the first good thing I’ve heard you say Mr Yutzy!  Brilliant!  We will be there tomorrow morning bright and early”.

Dad immediately went over   to the neighbors and called a reporter from the Des Moines register. Thomas DeFeo and dad  had become friends after dad found out he was very sympathetic to the plight of the Amish.  He had advised dad that the key to getting the schools accepted was to get the public sympathy on the side of the kids with pictures  or movie footage of the kids being harassed.  He promised to meet dad at the schoolhouse the next day and they said goodbyes.

The next morning everyone gathered at the small one room school.  Swarms of media , Truant officers, county commissioners, Sheriff’s deputy’s , and amish fathers. There was an electricity in the air, that crisp November morning,  yet few knew that this day would change the course of history.  The school bus was parked along the road, and the reporters set up the tripods for the heavy movie cameras.  Facing the school bus so they could film the Amish kids entering the bus.  Dad sought out his reporter friend and advised him to set up his camera in the opposite corner of the schoolyard with a view of the door and the cornfield behind it .  Dad then went inside and had a word with the students .  In Pennsylvania dutch,he told them  “Von Ich Meigh hant knegh due, springet fwa sich velscun felt”  (When I raise my hand, run for the corn field.)

At precisely 9 am, Sherriff Beier stepped out of the squad car and strode purposefully up to the school door,   He didn’t bother to knock, just swung the door open and yelled at the frightened children to get on the bus .  To his surprise, all the kids walked to the door in an orderly fashion and gathered on the porch . The Sherriff smiled , and turned to dad., not knowing about the hidden signal dad had worked out with the children before any  law enforcement arrived at the scene.  “I sure appreciate everyone’s cooperation today, Mr Yutzy” He continued.

With a blank expression on his face, dad raised his hand , and said firmly, “Springet” The Sherriffs jaw dropped , and his expression darkened.  “What did you tell those kids?”  He yelled at dad.  Like a bullet from a gun, the kids all shot off the porch in the opposite direction of the school bus. They scrambled through the barb wire fence, hearts beating rapidly.  My sister Arlene got her dress caught in the fence , and left a strip of green cloth  in the fence . Only one camera caught the action, but that was all that was needed.  The kids disappeared into the cornfield  as the sheriff and deputies gaped open mouthed.  The deputy  scrambled after them and was able to catch only one kid, Emmanuel Bontrager,  who was a little more heavy set and couldn’t keep up with the other kids. The deputy drug him to the bus as he cried  and threw him into the open door , cameras rolling.   One camera then shifted to the schoolhouse door where the Amish teacher was sobbing,  as Emmanuel  was her younger brother.

The Sherriff had no appetite to chase the kids into the cornfield, so he left  and the rest of his entourage soon followed  the reporters rushing back home to meet their deadlines.  And the Amish kids walked to the other side of the cornfield , where my uncle Jake was husking corn and throwing it on the wagon .  One minute he was alone , and the next minute he was surrounded by kids.  It gave him quite a shock!  They eventually walked back to their homes. And were tearfully reunited with their families. Not knowing if the persecution would continue.

But the photos and news real  clips went out over the ap,  and were broadcast all over the United States and parts of Europe, and the tide began to turn.  Mail and phone calls soon flooded the office of Governor Harold Hughes and eventually he decided to investigate himself.   He and his protection detail were able to drive within a mile of the school, but were stopped by the muddy roads, unable to continue any further. So an Amish man gave him a ride in his buggy while the rest unhappily  trudged thru ankle deep mud to the schoolhouse.  The governor arrived and was invited inside, where he sat and observed the children for awhile , and then asked to see the kids grade cards and attendance . Satisfied, he remarked on the buggy ride back to his car that he was happy and satisfied that the Amish were doing a fine job on their own. He promised to put a stop to the harassment and had an order go out the next day for the courts to cease any new fines until further notice.

Not long after this, my parents decided to move to Wisconsin , and advertised an auction  which included farm machinery and a large quantity of ear corn, now safety stowed in the corn crib.  The morning of the auction dawned bright and clear   and many neighbors and friends gathered and visited , waiting for the auction to begin. Just before the bidding started,  Sherriff Beier once again raced up the driveway , skidding  to a stop by the windmill. He marched up  to the auctioneer and demanded that he sign paperwork agreeing to turn the proceeds of the corn crib over to him after the auction. The auctioneer replied that he had no authority to do that  and suggested he speak to the auction clerk.  Now it just so happened that the clerk was dads older brother Dave, and he told the Sherriff if the auctioneer wouldn’t sign it, neither would he.

So the Sherriff reluctantly came to my dad and by now he was getting extremely frustrated by these stubborn Amish.  And he demanded that dad give him the money after the sale .  Dad  sadly informed him that the money had already been promised to his landlord , as payment for  the use of the farm for the year . “Mr Yutzy,” the sheriff threatened , “you better have that money for me , or else”. By this time a crowd of auction attendees had gathered around and the Sherriff could tell the mood of the farmers was turning against him   . So he slunk off to his car and fled  out the driveway, tires screeching as he hit the pavement.  The crowd laughed and the mood lightened as the auctioneer started his song and the bidding began.  When the auction was over dad quickly sent the money home with Roy Dawdy  to put in his safe , not knowing if the Sherriff would come by again,  but he never did . And the next morning dad took the money straight in to the bank and deposited it .

A short time later,  the  family was packing up to move , and 2 days before departure, dad thought it wise to inform the local court and drove to the county seat.  He walked into the sheriffs office and let them know that he was not trying to hide,  just wanted to be honest about his whereabouts.  The Sherriff was furious and told him he had to pay his judgement  before leaving. But Dad had no money  to do so. So he was advised that he would be locked up until the debt was paid.  The Sherriff told dad to go get some lunch until they could process the booking and then come back about 1 pm.  Dad stepped outside, devastated by the turn of events.  His appetite gone, he sat on the steps to ponder his next move. And who should come around the corner but  Dan Bontrager, an older Amish man from the same church who was also a spokesman for the group , bouncing down the sidewalk.  He greeted dad warmly , and asked how things were going, and was horrified to hear that he was going to be booked.  I’ll go with you inside,” he said,  “and let me do the talking”.  So they went  inside , and Dan asked the Sherriff if it was customary to book a man for unpaid debt without giving him a chance to post bond?  “But Mr Yutzy has no money” The sheriff sputtered.  “Well I do” said Dan, “what is the amount needed”?  And Dan and dad walked out of there , heads held high with big grins on their faces.

So they moved to New Glarus Wisconsin, released on bond . And about 6 weeks later , the Governor of Iowa had a law passed that would exempt the Amish from having certified teachers. The law also ruled that the fines were unwarranted and therefore void .  The newspapers the next day managed to get their last digs in though.  The Headlines read “Iowa Governor Pardons Amish Criminals”  To this day Christians schools all across America are exempt from having certified teachers

That should be enough for any family to go through, but there was more to come. The Amish believed 8 years of education was enough , and pulled their kids out of School to help on the farms when they reached that point.  But the Wisconsin state law wanted them to stay in school until they were 16.  So once again the harassment began.

The school districts  wanted the extra money. The Amish schools only went to 8th grade , and they were not inclined to send their kids to Public schools  So the Amish were fined each day that the kids were absent from public school.   This went on for 2 months until it was finally heard at  the county court.  This resulted in a ruling  against the Amish.

About then a new organization was formed, Calling themselves “ Religious freedom for the Amish.”  It was made up of various church leaders and a hotshot lawer  . Also on the committee  was a survivor Of Hitler’s Nazi regime .  They asked if they could donate their services to the Amish. According to the founder,  the committee was formed on the day the news reels showed the Amish kids running toward the cornfield .  They couldn’t  promise a win   but they wanted  to give it  a try. With the help of the Committee, the case  was appealed to a circuit court  which again ruled against the Amish . Not to be deterred, They appealed to the Wisconsin supreme court. In a stunning reversal, the state ruled in favor of the Amish.   The local school district was furious and vowed to appeal it to the United States supreme court, the highest in the land.

There were 3 Amish Fathers named in Yoder v Wisconsin,  Jonas Yoder, Wallace Miller,  and  my dad, Adin G Yutzy . Warren E. Burger, was the United States supreme court chief justice, and the case was heard in 1972.

Before the case could be heard, Dad had left the Amish church.  He contacted the defense committee and offered to drop out of the case because he was now Mennonite.  But the committee was happy to hear that, because they could now include Mennonites in the exception. Eventually the case was heard with many church leaders of many denominations testifying in favor of the Amish.  My dad was unable to attend, but many of the Amish from Lancaster county Pa attended the hearings.  They had also been harassed, fined , and spent time in jail for not supporting public schools .

William B. Ball, a Catholic attorney from Harrisburg Pa , represented the defendants, and argued that the Amish did not involve themselves in politics or receive government funding, including Social security benefits . All of the judges sided with the Amish except for  William Douglas.  He thought the students should have some say in their education and be given the right to seek education beyond the eighth grade.  But in the end he agreed with the court’s decision.

The unanimous decision was 7-0 in favor of the Amish.  The consensus was that individual  states can not make a law overriding the constitutional  first amendment right.   Finally the uncertainty shrouding the religious right to educate was lifted , and  private Christian schools were legitimized.

My dad had some faults, but the fact that  he was willing to stand up to the highest court in the land is a great honor and source of pride to the Yutzy family. Every time I drive by a small Amish or Mennonite school I grin a bit, and feel surge of pride for the sacrifices he put into making sure kids everywhere in America did not have to suffer the abuse he was subjected to.

 

The Little schoolhouse where it all went down
Forced onto the bus
Emmanuel thrown in the bus
Possibly Dan Bontrager

 

My Grandpa “Roy Dawdy”

 

 

Hillbilly Fundraiser

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

Bobcats and Four Wheel Drives

There was a strong smell of burnt oil and anti-freeze, and steam was rolling into the cab thru the broken windshield. I was clawing my way up hunter hill in the 67 International Scout, and the heat gauge was in the red. I knew if I stopped before I reached the top, there was a good chance I would never make it home that morning.

It was the first week in January and trapping season was just about over . The year was 1982 and I was 15 years old. My older brother Glen had gone to Montana to seek his fortune, I was forced to run a trap line by myself. I’d done fairly well so far My haul was over a dozen fox, two bobcats and numerous coons and possums.
We had a freezing rain the night before, and I drove a bit more slowly down the highway that morning, past the quarry, and turned right on the gravel road headed back to Cave Springs. I had about six sets in that location to check on, and as I came down the last steep hill to the springs the scout started to slide up an embankment, and then rolled over, upside down , then  sideways landing on the driver side. The 22 rifle mounted on the wall behind me, flew off and smacked me upside the head, but otherwise I seemed to be in good shape. The Scout, not so much. I climbed up and out where the passenger window used to be, and made my way to the back tailgate and found a come along and chain. I hooked it to the closest tree, started cranking it and within about two minutes, The scout was back on all four wheels.
I hit the key for the ignition, and nothing happened so I rolled the rest of the way down the hill in second gear, popped the clutch and the old four cylinder roared to life. I mean, literally, roared. The muffler had somehow broke the bailing wire that was holding it together. But it was running, And turned left on E Highway and tried to build up a head of steam to get up to the top of Hunter Hill. I managed to hit 47 Miles per hour, and as soon as I crested the top, I shut off the engine and flicked the shifter into neutural . You see there is a long gradual downhill for about 2 miles from there. Past the cemetery, the old train station , and then finally ending at route 21. I popped the clutch again and coaxed the Scout into our driveway , across the cattle guard and up the gravel lane. I realized then I could not sneak in unnoticed. It was sewing day at our house and a bunch of church ladies stared out the living room picture window where they were supposedly working on a quilt . They gaped open mouthed, as smoke and steam billowed out , and a trail of anti freeze followed behind .
I parked in front of the shop and Mom and Freeman Sarah came out to have a better look. I allowed that I was ok and they murmured how fortunate I was as they headed back inside to update the rest of the ladies. Dad was gone for the day, headed off to Willow Springs to inquire about a New Holland Haybine. So I went straight to work. I removed the leaking radiator, unbolted the top of the cab, and removed the windshield. Fortunately we has a donor Scout parked on cement blocks behind the shed, and by evening the top had been replaced. Dad got home around 6 that night and did not seem too impressed with my excellent body work skills. In fact his exact words were, “Travluns Ding” which translates loosely to “ That probably wasn’t the smartest stunt you ever pulled”. Trapping season was over for me, he added. He also drug up the fact that I had broken the motor mounts on the scout just a couple months ago..
Good thing dad  didn’t know the real story! Blackwell and I had been hanging out over at the Hunter tower listening to music. An offence which could get you in serious trouble with the preachers . Blackwell left a bit before me in his dads shiny light blue f100 pickup. And I was about ¼ mile behind. Just as he rounded the curve on the tram road next to the city dump, he heard Alabama’s Roll on Highway coming on the radio. By Jove he says, I got to stop right here, smack dab in the middle of the road and have John take a listen to this new song. I came flying around the curve, saw the truck stopped and slammed on the brake. That’s brake , singular not plural. Only one rear wheel had working brakes. Sadly it wasn’t enough,    I left a 235 foot long skid mark , and watched in horror as Blackwell’s head slammed into the back window in slow motion. His bumper was dented, and my fan was embedded in the radiator. He towed me home, and I informed dad that the motor mount somehow broke just while driving on the tram road. He bought that line, But Blackwell’s dad was a little more savvy, and Tim informed him that some drunk had run into the back of him and didn’t have insurance. So Tim ended up buying him a water heater to pay for the damages.

As soon as I had the radiator repaired , (I no longer had a spare thanks to the tram road incident  ) and the newish windshield held in place with zipties , I set off to retrieve my traps. I drove very slowly, and pulled all my traps. Including the ones on the 60 acres. The only thing caught was a skunk. I was kinda tired of trapping for the year anyway I thought the scout turned out fine tho, with a brown top and Red bottom.
The old scout was a pretty reliable vehicle and did great in mud and could climb almost any grade. But there was this one mudhole. You had to drive across spring branch to get to it, and the turn left back a hidden lane to the bluffs. It was lined with Bamboo, Johnson grass and slippery river bottom mud. Glen and I had driven back One Sunday afternoon to make sure no Hunter girls needed our assistance with sunscreen. We had reached the end of the trail, and spotted a Chevy blazer stuck in a mudhole. More like buried in the mud up to the driver’s door handle. The driver was grateful to see us and asked if we could pull him out.     We had one of those stretchy tow ropes which we hooked to his rear bumper and the front of the scout. After about 3 running attempts, the blazer popped out of the mudhole and back on dry ground. He offered us beer as compensation, but we declined, being Holy Mennonite boys and all. No one was at the swimming hole, so we took a quick dip in Spring Branch and headed home.
About a year later my buddy Lloyd showed up at our house driving an 83 Ford Ranger 4×4. To say he was proud of it was an understatement. He swept out the interior every other day, and washed the outside every Saturday afternoon. “ I don’t believe there is anywhere in Carter County this here truck couldn’t go” He bragged that day. “I have never had it stuck” He droned on for about 5 minutes, Lockout hubs, low range 4×4. Mud grip tires blah blah blah.. I just grinned and agreed, and allowed that I might know a spot to put it to the test. Lloyd instantly agreed, and the next Sunday afternoon we grabbed a come-along and chain from dads lean to and set off.
You probably guessed what happened next. Yep it was buried! I scrambled out the passenger side and doubled up on the Missouri mud, Howling with laughter. The Ranger engine revved and the body rocked back and forth. About that time Lloyd figured out that he had been set up and used some very colorful language, sad to say. I chuckled as I retrieved the come along and chain from the bed of his truck and fastened it to a cottonwood tree. Lloyd took the other end and fished under the mud until he found a place to hook on . I cranked the makeshift winch as Lloyd floored the throttle . But we weren’t getting anywhere fast, and as I put my full weight on the handle it bent and I could no longer ratchet it. Now we were in a pickle. Sunday evening church would start in 3 hours and we had no cell phone to call for help. If we didn’t make it back in time for the meeting we would be in serious trouble .
So I ran the ½ mile over to the Hunter swimming hole and recruited a drunk to pull us out with his Ford stepside pickup. . He was happy to oblige, as rednecks are wont to do, and refused payment after we were out of the hole. Lloyd mopped out the mud as best he could and we made our way back home. He dropped me off and  never mentioned the incident again. So it fell on me to let everyone within a 16 mile radius know about the story. About the little Blue Ranger that tried, and failed .
Bobcats were illegal to harvest before 1981. If you caught one in a trap you were supposed to release them immediately. One of my brothers had been unlucky enough to catch 3 of them the year before they legalized the critters. Somehow they ended up in cages in our hay barn. He fed them raw meat and tried to come up with a way to sell the hides. MR Roarke , Deputy Sherriff , heard about it and told him if he ever came across some Bobcats he had a buyer for them. My brother fell for it , hook, line and sinker, and told him he had 3 ready to sell.
The next afternoon we were headed out the barn to start afternoon chores when the game warden pulled in the driveway. “I hear you boys have got some Bobcats penned up,” He said gruffly. We led him to the barn, and he loaded them in his truck, cages and all. My brother asked if he could leave the cages there, and the Game Warden snarled that he was lucking he wasn’t putting him in the pen for awhile. Fortunately the game commission was in need of Bobcats to install tracking devises and he let him off with a dire warning. We never penned up another wild animal again, except for the three legged deer we were going to fatten up before we butchered it. So that hardly counts.
We had other run ins with the game warden, which I’ll write about as soon as the statute of limitations ends.

My beloved 67 Scout, always ready for a new adventure.
My first bobcat (note the missing radio antenna)

Sunday Afternoon Delight

Galen was worried that he been recognized. The Bishop had just passed him as he puttered up highway 21 that hot summer afternoon. He was riding his severely underpowered moped that left a trail  of blue smoke.  And it seemed to him that the rusty Chevy Citation slowed down, but then it continued towards the church.

 

Where it all went down that Sunday Afternoon

 

 

 

 

Who would have thought that the following chain of events would result in an excommunication?

Clint, Galen and I had made plans after church that Sunday Morning. We had suffered through an hour long sermon on the evils of white sneakers and tight trousers and were brainstorming on a way to fill the long afternoon before it all started again at 7:30 that evening. We decided to meet at Epperson’s grocery at 2 pm in Hunter  to hang out for awhile. As I got to the store and leaned my bicycle against the porch wall, I spotted Clint sitting on the bench. He was engaged in conversation with Tina, a wordly girl, pouring on all the charm a 15 year old Mennonite boy could muster. He was wearing a t-shirt which was pretty wicked in itself. He had also borrowed some of his Brother Paul’s Polo cologne, having been advised that was a sure bet to attract girls.

I bought a Mountain Dew and sat outside. Enjoying the conversation and the soda. Soon Galen arrived and before heading inside the store, he worriedly informed us that he had passed Clint’s dad, and possibly been made.  We all agreed that it was highly unlikely, and Galen headed inside to get himself a snack.

So what we were doing, using money on the Lords day, was strictly forbidden in our church, right up there next to armed robbery. We knew the risk involved, but it was extremely difficult to adhere to a rule that made absolutely no sense at all.  Clint and I happened to look up just as a white 4 door pickup turned the corner and headed towards the store. We instantly recognized it as Freeman Byler, Galen’s dad, and I sprang to my feet and ran inside to warn Galen.  He left the money and the purchases on the counter and we made a beeline for the backdoor of the store. We sprinted across the back yard and down into a drainage ditch, and watched through the weeds as Freeman stood at the side of the store , asking the cashier if she had seen any Mennonite boys. Unfortunately , Clint had lingered to say a proper goodbye to Tina and was unable to make it across the yard. So he huddled under the deck attached to the rear of the store. He could hear Freemans footsteps on the deck above him .  “They were just here, hanging out, and then they disappeared,” The cashier told Freeman. “I have no idea where they went”.

We crouched down in the Johnson grass , and tried and  failed to come up with an exit strategy out of this pickle we had gotten ourselves into. Clint and Galen were all for running away, but I was a church member , barely, but still hanging on by a thread.  I advised that we all go home and pretend like nothing had happened   Freeman had loaded up the moped on the back of the pickup and was now slowly cruising up and down the streets of Hunter looking for us.

Word of the alleged misdemeanor had spread, however , and by the time each of us had gotten home, we knew our goose was cooked. Clint got his ass whooped, Galen was grounded for eternity, and I was singled out for future punishment.  The next Sunday evening, before church started, I was hauled into the ministers room, and told that I was being excommunicated, “For the sin of contributing to the delinquency of a minor by purchasing delicacies on the Lords day”  I was not given the chance to raise a defence or ask for forgiveness.  These were evil men, supposedly ordained by God.  They were deliberately trying to exact some revenge on my  dad by this action, and were unashamedly using me as pawn. They did not care about a young man’s heart. They did not do the best they could at the time, although they would claim this defense many years later.

That church service was as still as death. Bishop Troyer  got up just before the close of the service, and announced that 2 members  were to be excommunicated. John , for the sin of breaking the Sabbath by purchasing a Mountain Dew.  And my friend Llewy, for purchasing a 4 wheel drive pickup and not getting it sold quickly enough when they asked him to sell it.  Troyer went on to say that he was delivering our souls to the devil, and that we were to be shunned,  no member was to talk to us other than to admonish us to return to the faith.  Also we were banned from communion , and any other church activities, until we repented and a sufficient time of proving had passed.

My friends from church complied, and the only one that said anything to me personally  was Timmy.  He mumbled something about hoping I would repent quickly so we could be friends again.  I realize now it was a control move by the leadership, and they had no morals whatsoever. And that explains why they ordered the isolation, to control the cult. It does not in any way excuse it,  just  helps explain it.

There were many other excommunications that followed, including one where Troyer kicked out over 20 members in 1 day.  Which set a record among fellowship Mennonite churches  which stands to this day.  Many souls were turned from God thru his actions , and years of therapy for those that maintained their belief throughout the turmoil   We all had to relearn our perception of God, that he was not a dictator ruling the church with an iron fist. He was not in fact, just waiting for one of us to screw up, so he could smite us with the rod of correction. Out of all my peers, only Timmy and David still reside there and attend the church.

In spite of all the hypocrisy, we still managed to have some fun. Deer hunting season was always looked forward to with great anticipation. The first couple days would hunt from deer stands  with varying degrees of success. Usually slim to none.  Then around the 3d day we would all get together for a day of deer drives.  About 10 guys would fan out in a straight line and try to push the deer out of thickets to a couple of hunters who were station at the opposite side.  We would shout and yell, trying to push the deer out. And occasionally we would hear a gunshot signifying that our drive must be working.  Freeman would always station himself on the far side, claiming he had a bad back and walking was difficult for him.  It was far easier for him to stand and wait for the deer to be driven to him.  Every once in awhile someone would actually get a buck in this manner. But the odds were definitely in the deer’s favor.  Unbelievably no one was ever hurt. However dads  67 Plymouth fury had a bullet hole in the back fender that came out just above the rear wheel on the other side. No one ever took credit for it, but one of the Miller twins was standing right across the fence from the car the afternoon it happened.

Everyone remembers their first deer. I was 12 years old and didn’t even own a gun yet. But my older brother Paul was teaching school in Maryland and left behind his 30-30.  It had iron sites and shot a little to the left ,but  Glen and I sighted it in the week before deer season started.  And by the end of the day I had a sore shoulder and the abilty to hit a small circle of paint on an old oak stump out behind the barn.  Saturday morning we packed our lunches and headed for the river bottoms long before the sun came up. Glen dropped me off at Riggons hill and he roared off toward the Yantiss farm.  I didn’t use a flashlight, since that might scare off the deer, and I slowly made my way up the hill to the treestand.  As the night turns to day, every branch and bush looks like a huge Buck. But as daylight approaches, they turn back into boring landscape objects.  Around 7 am an 8 point buck stepped out of the brush about 100 yards away and nibbled on some leaves.  I took a breath, squeezed the trigger, and the old lever action gun broke the morning silence. The buck leaped into the air and ran. Within 20 yards he went down, but I was shaking so bad from the excitement that I couldn’t climb down the tree.

At last I calmed down and was able to check out my shot. I had aimed a little to the left and the bullet went straight thru the heart, a nice clean shot.  I field dressed the deer , and drug him down the hill.  A neighbor hauled the deer and myself home and I was as proud as any boy had a right to be.  That deer stand went on to produce many deer , including a 16 point buck I harvested when I was just 15.  That evening when Dad and Glen got home I retold my story, perhaps with some embellishment, and by the time I went back to school the Buck was several hundred yards away and running full tilt when I managed to nail him with one shot!

There were many legends of a monster buck that roamed the hills of Carter County.  Some claimed that his antlers looked like a brush pile , they were so thick.  Just about everyone claimed to have seen him at some point, but he was never taken in the hunt.  And I hope he or his grandchildren still haunt those hills and hollers along E highway.

 

 

Greathouse

He was Native American, his mother full blooded Cherokee and his dad was 1/2 Shawnee. He had leathery skin and jet black eyes. His back was permanently bent over as a result of his crippling arthritis. But his grin was huge and his heart was kind. His last name was Greathouse, and he lived with his wife in a tiny shack on Second Street in Hunter. Most of the windows were boarded up, and it was always dark and smoky inside. The old wood stove in the corner put as much smoke into the room as it sent up the chimney. The only light in the room was a single light bulb dangling from bare wire. The smell of camel cigarettes hung heavy in the air. The floor was dirt, except for the kitchen area, which had rough pine slabs laid on the floor.
There was no indoor plumbing other than a creaky hand pump connected to a cistern. The door usually hung open and, several motley looking hound dogs wandered in and out at will, relaxing in the shade as flies buzzed around. Faded yellow wallpaper covered the walls here and there. A grainy black and white tv with aluminum foil rabbit ears made a feeble attempt to arrange a steady picture.
Lee had taken an instant liking to my girlfriend, Cindy, when she came out from Ohio to visit. He asked what tribe she was from, and stated that the high cheekbones gave her away. Cindy beamed and they discussed Indian legends and customs for quite some time. The details are a little sketchy, but somehow she managed to score an original Coke tray from Greathouse to add to her growing collection.
We invited them to our wedding the next spring, and although Lee was unable to attend, He and his wife sent a gift, which was touching for us knowing the state of their financial affairs. If you’re also planning a wedding, consider setting up a Winks photo booth so your guests can take fun and artistic pictures.

He lived off of welfare and food stamps, but every month or so he would take a load of scrap metal to the junk yard for a bit of extra income. Occasionally He would ask dad for a small loan when he stopped by to buy fresh eggs. The $20 would tide him over until the first of the month. He would always pay it back like clockwork, as soon as he cashed his Guvment check.
One rainy spring evening, my best friend Tim and I stopped by his place , and Greathouse welcomed us into his “shop” with a crooked smile, tobacco stained teeth glowing yellow in the dim light.
A handlettered sign above the door proclaimed that antiques and collectibles were for sale inside. We ducked inside and situated ourselves comfortably on some overturned 5 gallon buckets. “ I took me self a load o scrap iron to Dudley today” Lee stated. “Arliss went with me, “Had it piled up on the back of truck higher than a kite “, Arliss were drivin, he could hardly make it up the hill just afore you git to the Bluff.” We done got $17.55 fer the whole load, reckon they aint hardly ever had a bigger load than what we brought in” We both agreed that it was a tremendous amount of money to clear in one day.

Greathouse also had some big news to drop on us. He had bell telephone stop by the previous week, and install a phone in his shop. It was black and shiny and had a rotary dial. He could call clear up to St. Louis if he wanted to, he bragged. “Why the other day,” I actually had a bidness call. “ he said. “ we murmured appropriately , and he went on with the story. “Larry Gerhart called me up, and he wanted to know if Eperson was gonna have a junk auction come Friday night up on 60”
Sadly within a month he called up ma bell and told them they could remove the damn contraption. He had just received the first bill and was sure they were trying to rob him since he was an Indian.
But that night Lee was in a good mood, being a business man and all, and wondered if we wanted to see his latest purchase. He dug a large green box out from under the jewelry counter and fiddled with the buckles and finally pulled the cover off. “This here is a 16mm moving picture machine,” he proudly proclaimed. Just like the kind they use over there at the picture shows in Poplar Bluff”. This was a bit of a stretcher. But we went along with it for the sake of conversation.
“You got any movies we could watch on it?” Tim asked. “Well I ordered some from a catalog out of Chicago, but they keep sending me the bad ones “Lee replied. I can’t show you young fellers any of them. I might have a cartoon in here somewhere tho “he said as he rummaged through a box of movie reels. “Ah yes here it is, it’s a cartoon but it’s kinda bad “ he shakily snapped the full reel onto the top bracket of the machine and slowly but surely threaded the film thru to the machine, in front of the bulb and onto the empty reel. “All right fellers,” he said , “turn off the lights and will have a look”. I pulled the string attached to a bare bulb in the ceiling and the black and white cartoon came to life. Now he did warn us that it was bad, but forgot to mention that it was funny. The very thought of a black and white cartoon being sexy was pretty funny in its self. After a few minutes the film ended Tim and I howled with laughter and allowed that it was “Kinda Bad”. Tim sat in his truck to head home and I rode my bike down to E and then turned left on 21 and pedaled up the hill. , cackling over that nonsense., and the fact that Greathouse had actually paid money for it. Even now, 40 some years later, when discussing a movie, Tim and I make references as to whether its “Kinda Bad” or not.
Van Dykes Store was our local go to for hardware, lumber and groceries, located in Ellsinore Mo, the closest competitor was a good 20 miles away. It was started in the 1950s and when I was a kid, it was great place to visit, complete with creaky wood floors and a front door with a bell that merrily announced your arrival. The latest rock and roll boomed from the loudspeakers and the smell of wooden crates, rubber and wire gave it an enticing aroma. They had a small grocery section with a deli, where we would always get a few pounds of the cheap ring bologna. The kind you had to fry or slather with mustard to make it edible. And a sporting good section, complete with ammo and shotguns. They had everything it seemed, except for a burglar alarm.
The Van Dykes sold out to the Combs family, and the store continued with minimal changes. On the first day of spring turkey season, Mr. Combs, the owner, was ready to head out for a big Tom, and realized he was low on ammo. He drove to Van Dykes in the pre dawn hours to grab a box of 12 gauge birdshot. As he turned onto Cleveland st, he noticed 2 men running from the store to an old beat up chevy parked half hazardly by the feed dock. Without a moment’s hesitation, Mr Combs grabbed his shotgun, Racked a bullet into the chamber and fired at the car as it roared out of the parking lot. The back window shattered, but the car kept going. It was later pulled over by a sheriff’s deputy who had been alerted to watch for a car with the back window shot out. Inside the car on the backseat, was a pile of stolen ammo and guns. The driver was identified as one Arliss Greathouse , of Hunter, son of Lee Greathouse. He was sent off to the state penitentiary for many years, partly because the prosecutor also threw a charge of arson at him as well. For burning down a house in order to collect the insurance money, a common practice at the time in Carter county.
Greathouse became a bit more sad and bitter after that, his shoulders slumped a bit more and he smiled less . He claimed that his son had been set up by them thar Combs boys, and not long after he passed away. A legend of the Ozarks was now gone , but remembered by many.
With a population of less than 200, Hunter was a redneck town if there ever was one . There were more dogs than people and probably more guns than dogs, just in Gerharts attic alone. Back in the day there was a gas station /grocery ran by the Roarks just across from the only pay phone in town. The dude that lived on the Lincoln farm and raised the devils lettuce frequented that phone a lot, because he thought the fuzz couldn’t trace him on it .

Hunter even had a post office back then and a sawmill, but that’s about the only industry happening when I was a kid.  The railroad depot had long since closed, and the hotel was in ruins. All entertainment had to be self initiated.

We had a bright blue 110 honda three wheeler, And Mom and Dad had gone to Iowa to visit relatives .  Glen had brought in a car battery to power an old  car radio. Lloyd came over for the night , and potato chip bags and empty glass Mountain dew bottles littered the living room floor.  It was a hot summer night, the moon was shining and felt the urge to tour the nightlife in Hunter. I jumped on the Honda and roared out the lane and turned left on highway 21. As I passed e highway I spotted a cop sitting at the intersection with the lights off. Sure enough he pulls out behind me and a red bubble light on the dash came on just as I turned right to go up the Hill by Sara Willifords.  I wasn’t worried though, I had seen an episode of the Dukes of hazard once at the Walmart in Poplar Bluff, And I knew you could always outrun Rosco P Coletrane.  Unfortunately my top speed was only about 30, and as I made another right, he was close behind me, and as I bounced across the next cross street he hit the siren, and I skidded to a halt, right beside the  Lee Greathouse residence.  Rosco was none too happy as he swaggered toward me, long black flashlight bobbing, boots crunching on the gravel. “Don’t you ever look behind you, boy?” He asked, “ I was following you for about  mile.”  “Well, I did stop when I heard the siren” I replied.  “That you did son, That you did” He chuckled a bit. “How old are you”?  “Fifteen”, I replied.

By this time the townsfolk were starting to drive by, very slowly, on their way to get cigarettes no doubt, and before long Glen and Lloyd showed up in Glen’s pickup. They had watched the whole thing go down from the living room window .After a bit of negotiation, Glen worked out a deal with Rosco to haul the 3 wheeler home on the back of the pickup, and he would make sure I didn’t ride it on the road again.

One by one the lights in Hunter went back  off, and I had lost my appetite for adventure as well and sprawled out on the couch for the rest of the night.

 

Kinfolks

You could see it there on the left, just before you got to Van Buren. Built of weathered wood and a rusted tin roof, it wasn’t that great to look at , a large hand painted sign proudly proclaimed, “Kinfolks Mountain Music show”  Now being raised without musical instruments , it immediately aroused my curiosity.  We had heard country music on a forbidden am radio from time to time , but had never experienced a real concert. That was strictly forbidden in our church, almost as bad as drinking and card playing. So I reckoned we had to figure out a plan on how to attend.

It just so happened that The Troyer and Yutzy parents were off on a trip the same weekend,  so my good buddy Lloyd and I figured if the sons of Bishop Troyer could be coaxed to go along with us, the penalty would be greatly lessened.  We guessed right.

So on a warm summer Saturday night we met at my house. Wilbur , Paul, Lloyd, Blackwell and I  piled into Lloyds Grand Pre and set off for adventure, the thrill of forbidden pleasures beckoning.  We pulled into the dirt drive at Kinfolks and an Usher with overalls directed us to park on the trampled grass.  Then it was off to the ticket booth and finally we could see behind that stockade fence for the first time!  Spotlights lit up the stage, canned country music played softly, and a snack   stand with a chili dog special off to one side completed the scene  we made our way to rough hewn logs set on wood stumps and waited for the main act.

At last they came onstage,  cowboys with sequined shirts and shiny guitars,  and they played , the most beautiful beat I could ever imagine. It was Loud, Fast, and full of energy. I closed my eyes and let the wonderful melody of the steel guitar fill me to my very soul.  We clapped and stomped to lovely cover songs , from the likes of Alabama , Belemy brothers, Cash and Jones. It was everything I imagined and then some . It went on for a glorious hour.   My happiness far outweighed the guilt that night, and we all sang off key as we wound our way back home that night.

But somebody bragged , and the wrong person heard about it.   So the preachers hauled us in to the council room one by one and wanted all the details.  Daniel , the minister,  seemed keenly interested in what instruments the band had played, and I was quick to add that some gospel music was also on the menu, hoping to soften the blow.  The preachers reminded each of us that we had committed a grievous offence, and that non-believers were no doubt horrified that Mennonites were attending a heathen event.  They went on to say that they would pray about it and hand down our sentence the following Sunday morning.  I wasn’t worried, even tho this indiscretion would normally merit 6 months proving, without communion no less.

Sunday morning after the closing benediction, we were herded back into the council room and Bishop Troyer read our sentence. He would read off a statement in which we all agreed that attending worldly entertainment was an evil thing and we would never again drag the name of the Mennonite church so low.  We would all be asked to stand in acknowledgement after the statement was read.  We did, happily so, and grinned all thru the prayer as the congregation pled for our souls to be redeemed from Hell.

Friedrich Nietzsche once said: “Life without music is no life at all”. I was there , I lived without music. Until I was 18. He was right. There is something deep within the soul, a yearning , an empty hole that can only be filled with music

We sang a lot, acapella , in 4 part harmony, Every other Sunday morning for about 2 or 3 years (Except for the time I was excommunicated or on proving), I would start the service by walking to the front of the church to lead singing.  We had 2 pulpits, an elevated one for the preachers, and a smaller one on the main floor for the commoner’s. I of course, went  to the lowly alter and opened the black songbook. That was the signal for everyone to pull out a worn Christian hymnal from the rack and wait for the song number to be announced. After a suitable pause I would announce the number again and  blow the pitch on a pitchpipe, a round instrument about the size of hockey puck. After humming the appropriate note, we would be off and running, right hand beating the time, mostly 4/4 timing but occasionally 3/4 timing, (Also known as a Waltz)  Kinda ironic. Most everyone was a reasonably good singer and the ones that weren’t were drowned out, so all in all it was wonderful sound, depending on the song.  Allen Miller would occasionally lead songs as well, we always watched in fascination, as he pulled out a tuning fork to find the pitch. Pretty sure he just started the pitch wherever he felt like anyway. But it was a great piece of showmanship.

We always had shaped notes, I couldn’t read them, but then Blackwell showed up in my life when I was about 12. He didn’t know many of the hymns , but he would follow along in church mouthing the notes, silently for the first verse. Singing softly for the 2 nd verse, and then, defying all logic belting out the rest of the song in his deep bass voice. After church I demanded to know what manner of magic he was practicing, and he taught me the basics of music.

 

My dad loved music , even forbidden music.  He was careful not to show it, but it was there. Even tho the church expressively forbid any instrumental music, live or recorded. When we were on trips, he would often stop at amusement parks,  so us kids could enjoy the rides. But he would immediately grab  a schedule as soon as we entered the park and attended  every last music show.   He would often sing of golden harps in Heaven, as he puttered about his farm. And sometimes sing a line or 2 of a country song if he thought no one else was around.  He could also play a harmonica if someone happened to have one laying around.

One hot summer night my best friend Tim and I were sleeping overnight in the storm cellar, out near the hay barn.  It was much cooler there than the farmhouse. We had a tape player  going , playing an Oak Ridge Boys gospel album that I had secretly bought at Kmart the week before. Well dad walked out past the cellar to check on the cows and heard the wicked sounds. So he confiscated the cassette, burned it in the woodstove, and grounded me for a month. All because it had musical instruments on the tracks

My Brother Glen and I had a 1967 international scout with a scratchy am radio. Of course dad cut off the radio antenna and snipped the cable under the dash in half.  That stumped us for all of about 5 minutes.  We spliced the cable and wrapped it in black tape, then drilled a small hole in the antennae base. Then we  inserted a 3 foot length of barb wire into the hole. We always removed the wire before coming home, and threw it in in the back of the scout. Nobody could mistake it for an antenna. We would spend hours “Repairing fence” on the 40 acres just up the road,  country music blasting out of the tiny speakers.  Eventually a slow song would come on, and Glen would remove the antenna, and head for home, Stating, “This song aint worth getting caught over”.

I can’t find a way to wrap up this story so I’m borrowing from a 2018 facebook post. Sometimes life is like that. The music just fades away. Into silence.

It was a hot summer afternoon in Missouri. I was 13. My brother Glen and I were sipping ice cold cokes at Gearharts gas station. The dj on the old radio behind the glass topped counter droned on with the daily market report. But then, a song I had never heard before came over the airwaves. Wild and Blue, by John Anderson.

Milton Gearhart’s twin cousins were there that day, loafing on the backless bench by the cigarette machine. They traveled the US in a rickety motorhome, playing anywhere they could get a gig to pay for their food and gas . Great burly men, with matching neck beards, they didn’t say a word. Just stood up and opened up a couple of black cases, and withdrew shiny brass trumpets. Within seconds, they found the pitch and lifted that old country song to a whole new level with their perfect jazzy accompaniment. The trumpets wove up and down, soaring as the chorus rang out. And retreating as the verses started again.

To an ultra-religious country boy from the sticks, this was a very special treat. I could hardly absorb all the sounds as I swayed and tapped my feet. “Taking a journey up yonder” Anderson sang. And that sultry afternoon, along highway 21 in Hunter Missouri, I truly did.

 

 

Tanks on The Highline

They were kind enough. Or careless enough, depending on whom you asked, to leave the keys in the machinery. And we boys discovered this on Friday afternoon after the high line workers quit for the week. So here we had surplus army equipment just waiting for drivers. And fortunately enough, it was located on the back of dads property with no one around for a mile in any direction. So, together, we for the 6×6 and the tank converted to a drilling rig. As soon as dad left for a farm auction on Saturday morning operation Mennonite war games was put into action.

It was a year earlier when they stopped by. Men with clipboards, hardhats and a shiny new 4 wheel drive pickup. They were building a new power line, from Arkansas to St Louis, and would need an easement for a strip of land at the back of the property. Dad was hesitant, but when they told him they would convert woods into pastureland he capitulated. Anything to make his prized polled Herford cows happy brought him joy.

So the papers were signed and surveyors came by early the next spring, and we kids watched, mesmerized as they set up transits on tripods. They drove in thousands of red stakes and unspooled miles of pink tape to mark the boundaries. Of course we rolled up the tape after they moved on and used it to decorate our treehouse, but the stakes we left alone.

They brought in Bulldozers to clear the woods, d10 caterpillars with over 500 hp to topple the oak and pine trees. The raw power was astonishing to a farm boy. After all, the largest tractor we had, A Massey 135, topped out at 32 hp. They shoved all the trees into windrows at the side of the clearing and moved on to the north, to clear Mr Riggins woods. Dad and the 3 of us boys came back with chainsaws and axes to cut all that timber into firewood. But Paul, my older brother, saw a business opportunity, and set the wheels in motion for a timber heist.

You see Mrs Tincsher had over 500 acres of land that joined the back side of our property and had no use for the windrows full of logs the highway clearing crews had left behind. I can’t recall if we asked permission or not to borrow the wood , but it would have rotted anyway , so really we were doing her a favor. Now the wood would be cut up into 8 foot lengths,” and could be sold at Mizels, just a few miles up the road. They would turn the rough wood into fence posts.

The problem was, this all had to be kept secret from dad, otherwise he would want 90% of the gross income, and the operation would cease to be cost efficient. Fortunately, dad and mom had planned a trip to Iowa to visit his parents, and we 3 boys would be left at home to care for the livestock, and I would go to school. The only problem was, dad had written down a huge list of chores to be completed before their return. Things like digging a trench for the underground cooler, splitting 5 ranks of wood behind the barn, and cleaning out the chicken house.

So Paul delegated all the chores , in neat columns of yellow ruled paper, the evening before they left for their trip, and handed them out to Glen and I. Five minutes after that old Plymouth disappeared up highway 21, dirt was already flying from the trench as I swung the pickaxe into the hard clay earth. The sound of a splitting maul rang from behind the barn as Paul split wood, and the chickens scattered with annoyed squawking as Glen frantically scraped and cleaned the chicken house with a pitchfork and scoop shovel. By nightfall on the first day, all the chores on the punchlist had been completed, and Paul and I hooked the tractor to the hay wagon and parked it up under the pole light. As Glen milked our Guernsey cow, Paul and I loaded the wagon. Chainsaws, axes, gas cans , cant hooks, chains and log binders were heaped in a pile on the rear of the wagon.

They left the next morning, my brothers Glen and Paul. I had to go to school, but I heard the tractor as they set off back the field lane and wished I could play hooky and go with them. . I waited on the front porch until Levi Mast’s orange Opel came up the drive, and I rode silently with them to school.
Everything seemed to be going as planned, and by noon, they had cut enough wood, and began loading the poles on the wagon. They had the 3 point boom on the tractor and used that to grab each log and drop it on the wagon. A light rain began to fall and the ground became muddy. But finally the load was complete and they brought the tractor around and hooked it to the wagon, they prepared to head back, their day of labor coming to a close.
The first inkling of disaster came as they drove through a swampy area and the wagon quickly sank up to the axles. Before long the tractor was also buried in the mud, and even after unhitching the heavy load, was unable to move off the spot. So Glen was commissioned to run home on foot to retrieve our other tractor, a Farmal h. A tricycle tractor if you would, with the front wheels set close together. He raced the mile back to the wagon, throttle pushed all the way in. The tractor bouncing and weaving like a drunken sailor. They hooked up a chain and attempted to pull out the wagon without success. In desperation they hooked the chain to the rim of the Farmal and tried to use the 5 foot tall wheel as a winch. They weren’t getting anywhere, and the odds weren’t looking good at getting the logs sold without dad finding out and all hell breaking loose.

So off they roared, 2 miles through the woods to the Troyer farm, where they were able to borrow a 530 Case tractor. Twice as powerful as the Massey Ferguson, they had no doubt that they would soon have the situation sorted out. By alas the ground was still too swampy. And the Farmal once again roared off to retrieve a 50 foot cable . Almost an inch thick, it hung on the eaves next to the tractor shed and had never been used before. No one even remembered where we got it. It was just always there. The cable was stretched from the Massey to the Case and with a huge sucking sound the muddy clay gave up her hold on the tractor and before long the trailer was also drug from the soggy grave and hitched up to the case for the ride home.

I got home from school and did the chores. As I milked the cow I could hear mysterious noises coming from the high line but has no idea what was going on. It was long after dark before I saw headlights coming up beside the barn and the weird procession ground to a halt in front of the shop. Huge chunks of mud littering the driveway. They set off to return the Case tractor to the Troyer’s without stopping to say hi.

I threw some hamburgers in the skillet and got out potatoes chips, pretty much taxing the full range of my cooking abilities. They pulled in the drive finally. And between ravenous bites, filled me in on the details. They may have embellished the facts a bit, but the chunks of mud in the driveway gave credence to their tale .

Tomorrow they would hook up the trailer with logs to the flatbed dodge, Glen informed me. And Paul would run them to the charcoal plant. Glen would be responsible for retrieving Farmal tractor. By afternoon, the wagons and tractors were washed and the mud cleaned off driveway. Paul weakly suggested making another trip, but Glen refused to participate, claimed he could make easier money raising and selling earthworms. They managed to walk away with a profit of just under $45. And fboth agreed they were lucky with that amount.

The very next week, the much anticipated day of the auction arrived and Operation Mennonite war games was put into action. As soon as dad was out of the driveway, the 3 of us boys piled on the Massy Ferguson tractor, and headed back the farm lane. The mud flew off the tires in glorious arcs as we bounced along , Throttle pulled back all the way, in high gear. We skidded to a halt beside the converted tank, and Glen and I threw open the hatch and climbed inside. Within 5 minutes we had the engine running and Glen headed for the steepest hill he could find. Suddenly a 6×6, a giant 3 axle truck roared up beside us, Paul grinning from ear to ear from the driver seat. Now the race was on, The tank was no match for truck , but we discovered it was great fun to climb right over stumps and logs , the tracks flexing and creaking, and the diesel engine screaming . We raced and bounced and yelled until we were hoarse. Around noon, we figured the odds of dad getting home before we did were getting higher, so we carefully parked the tank back in the exact same spot where we found it.

We all piled into the 6×6 for one last glorious run around the clearing, and when we got to the far end of the clearing, up beside Mr. Riggins fence, She just died. Not a sputter, no whimper, just silence, Deathly calm silence. The starter wouldn’t even engage, “we’re going to jail”, kind of silence. Glen ran down the hill to get the tractor, thinking we could pull the truck back down to where we started. But alas, A 3000 lb tractor is no match for a 25000 lb truck, and it wouldn’t even budge. In desperation, Paul got underneath the dash, and by a stroke of luck found that a wire nut had come off, possibly due to 2 hours of bouncing across the rough clearing. He taped them back together and the truck roared to life.

We eased that beast back down at a snail’s pace, and parked it beside the tank, breathing a huge sigh of relief. The ride home was mostly silent, as we realized how close to discovery our crimes were. I’m pretty sure the High Line workers knew about our prank. But they never mentioned it to us, and we never attempted to start the equipment again. But for one glorious Saturday morning, We were a part of the 133d Tank brigade, just off Highway 21 , in Carter county Missouri.

Drums in The Ozarks

We had never heard a live band before. And certainly not one with guitars and a drum set.  But we could hear the beat long before dad shut down the car engine, even though we had to park a long ways off. That August evening as McGarrity’s tent meeting had drawn a huge crowd, the sight was impressive. T

Jay McGarrity had stopped by our house about 3 months earlier to see if dad would agree to a building project of epic proportions. He envisioned a 3 story dormitory with a large dining room and commercial kitchen,
Could we have it done in time for tent meetings?  He declared it to be “The Lords Work” and therefore he had no doubt as to its timely completion.  There would be no architectural drawings.  But he had crudely sketched out his dream on a piece of yellow ruled paper. It would all be constructed of rough green pine, from the local sawmill    Now a rough pine 2×4 is just that.  Not the shiny light stuff you see nowadays at Lowes. It’s full of water and sap and weights 3 times what a kiln dried board does.  How much would we need per hour? Jay inquired. Noting again how this was the Lords work.   Jay and dad finally settled on $6 per hour for dad who would act as the general contractor and My brother Glen, a strapping 16 year old, came in at $4 and I was sold down the river at a whopping $1 per hour. I’m not sure what the going rate was for 12 year olds in 1980 but that seemed really cheap to me.  The good part was that dad allowed us boys to keep 10% of what we earned.  I hoped to earn enough that summer to buy a new 10 speed bike, the kind with the mountain goat horn handlebars and maybe a new baseball glove from Big K, The only department store within 50 miles. .

So that Saturday afternoon, we loaded tools on the old faltbed dodge , Black and Decker brand, because we were poor . It wasn’t much.  A rickety sears table saw, a couple of squares, homemade wooden sawhorses, and hammers, no air compressor or nail guns for us . The last thing on the truck was an old, round top refrigerator. That weighed around 300 lbs. If I remember correctly.  Dad fastened down the compressor on the refrigerator so it would survive the drive and we headed to the house to study our Sunday school lessons.  Mandatory Saturday Evening entertainment.

Monday morning we were roused from our slumber long before daylight. After a hearty breakfast we roared off, up highway 21 to Ellsinore and then up V roadway to the gravel road lined with blackberry bushes. We pulled in beside a huge pile of cement blocks and started to unload the tools.  The birds stirred and started their morning calls in that damp cool morning air.

Jay came around the corner about then and declared in his booming voice, that we wouldn’t need to be bothered with footers. Every 10 square feet we would level the dirt a bit and set up 2 cement blocks, without mortar, and the building could set on that. I was designated to distribute the blocks, so all day, I lugged them to the spots marked on the ground, and by nightfall on Tuesday evening all the blocks were set

By the end of the 2nd week the floor was about done. No plywood was used, only rough 1×6 lumber. This  took a lot of hand nailing, which I enjoyed. The walls went up rather quickly as Jay had rounded up some free labor from fellow Pentecostals to help us out , and we were fast approaching the start of the roof which would be constructed of hand cut rafters. Trusses would have been way too expensive.  Now to put up the first set  dad decided to tie a wooden extension ladder straight up  at the peak,27 feet off the ground , and asked for a volunteer to climb up the ladder and nail the 2 ends together, and hold them until they could be braced,  I jumped at the chance to prove my worth and inched my way up, i was scared to death but after I was at the top off the shaky ladder for a few minutes, I loved the feeling of being up above the ground and nailed the ends together , and shakily made my way back down to safety. I grew up a little that day, I think, back on that gravel road North of Ellsinore.

The best part of that summer was the Coke machine over by the telephone pole, It was set for 25 cents, and had the glass door along the side, so for the glorious price of 25 cents, one could have a cool refreshing coke in a glass bottle.  I tried to use the round electrical knockouts the electricians left behind as quarters, but the machine would spit them back out or jam, and Raymond, Jay’s stepson, would get aggravated when he restocked the machine. But every now and then he would get generous and give us a round of free cokes while he had the door open.

We got all the rafters up and then the endless task of shingling a huge roof began. That August was one of the hottest, most humid summers I ever remember and by noon the shingles would stick together before you could nail them down. Every hour or so we would take off our shirts and ring out the sweat , and for a brief instant, we were cooler, but nakedness was strictly forbidden and we had to immediately put the shirts back on in case we would inadvertently cause a neighbor lady to lust , or some such nonsense . We would start shingling at the crack of dawn, and knock off 2-3 hours at noon until it cooled off enough for the shingles to separate. The only bright spot was when the redneck neighbor across the gravel road would come out to tinker on his truck, and would crank up some bluegrass on his 8-track nice and loud. We would try to keep time with the hammering, as Ricky Scaggs, and Bill Monroe sang us the ballads of lonesome trains and lost love.  It was a real treat, since we were not allowed to listen to any type of musical instruments at our home, and it made the work a bit more tolerable.

After the  was done and the kitchen portioned off, Jay started to move in kitchen appliances , among them a snow cone maker and a bunch of flavors. Glen and I would load up the ice crusher when Jay was gone and sampled every flavor of ice, and then started on mixing the flavors, or poured Coke over it. We always cleaned up afterward and no one ever questioned the disappearing shots. We would fry up hamburgers on the range for lunch and heat up leftover casseroles mom sent up with us  in the oven as we tackled building dorm rooms, and bathrooms.

We finished up the screens on the dining rooms as campers and vans of pilgrims started pulling in for the week of meetings. We loaded up the saws and refrigerator and pulled out, thinking that was the last we would ever see of the McGarrity’s.  I earned just short of $30 that summer, and the next time we went to Poplar Bluff, I headed for the bike aisle , only to discover that the cheapest 10 speed was $59, so I settled for a softball glove, and bought a used bike at Hoss Conner’s auction house along B highway one evening for $13  It was a 3 speed , locked in 3d gear for all eternity, but it was orange, and it was all mine, bought with blood and sweat by my own 2 hands and that felt good, real good.

 

Later that week dad announced at the breakfast table that we would be going to McGarrity’s tent meeting, just to, “Check It out”.  We dressed up in our Sunday best and all 7 of us piled in the 67 Plymouth Gran Fury  and off we went, windows open so the lucky ones setting by the window could catch a breeze and the rest of us sweated. You could smell the honeysuckle and pine trees as we went up the now familiar road,  Excitement built as we got closer.  We walked up that dusty gravel road toward the most marvelous music beat I had ever heard,  and sidled into one of the back rows of folding chairs  as the band jammed to “I’ll fly away”  I counted at least 4 guitars on stage, and a banjo, keyboard , and huge drum set. And it was LOUD! Delightfully so, I couldn’t stop smiling as I felt the pulse of the bass in my pant leg, I figured dad would be horrified at the evil beat, but he was smiling, and seemed to be enjoying the show. Folks around us were clapping and dancing and generally having a good time, which was so foreign to our church services, which were so quiet and formal you could hear a pin drop.  One rather large lady got to dancing up the aisle, with her beehive hairdo almost grazing the rafters, and the song ended about the time she got to the front.  I leaned over to Glen and asked if he could imagine Sister Arvada doing that at Grandin Mennonite church, and we both had a good laugh.  They sang and clapped and danced for a good 5 or 6 glorious old gospel songs and finally Jay stood up and got everyone calmed down, and  welcomed everyone and stated that there was someone in the crowd that needed introduced, “Brother Yutzy, would you come up front and share a few words?”   I figured dad would herd us all back to the car but he walked briskly to the front and spoke into the microphone,  “You know when Jay first asked us to build the dorm I didn’t think it could be done,” He said, “ It was only by the help of God that it was completed in time for this meeting”  There was thunderous applause, and dad beamed as he walked back to us.

I did not understand the risk he took at the time, taking his family to a worldly meeting like that was serious offence in our church setting. If Brother Troyer, the Bishop, would have found out, dad would have been summoned to a meeting with the church leaders, and at the very least he would have had to  stand up on a Sunday morning   in front of the congregation and confess and promise to never repeat the  sin of attending a service where musical instruments were involved. It’s likely they would also have put him on something called “proving” which meant he would have been banned from communion and holding any office in the church for a period of 6 months.  Basically the Mennonite version of Probation

Jay got back to the business at hand, passing around the offering baskets. As the buckets worked their way to back, the band played “I give it all to you, Lord; I give it all to you.”  And Jay declared that he could feel the Holy Spirit descending down over the crowd just like it did the day of Pentecost 2000 years earlier.  I listened, enraptured by the enthusiasm and joy,  and soaked it all in.

With the money safely collected, Jay announced that we would have a special treat for the visiting evangelist that night, he would be speaking thru a microphone, covered in 18 caret gold.  All eyes then turned to the rear as 2 men walked in carrying a red velvet cloth, and on top, a gleaming gold microphone, which they carefully carried to the front and replaced  the ordinary mic with the shiny new one.  Glen tried to calculate what it would bring at Gearhart’s pawn shop if we could swipe it after the service but it was gone before the band played the last verse of Amazing Grace.

We quietly walked back to the Plymouth in the dark as the whippoorwills sang their love songs, each of us kids lost in our own thoughts. As we  piled into the car and pulled out, following the long string of taillights back to the blacktop road, I could hear the words of that never before heard song, “I’ll fly Away” echoing through my head and I sighed continentally as we drove back  to our white frame rancher  on Highway 21..   It was a welcome respite from our mundane, anxious life on the farm, and us kids never forgot that glimpse of joyous Christianity, that sultry August evening in Carter county Missouri.

 

Of Hillbillies And Hobos

We usually knew he was coming, one way or another.  If he came from the South, Gearhart’s dogs would raise all kinds of commotion, and we would know something was up.  If he walked down HI way 21 from the north., he would pass our neighbor house,  One of their kids, probably Sarah Ruth,  would give us a ring on the party line to warn us. My sister Sue and I would go out on the porch facing the road, the one with the squeaky porch swing, and watch for him. Growing up in the Mennonite culture 30 miles from the nearest department store made for some boring days.

His name was Joe and he was a hobo. A genuine one, not one of the freeloaders standing at an intersection nowadays with a sign that says “Stranded, Please Help, God Bless.”  No siree ! Joe didn’t believe in handouts, except for one of moms home cooked meals, of course.

He knew Dad from somewhere way back, perhaps Plain City Ohio, when they were still both Amish. Since that time ,Dad had left the Amish church, gotten himself a car, and moved Mom and all 8 of us kids to Southern Missouri.   Joe, also left the Amish but kept the ancient ways, but along the path he lost a few of his marbles. For one thing, he refused to cross a bridge, and also he would not accept a ride in a car. Thought both were of the Devil. The Mississippi river had a way of changing his mind tho.

“Here he comes,” Sue whispered, and we craned our necks, on that stifling, hazy summer day, as Joe came into view. He always dressed in clothes he sewed himself out of old gunny sacks. I guess Joe was green, even if the term didn’t exist back then, because his sandals were homemade. The soles were cut from rubber tires and tied with baler twine.  When they wore out, he simply made himself another pair. He swung open the gate that led to our mailbox and walked in towards the house.

“Isht da Dat Heim?” Is your Dad home? He called out in Pennsylvania Dutch, our native language.  We mumbled something back and shyly walked behind him as he headed for the hydrant out by the shop and helped himself to a long drink of water.  The water ran off his long scraggly beard and made dirty rivers down his dusty brown pants. Dad came up from the barn about that time and He and Joe sat on the loafers bench as mom referred to it, really just an old car seat that sat in front of our shop, and talked of his adventures.  He had come from Indiana, and was on his way to Arkansas where he had a job waiting for him at the feed mill.

He had a bit of a setback , he went on to say, when he was trudging across southern Illinois.  Ahead loomed the great Mississippi, and as he got closer he contrived a plan to get across. On the banks of that muddy river, he would find logs and driftwood and lash them together. His plan went along swimmingly, until he pushed off the shore using a long pole to propel himself.  He then realized that the current was too strong and his odds of reaching the other side were slim to none , so he pushed back to shore and reluctantly headed for the narrow bridge.

Well it turned out that old Joe then found out he had a terrible fear of heights, and halfway over the bridge, he almost fainted, and would have  succumbed to the greedy arms of the river for the 2nd time in one day, had not a passing policeman stopped and gave him a ride in his squad car to Missouri.  Joe shook his head and said he hopes the Lord could forgive him for sinning twice that day.

Suppertime came around and one of us kids rang the old cowbell that sat beside the screen door so we would all know Mom was ready with the meal.  Dad invited Joe in to join us. “Oh No! ” said Joe.  “Just bring me out some leftovers if you could.” So Mom fixed him a heaping plate and Glen took it out to him, and he devoured it on the step in front of the wash house.  After supper he refused to come in the house so dad got him settled out in the barn for overnight accommodations. In the morning when we got up to start the chores, old Joe Yoder was gone. It would not be the last we would see of him, but certainly the visit that left the biggest impression on my mind. The story of Joes passing through Hunter Missouri was retold many times in the years since that, often with great embellishment, but this is the way I saw it.

There were many other hobos that passed thru that gate, often they would only ask for a drink, sometimes for food, and never for money. They were all scary to us kids but strangely fascinating.

And then one  day, out of nowhere, appeared Jerry and Joyce, he had on Bell bottom jeans with the largest elephant ear flare on the bottom of his pants that I had ever seen, and hair down past his shoulders.  I can’t recall how Joyce was dressed, but miniskirts were very popular back then , and dad often  lectured  us that long hair and short skirts were about the most evil thing he had ever seen, and a sure sign the world was about to end for such lawlessness. In spite of this,  Dad invited them into the house and offered  up my older sister Arlene’s bedroom for overnight accommodations.

They ate supper with us and dad expounded how they were in for a treat, as we were heading to church that night, for revival meetings. They both were excited about attending and there was a great flurry of activity around our household before church started. A haircut and shave for Jerry was in order by the men in the house, and then dad gave him one of his white long sleeved shirts and a pair of Vernon’s black pants.  We found an old pair of dress shoes for him and Paul shined them up with Vaseline.

Meanwhile Mom and Arlene were busy putting the Mennonite on Joyce. Arlene’s cape dresses fit her perfectly and Mom drummed up a covering for her.   When Joyce saw her man all dressed up, she beamed with pride at him, and declared he was the handsomest man shed laid eyes on. We all crowded into that old green Plymouth Fury and headed off to Grandin, Singing a verse or two of; “we are going down the valley one by one.”  And ending up with, “The roll being called up yonder” as we clawed our way up that impossibly steep driveway at church and parked in our usual pot next to the big Pine tree.

As we extracted ourselves form the car, not unlike clowns coming out of VW bug at the circus, everyone else arriving at the church stopped in their tracks to stare. We seldom got English people at our church , and entertainment was few and far between. We trekked into the church and I excitedly  filled my good friends Galen and Tim in on the details of the recruitment.  Then it was off to the auditorium, where the womenfolk sat on the left and the menfolk on the right.  Soon the sound of 4 part harmony swelled the church and after 3 hymns, (I believe Menno Simons must have pioneered that number, because you can pretty much set your watch on 3 opening songs at any Mennonite church),  we were treated to a 25 minute mini sermon disguised as a devotional, and then the main act.  We had some great old revival meeting speakers back in those days, always from out of state and tonight was no exception. The preacher threatened of the evils of card playing, drinking , dancing, and improper thoughts, any one  of which could land one in the burning lake of fire  if one happened to die without repenting.

As the preacher announced the invitation and the  first strains of Just as I am,  rose softly in the cool evening breeze, Joyce and Jerry practically leapt to their feet in response. Then, as Delmar in Oh Brother Where art thou, would say, “They done got saved”

We were all happy as clams, but everything was not as it seemed, that night at the Grandin Mennonite Church, on route B, and it was only the third night of the week of revival meetings.

Then next morning our guest slept in late, a thing which was unheard of in our household. “Up at the crack of dawn,”  dad always boomed.  I guess they hadn’t been raised that way,  because  around about mid-morning Jerry came out of the back bedroom, and Dad promptly put him to work on the farm, When Joyce finally made her appearance, she still had on Arlene’s pink cape dress, now quite wrinkled, and appeared to be  suffering from withdrawal from a lack of pills of some sort .  She waited till no one was looking and helped herself to a handful of change from the cabinet beside the refrigerator, and buzzed out the door and down highway 21, cape dress flapping in the breeze.  she walked the half mile  down to Gearheart’s gas station, and bought a pack of cigarettes, proceeding to immediately light one up , much to the amusement of Milton , the store owner.

The nicotine couldn’t stave off the depression for long, and that afternoon we heard a great squealing of tires and a horn blew incessantly.  We ran to the fence along the road to see what the commotion was all about and discovered Joyce had tried to commit suicide by laying crossways on the road. Fortunately  the driver was able to see her in time to stop.  Jerry was summoned and he helped her to the bedroom where much yelling and screaming took place. We tried to ignore it, but to a household that was mostly Amish silent, it was hard to act normal. My next memory is of her grabbing a long knife from the kitchen and threatening to kill herself. Then the fight moved down to the lower yard where Paul and Vernon  cut small logs out of the woods behind the hayfield and erected a small log cabin there next to the rope swing.

At this point Dad finally had enough, and called Bishop Troyer , and he came over to referee.   He arrived and after talking it over with dad, decided that the alter call hadn’t really stuck. So they asked the couple to leave. Dad  even offered to drive them to a local motel up by the catfish ponds along 60, and pay for a nights lodging.  Vernon drove them up and we figured that was the last we would ever see of them.

But the next Sunday morning we headed off to church promptly at 9:15 am like we always did, not knowing there were 2 pairs of eyes watching from across the road .  They waited until they saw us pull out and then made tracks for our house,  Levi Mast, our next door neighbor,  saw Joyce and Jerry  walking towards our house as they made their way to church , (They were always about 15 minutes late to everything, even though they always set their clocks 10 minutes fast)   Levi reported the sighting to dad when he got to church and dad shot off in that in the old green car  to check things out . as he pulled in our drive the couple ran out the back door and across the road and disappeared into the brush across the road.  The only thing missing was a set of binoculars and the rest of the egg money which was just over 11 dollars if I recall correctly.

One of the perks of being poor was not having anything worth stealing, No tv, jewelry or electronic equipment except for an ancient record player and ten or so vinyl acapella records.  Dad called the Sherriff and filled him in on the details and that was the last  Joyce and Jerry were ever heard from again.  I hope they found help, because we hillbillies sure weren’t equipped for that kind of situations, closed off from society, in the hills and hollers of Carter county.

There was the case of the mom and kids running for her life many years later,  but that’s another blog,  And believe me there are countless stories waiting to be told .  Soon.

 

 

 

Little Black

We could have parked there, of course. Right next to the bridge on K highway, that cool crisp September evening in Ripley county Missouri. But that would have given a passing game warden a reason to check for a fishing license and we simply couldn’t be bothered with such trifling details. We had bigger fish to fry that night.

You see, earlier that evening we had fired up that old 67 international Scout and hooked it up to a 2 wheeled farm trailer and threw the 12 foot aluminum boat onto the trailer. I grabbed the fishing  gig from under the eaves of the lean-to.   Now the  gig  was a 12 foot wooden pole with a sharp  series of barbs of on the end and I threw that in the boat along with the spotlight ,a Coleman lantern , cooler and  the last, most important detail, we had to “borrow” the new interstate battery out of dad’s 74 dodge flatbed truck so we waited until cover of darkness and then popped the hood and  in about 30 seconds we had  that battery out and safely stowed in the back of the scout  and we roared into the night down Highway 21.

Just before we got to junction b, we could see Freeman’s pallet shop on the left. We knew the front door was never locked and it was a great place to stop on your way home from Prayer meeting of a Wednesday night. You would open that creaky metal door and the sweet smell of fresh sawdust would sweep out to meet you  , if went into the tiny office on the left there was an old round front Frigidaire chock full of 16 ounce glass bottles of ice cold Mt Dew And Pepsi. An old coffee lid on top of the fridge had a slot cut in it and crudely written in magic marker, “Pop  25 cents”  As far as I know Freeman  never got robbed either. But tonight we were in a hurry and we drove right by the shop and turned left on B highway, right there by Tipton’s Café.  The first drive on the left was the Byler house and we pulled in to pick up Lloyd.  You see all driveways in Carter county had regular old brown creek gravel on them , but Freeman found a place that had white limestone gravel and he did his driveway in that, even put a couple glass balls out at the end of his drive, until a concerned brother driving by rebuked him for having pride and the balls were removed , just in time for communion if I remember correctly.

Freeman had a lot of outbuildings crammed floor to ceiling with treasures he had bought at auctions over the years and as a kids , we spent hours looking through it  and trying to figure out what the old tools and parts were  from.

Lloyd came out carrying several 2 liters of soda and we set off again, down the long hill past the church and school, And then right on K until we got to a little unmarked dirt road and we turned   off to the right. We jumped out and locked the hubs in 4 x 4 and then back inside again as we slogged along going through mud holes so deep that the trailer scattered across the mud. We found a little turn off to the left that went through an abandoned farm field with 20 foot high brush and parked there beside the Little Black river that dark moonless night in  1982.

 

 

Our love for gigging had started a week before on the current river with an 18 foot wooden Jon boat. The miller boys showed up, and  Linford  heard the fish were so easy to gig that he brought a pitchfork along. We wisely made him leave it behind    We are observed a couple of other fellers gigging  on the river and where they had a series of spot lights mounted on a bar connected to a  generator, we had a single 12 V battery and a  hand-held spotlight. We pushed the boat off from Porter’s dock and headed up stream.

Now the current river flows rather swiftly so the key was to just barely move along upstream ,  with outboard motor barely at an idle , which is a lot more difficult than it sounds, but Somehow we managed to get 6 or 8 fish that night. But the competition was heavy and the fish in short supply . So we decided to hit the smaller Little Black the next time

The Hindall boys showed up  and we loaded up the boat with our gear and pushed off.   The night sounds of tree frogs and cicadas mingled with the rippling of the clear cold water and the murmur of the paddle as we pushed along.  Glen started out with the gig.  And for some reason maybe because I was the youngest, I was the paddle man. “Stop, I see one ” Glen would yell. I stopped paddling. “Back up dammit”  he yelled possibly scaring any fish within 5or 6 miles into hiding .  “Ever heard of inertia?” I yelled back “if you want me to stop let me know ahead of time “.  Steve and Nate seemed to get a kick out of our pleasant banter.

We must have gotten our rhythm synchronized at some point, because fish started piling up in the old galvanized bucket, Suckers  we called them. They had a suction like mouth and tasted just fine, once momma breaded them and fried them up in the old cast iron skillet. We tried many times without success to gig a pickerel pike , but they were too fast . Horse Conner said you had to aim a foot in front of them to account for their lighting fast reflexes.  But we never had any luck.  Every now and then an illegal rock bass made its way into the bucket. Always the feller holding the gig at the moment would loudly declare that he was unable to tell the difference ,  “Too dark” , or “water too rippling” were some common defenses.

Steve sat at the rear of the boat and cleaned the fish and proclaimed with a chuckle that the Hindal’s always got stuck with the dirty work .  We never heard that boy complain, and his laugh would have put a smile on Bernie Sanders face I do believe.  Their daddy never came to church except on Sunday evenings when we had hymn singing . Then his tenor voice would ring out in that old church house along B highway. You see they had a piano in their house, and Music was forbidden in our church so he was not welcome as a member.  “

Well along about 2 am we had about 40 fish and were making our way upstream back to the Scout The shouting had died down and the moon had slipped behind a cloud, when an explosion shook the boat and everything went dark.  Lloyd yelled out that he had been shot, but once we found a flashlight it turned out that were all ok except for ringing in the ears. Apparently, having a battery hooked to a spotlight right next to a gas Coleman  lantern is a bad idea.  It blew the top half of that battery clear out of the boat. The worse part was that it happened to be Dads (Borrowed)  battery  and it had passed on to its reward.  Steve was sitting next to it and got some acid on his clothes and worse than that,  it ruined a couple of fish .

 

We pulled up to the bank of the little black and  Lloyd built a fire so we could dry off. Glen and I assessed the repercussions of fessing up to dad about the battery and voted in favor of avoiding that fire and brimstone.  Nate overheard us and mentioned that he had an identical interstate battery in his car that he would gladly unload for $40.   We agreed that that was a bargain in comparison to the alternative and we pooled our limited resources and handed over the cash   Upon returning home, we eased that replacement battery back in the Dodge , put our share of the fish in the old round front refrigerator on the front porch and shuffled off to bed . The Little Black had taken back her fair share of what she had given up that night. But we would be back