Folklore Hobby Horse Rides
Buck and Cora • Cora's funeral • Ozark folklore/Branson.
Lilburn and Charles van Ravenswaay as president and secretary of the Boonslick Historical Society frequently rode hobby horses of the same color. One such was folklore. Charles’ remembrance letter to Lilburn on 28 August 1977 says:
Recently you’ve been generous in sending me copies of your notes on the folk songs and folk stories we collected from elderly blacks in Fayette and New Franklin. What a gold mine they are! Although our sessions were held before tape recorders had been developed, you were able to write down everything we heard, complete with a great many colorful details.
Lilburn’s deep South cultural determination instilled in him the belief that Negroes were a simple race whose intelligence and capabilities were inferior to whites. Much of the prosperity enjoyed by his grandparents was due to slave labor. In his family history research he became aware of superstitions, the belief in ghosts, and the religious practice of Boonslick Negroes - descendants of slaves of the pioneer families. Their fascination for Lilburn and Charles is reflected in the following Buck and Cora paper.
Buck and Cora
Buck and Cora Shirley had been married twenty years and had lived on my farm the latter twelve of them when he “got religion.” In spite of Baptist heritage, he joined the Methodist church toward which his wife leaned lightly. But he claimed there was “a lack of the Holy Spirit” in this church so he shopped around a bit.
It was at the Church of God and Jesus Christ, Holiness, in Boonville that he found spiritual cover which warmed him like a blanket. He told me, “I was holdin’ back when the Spirit of the Lord which musta weigh 600 pounds jumped on my back an’ rid me to the mercy seat.”
When Buck applied to me for work, I was reluctant to hire him. I had been told that he never stayed long at any place and that through carelessness he broke a lot of farm machinery. When I told him he would not suit me, he urged, “Just try me, Mr. Kingsbury, just try me. If you let me work for you, you will just love me!” This plea was heard with amused surprise which tipped the scales in his favor, and I hired him. He and Cora and their two young boys soon took over the tenant house.
Buck proved to be a dependable, resourceful, conscientious worker with a disposition generally kind. If he seemed irritable, I attributed it to fits of dissatisfaction engendered by his wife who wanted him to move to town. Often she told him he was a plain fool to keep on working in the country when he could be in town making a lot of money.
Buck was dark brown in color while Cora was light tan. While he was of ordinary size, she was large, weighing about three hundred pounds. Her favorite and usual ensemble was a navy blue dress with red accessories, shoes, bag and a ribbon rosette for her hair, not to mention red cheeks and lips. Buck encouraged her to accent her complexion. He explained Cora wore red before they were married and he wanted her to keep on wearing it. Because of her size, Cora hated to shop for a new dress. She asked Buck to attend to this phase of shopping, too often without success. Once he lamented, “All the biggest outsizes is too little, Mr. Kingsbury; it takes a tent for Cora.”
Life appeared to go on reasonably well at the tenant house. When their third and last baby, a boy, was born, she had spent the previous winter months in Fayette so that the young boys might “get better schooling in town.” That winter Buck batched in the country. My sister asked Buck what they were going to name the baby. He replied, Miss Lilyan, when Cora says what she named him I asked her, Cora, is this a God’s fact or is this some of your foolishment?” She said, “It ain’t no foolishment. It’s done put in the record.”
“Well, Buck,” my sister insisted, “WHAT did she name the baby?”
“Cora says,” Buck announced, “she named him Mister Lilburn Junior Shirley.”
Buck’s many superstitions were a source of delight to me. Once he wished to accompany me to Columbia. As we started across the bridge over Perche Creek, he asked me to stop a minute. As he got out of the car, he informed me, “I broke this lookin’ glass an’ I’ve got to throw the pieces in a stream of runn’ water.”
One day as we worked in the orchard I saw him throw an apple at the little dog to which he was devoted. Surprised, I asked, “Why Buck, what do you mean by throwing that apple at your faithful little friend? He replied, “I never aimed to touch him. I just wanted him to get up. He was rolling over and over measuring off somebody’s grave and he was mighty nigh up to me.”
Buck became a deeply religious church man. He attended all services. Every pay day he asked me to figure his “ten percent to take to the nestin’”. No profane word ever passed his lips. He believed, not without reason, that other people refrained from “cussin’” in his presence out of regard for his feelings. Occasionally I consented for him to work for a neighbor who, when provoked, was careless of his language. Buck told me one day, “Mr. Aycock got all flustered up an’ he might nigh let hisself go.”
As for liquor, even a soft drink was anathema. He told me of coming suddenly upon two old cronies behind a car, about to drink out of a bottle. When they saw him, one of them pocketed the bottle quickly and said, “Excuse us, Buck. We know you don’t indulge no more and we are sorry you saw us like this. Buck told them, “You don’t need to apologize for me seein’ you, but you sure better watch out for Jesus.”
Cora looked upon his religious affiliation with impatience and not a little ridicule. The two older boys, now working and living away from home, shared her feeling with her. She declined every opportunity to accompany him to “Meetin”. She grumbled all the time about him “bein’ all the time away from home.”
“I can’t understand Cora,” he lamented. “She used to complain when I smoked and got drunk an’ run her off an’ didn’t have no religion. Now she all the time complain ‘cause I got it.”
One day Cora went to Fayette, claiming she had been called there to “help take care of my Aunt Prue,” an elderly Negro woman friend. A few days later she came back for the rest of her clothes and as much of the household goods as she could load into a car. When Buck discovered this, he was quite disturbed. When he soon heard that she had set up housekeeping in a one-room shack and had a gentleman boarder, he was overwhelmed with misgivings.
“I’ve got to know if she is really gone for good,” he told me. “‘Cause if she is, ain’t no use in me keepin’ the davenport and the rug I am paying Mr. Geiger on, no longer. I’ve got to get up to Fayette soon and ask Cora herself.”
He was too upset to work so I offered to take him immediately. When we arrived at the little shack, Cora, in her fleshy form, was standing in and filling the doorway, one hand up on the jamb, the other on her hip. There was a serious expression on her face, highly rouged as usual. As Buck approached her, they exchanged “good morning” pleasantly. Then Buck plunged right into the matter on his mind.
“Cora,” he demanded, “You ain’t got no cause to leave me. You know I’ve been good to you. You had a good home, heap better’n this’n.”
Cora shifted her position a bit, lifted her brows and replied, “Well-l-l, I just got tired livin’ out in the country so I come up to Fayette to get a little excitement and I’m doin’ right well. I work out some, cleaning, and I get $2 an hour. Mr. Jim Boggs is boarding with me. After I get him his breakfast, he goes on ‘bout his business and I tend to mine. I’m doin’ right well.”
Buck tried a new tack. “Cora, you ain’t got no right to be living with no man but me as long as you are my wife. And that’s a legal law.”
“I ain’t living with nobody,” she replied, with an air of injured innocence. Buck, looking through a crack between her and the door jamb, observed, “Then whose overalls are on that chair?”
Cora ignored the implication and reiterated, “As I said, I got tired living in the country so I come up here and I’m doing real well. My little boy, Sam (erstwhile Mister Lilburn Junior Shirley) is getting along good in school, my church is right up the street. I love to go there. I ain’t never coming back!”
As we drove home, Buck observed that it was plain to him now that Cora “has been foolin’ around a long time.” I tried to assure him that things would be better with Cora gone, he wouldn’t have to listen to her constant grumbling, that he would get along all right. He replied, “Mr. Kingsbury, you ain’t never had no wife, you’re a single man. You don’t understand what ’tis for a man who’s been married to come home to a cold kitchen with no hot vittles in the stove and the bed all empty and cold.”
Elder Teverbaugh of the Fayette church and his wife were pillars of strength to Buck during his tribulation. They encouraged him to “be patient in the Lawd and prayerful.” He smiled broadly with anticipation as he repeated that they had assured him, “Brother Shirley, the Lawd will send you a good woman who’ll give you delight and make you glad Cora is gone.”
Buck said, “I’m seekin’ her. ‘Course I know that in the sight of God, I’ve got a right to marry again as long as Cora did this to me. But when I do, I’m gonna marry a woman inside my own belief.”
When Buck became interested in the cost of divorces I suspected he had found his Lawd-sent woman. When I asked him about her, he said, “She’s older than I am but I’ve got to marry an ole woman to get one what believes like I do. These young ones don’t believe in nothin’.” He asked me to find out what a divorce would cost. I thought when I told him the price would be $90, the cost would deter him. He remarked casually, “Don’t make no difference how much ’tis. I got to get it. I don’t want to keep on being the husband of nobody what’s doing like Cora is.”
Buck steeled himself to wait until a year had passed. At the end of it the attorney notified him that suit had been filed and if Cora filed no exception within thirty days, the Judge could grant him a divorce at the first session of the Court held in Howard County after that time. Buck had the idea that at the end of thirty days (Cora was not expected to file any exceptions) the Judge would be right there to hand him his divorce. He did not know how slowly the wheels of the law grind. He “put out the word” that he and “Sister Catherine,” whom he had chosen as his new wife, would be married at the Church of God and Jesus Christ, Holiness, in Fayette on the first Saturday night after the expiration of the thirty days.
But the Judge did not hold court in Fayette in time to free him of his marriage bonds. Buck then set the wedding day for the following Saturday night. Still the Judge had not held court. Finally, on the 29th of July, Bob Kingsbury and I accompanied him, very nervous, into court and testified to his noble character whereupon the Judge dissolved his ties to Cora as simple as melting an Alka Seltzer tablet.
The day before the wedding I asked him about his application for a marriage license. Confidently he assured me, “I’m gonna get the license tomorrow before the weddin’.” His features fell when I told of the three-day necessary wait before he could be married.”
I never heard of no sech!” he exclaimed. Why, when me and Cora was married, there wasn’t no waitin’. We just got the license and stepped across the hall to the justice.” He was further frustrated when he learned that both parties had to be present to sign the marriage application. Sister Catherine lived in Boone County. He decided he could go there easier than she could come to Howard County although this would entail the loss of another day’s wages. “And I sure need the wages. I am glad I got those pair of rings last Christmas. One of them is on Sister Catherine’s hand, the ‘gagement ring. And the wedding ring is in my Sunday suit pocket I keep in Elder Teverbaugh’s closet at his house so’s I can change when I get to Fayette. I’ll be glad when this wedding is over. It costs a heap this runnin’ back and forth. And on weekends I have to pay for a place to sleep. You know I can’t stay at Sister Catherine’s house all night. I mean for Elder Taverbaugh to marry me clean.”
Sister Catherine knew her way around the Court House at Columbia and they got everything in good shape. Buck returned elated but said, “Sister Catherine says she’s too tired of setting Saturdays and Thursdays to get married on. She says we’ll just get married on Sunday at two o’clock, when she’s all rested up. He asked me to phone Elder Taverbaugh about the latest wedding plan and to be sure and be there at the appointed time and get some attendants for him and the bride.
The plans were changed several times until finally on the appointed evening we drove to the church at eight o’clock. It was ablaze with light but not a soul was there. We sat in our car until nine. Still no one had come. Rather than wait longer, I drove to the house of Elder Taverbaugh to inquire if and when the wedding would be. In undershirt and black trousers with a partly polished shoe in one hand, he assured me enthusiastically, “Yessir, there’s gonna be a wedding. I’m dressing for it right now. The wedding bride and her party has arrived and they are next door dressing. Soon we will all get ready and assembled. We’ll be down to the church, maybe ‘bout ten o’clock.” As I departed, he called, “Don’t get discouraged, the wedding is sure to come off.”
The church building is of considerable size, of concrete blocks with a marked bulge outward of one wall, which was unfinished inside. Entrance was through a roomy foyer with wide stairs on either side of the auditorium. Here were comfortable old upholstered opera chairs with an aisle on either side. A spacious platform extended across the front of the room. On it was a large arch of catalpa branches with leaves hanging limp, with here and there a piece of cedar. Under this the wedding party would stand. Vases of zinnias on either side of the arch added a bit of freshness and color to the scene.
As we entered, “Mother Truitt” (church title) greeted us and graciously conducted us to seats. Immediately I was caught up by the rhythm of the music and tapping my foot on the floor. A man strummed a guitar, one woman beat a tambourine while another played the piano with its bosom exposed. A soprano moaned obbligatos in violin tones while other members of the choir jazzed up “Yield Not to Temptation” and “Just As I Need Him Most,” in harmony so close it was poignantly sweet.
Following the song service came the usual testimonial period. As soon as they were concluded, the guitarist laid down his instrument to stand before the collection table. He announced the goal for the evening would be $20, that he was starting the collection with a dollar bill. He held it aloft, waving it from side to side and laid it down as if daring anyone to do less. The members filed up, one by one, quite leisurely, to lay down their money, some going more than once. When finished, the man at the table waited a moment as he looked directly at me. There couldn’t have been a more pointed cue to me to bring up the white folks’ offering. As I laid it down, there was an exultant “Thank you, Brother Kingsbury. Friends, the King is with us! Praise the Lawd! Let’s sing Praise God!”
At the conclusion of the doxology, there was a moment of silence, then Elder Teverbaugh appeared, tall and dignified in a black robe which pushed a good expanse of white shirt up on the nape of his neck and with waves of shiny, pomaded hair across the top of his head. In his polished black shoes he strode down an aisle and took a position before the arch. He opened and gazed intently at the pages of a little book. Strains of Lohengrin’s wedding march were stillborn as he turned towards the musicians and signaled for silence. The quiet was deadly as the Elder strode out the way he had come. I wondered what else could have happened to wreck the framework of Buck’s wedding.
“Mother Truitt” walked to the front and addressed the audience. Brothers and Sisters, in all walks of life, don’t make no difference whether it’s in the home or in church, things do not always go according to the plan. So ’tis tonight. Now the wedding party is all downstairs waiting for the ceremony to go on, but a little delay has arose and become necessary. The Elder found out a while ago he couldn’t read the fine print in his book under the light above the altar we have, so we sent out to try and find a 100 watt bulb so he can have more light to read the ceremony. Of course I could read it for him (she flashed a winning smile) but he wants to do it hisself. Now as soon as we get the bulb, the wedding will go right on.”
I glanced at the light swinging from the rafters by a cord and wondered how they would make the change. Sooner than I had expected, someone brought the bulb. One man pulled a table under it, another lifted the pulpit onto the table and steadied it, while a third climbed up nimbly and changed the bulbs. The hot bulb was like a hotcake passed from his hand to that of “Mother Truitt” who laid it on the table in no tardy fashion.
With more light on the scene and the furniture back in place, the Elder made his second grand entry and stood before the arch. At his signal, the bosom of the piano heaved again with Here comes the Bride, as nimble fingers trimmed up the melody with magic runs and arpeggios. Guitar and tambourine emphasized the syncopation. To my right, I beheld Buck in all his dark brown glory, coming down the aisle on the arm of the bridesmaid. I glanced to the left for my first glimpse of “Sister Catherine” on the arm of the husky best man, tripping along and swaying her shoulders to the music. Buck was swaying too but in a more modest arc. “Sister Catherine,” light in color with graying hair in little plaits pinned close to her head was attired in a dark brown dress. It had a white rolled collar and it, plus a slip that showed a little, came just below her knees. A white knitted throw topped her ensemble.
Elder Taverbaugh declared we were assembled to witness the marriage “of this man and this woman in holy matrimony, but what right has we got to unite this man and this woman? Has anybody got anything to show?”
“Mother Truitt” rose from her seat and went forward with a scroll in her hand. Taking a position by the side of the Elder, she unrolled it and started to read aloud. She seemed to have difficulty with her glasses. She took them off, laid them on a table and without a word, reached up and took the Elder’s glasses off of him and put them on herself. Now she peered closely again and read aloud, “This is a license for Albert Shirley, age 48, to marry Catherine Gray, age 67.” As the Elder retrieved his glasses, he announced, “This is all the evidence needed and we will now proceed with the ceremony.”
Addressing the bride and groom, she with head tilted to one side and a slack expression on her face, he with animated face with head turned to cock an ear toward the Elder who asked: “Does either of you know any reason why you should not be united in holy matrimony?” Buck shook his head vigorously. Sister Catherine might as well have been made of wax. She didn’t bat an eye. Elder then turned to the audience and asked, “Is there anybody here knows any reason why this man and this woman should not be united in matrimony? ANYBODY? ANYTHING? After a moment’s pause he continued, “If you does, speak NOW or fo’ever keep your mouth shut.”
Now join right hands! You all knows which is your right hands, don’t you?” Buck looked at his outstretched hands as if to be certain which to extend toward the bride. She made no move so the best man lifted hers and laid it in Buck’s. A little later, he asked them to join their left hands. When she made no move to comply, the best man again came to the rescue.
“Now as I goes along, I’m gonna explain this ceremony so you will know what you is doing,” he continued, “I want to marry you so you will live a long, happy married life and be as faithful as a pair of old wild geese.” As for keeping each other in sickness and health, he advised them, “Always be faithful. Most folks get along smooth and sweet when they is young and well and strong, but let one get old, or sick, they slack up. Now take ME” and he spoke with self-pride and admiration, “My wife was sickly for five years before she die and I never left her side.”
Admonishing them concerning chastity, he recounted the instance when a man took another man’s wife out in the country and lived with her “outside of matrimony.” “Now,” he said, “she loved him and she thought he loved her but he didn’t care nothin’ for her. Now that man wasn’t worth a dime and that woman wasn’t worth a dime, and that man who let ‘em live like that on his place wasn’t worth ten cents neither.” The whole crowd including the Elder indulged in mirth.
After the Elder had announced “What God has joined together, let no man put asunder.” He declared that this man and this woman were man and wife. Addressing Buck, he said, “Now Brother Shirley, you can show your appreciation. You can kiss her.” The bridesmaid and the best man both put a hand up before her face as if to prevent him. The bride’s face had come to life a little. Buck was visibly disconcerted. When I asked him later why they did it, he said he didn’t know, “but you see I barely touched her lips.” Then the Elder said, “Now you can sit down and receive the congratulations.”
Suddenly the musicians rendered Mendelssohn’s recessional. They tore it to pieces. It stirred the marrow in the bones of all the Negroes present and all their bodies became supple. Elder Taverbaugh led the procession out of the church ahead of the bride and groom and Sister Truitt, with the attendants and audience falling in behind, all of them stepping along, swinging their arms and swaying their shoulders to the rhythm of the music. They all smiled and waved to us, still seated, as they passed down the aisle.
In a moment aside I said to Buck, “I thought you had a wedding ring. What became of it?” He replied, “I left it in my Sunday suit coat pocket hangin’ in Elder Teverbaugh’s closet, but when I look for it, it was gone. I guess someone stole it.”
During a two weeks honeymoon spent on my farm, I asked Buck if his bride was going to stay with him indefinitely or was she going to her own home and job in Columbia. He replied, “I expect we is both going to Columbia before long. I’ve got a chance to go to the University to do cleanin’.” Soon they were both gone. The other day he phoned me and I asked him how he was getting along. “I’m doin’ pretty good, plenty to eat and a place to sleep. The vittles and the bed ain’t cold like they was when I was single up there.
“Are you going to the University now?”
“Nossir, I got here a little late for that but I’m with the garbage collection.”
In the meantime Cora had gone on her way with her “boarder.” On Decoration Day I had the pleasure of entertaining both of my namesakes. Lilburn Kingsbury Edmonston with his mother and maternal grandparents were our guests for dinner. There was a knock at the kitchen door. Who should be there but Cora and Mr. Lilburn Junior Shirley. My sister invited them in. Cora said they had been over to the cemetery to lay some flowers on Mama and Papa’s graves and would just drop by to see us. Cora insisted they were not hungry, but the little boy, now 9, looked so longingly at some food on the kitchen table, my sister fixed places for them. As they ate, Cora said, “Miss Lillian does you ever see Albert? Do his wife look very old?” Lillian said she had seen her the other day and that she didn’t have a tooth in her head. Cora’s face lit up until Lillian added, “She had her dentures out.”
When they were leaving, Cora in her airy manner said, “Miss Lillian, I do wish you could meet my husband.”
“Oh Cora, then you are married? “Cora raised her hand in front of her face as if ashamed and replied, “No mam.”
Cora's Funeral
I went to Cora Shirley’s funeral and during the sermon, there were “Amens,” and “Yes! Yes!” and other expressions popping all over the house.
Cora’s funeral was almost as good a show as Buck’s wedding. Before the services started, the preacher, one of five participating, said to the undertaker, “Now I better tell you we is conforming to the modern trend, shorter funerals, and from the time I begins, till the time I quits, it will be exactly one hour.”
Each of the five preachers had his chore. The main discourser told us he was preachin’ to Sister Shirley. “I’s preachin’ to you befo’ yo’ blood gets cold.” And it was very picturesque when he told of the angel of the Lord coming to the hospital and going right into Sister Shirley’s room and telling her, “Sister, it’s time to go.” He didn’t give her time to get anything together to take with her. He “jes put his arms right under her and lifted her up and carried her down to de river Jordan. Sister Shirley put her foot in to go ‘cross but drawed it back quick, for de watah was cold, but a voice come from the other side, ‘Come on ovah, Sister Shirley, you’ve come a long way,’ and she waded right in and went on crost.” Over there, the Lord said, “You’ve come a long way, Sister, sit yo’ se’f down and rest yo’ se’f awhile!” And this was the cue for the choir to sing “You’ve Come a Long Way, Sit Down Awhile,” as every bench of Negroes in turn filed out and went up for the last, sad look.
It was the largest Negro funeral, the Negroes say, that was ever held in New Franklin. (Lillian and I were so crowded in, we felt completely integrated.) Since Cora had been cohabiting with Joe Boggs ever since she left the farm and Buck, it would seem that adultery was commendable. Something besides virtue has its reward!
Cora looked quite natural except she was wearing a pink carnation corsage instead of red on her black shroud. She filled the coffin to capacity. The preacher said, “You all gonna miss Sister Shirley’s sweet smile, her warm handshake and her pleasant howdye!”
Lilburn Jr. Shirley, now 18 or 19, was discarded when he got in the way of his mother and Joe Boggs and was adopted by a worthy Negro couple who have a little farm east of Boonville. He added a dramatic touch when, as the crowd was filing past the coffin, he cried out in distress, “Oh Mama, Oh Mama,” over and over until his mother of adoption left her post as leader of the choir and went down to quiet him.
I asked Ralph Reed how come Cora had such a big funeral and he said, “She was very pop’lar.”
Ozark Folklore
Lilburn’s and Charles’ interest was not confined to the blacks of Howard County, but through May McCord, the “Hillbilly Queen,” also in the Ozark Negros of Missouri and Arkansas. Lilburn wrote:
My dear folks,
I left Tuesday afternoon and drove to Springfield and the next morning joined May Kennedy McCord at her home at 4:30 a.m. and after a hasty cup of coffee we drove to Stone County, Arkansas for the Folk Festival which lasted all day. The setting was wonderful, a level area surrounded by high bluffs, some twenty acres or so, and at one side a 200 foot cliff at the foot of which there was an opening to Mitchell’s Cave. In front of the cave there was an immense stage and in front of that a “bresh” arbor which seated 1000 people. The paper said 2500 were there. They sang old songs, danced old dances, and played old games. They had a singin’ school at which shaped note music was taught. Then they put on a hard-shell Baptist meeting with singing sermon and all.
There were all kinds of contests mixed in. The prize fiddler was a woman and I wish you “could a heard ‘er.” She got a double bit axe as the prize. I talked with old women and old men right from deep down in the hills and listened in on interesting conversations among the natives. Vance Randolph ate with us - the lunch May had brought along.
May was to go on the program but when they called her up she was struggling to get into the one privy 3 x 4, a single holer, the only accommodation for all of the female element until many in desperation tore up the cliffs. The men resorted to the pine trees like dogs, on the other side of the bowl. So May didn’t do her stuff down there. She was impromptu anyway. We drove on some 40 miles before tying up for the night, and after supper went to a Holy Roller meeting and sat outside and listened. The preacher was warning that some there might be on beds of pain before the next night and then and there I was cramping and wondering what woods would be best to run for in case. But in spite of the griping I suffered no embarrassing situations and the next morning we turned homeward. The scenery south of Harrison, Arkansas, is lovely.
Later...
Saturday morning I had a letter from May McCord urging Charles and me to come to the Festival of the Painted Leaves at Branson. I immediately called Charles, found him free and eager to drive to Branson. We were anxious to get there for the initiation into the Hillcrofters which was to be at midnight. We kept going at a good clip and at ten of twelve drove into the Sammy Lane Camp. We parked the car and went up to the ballroom where the dance was in session, and others were playing party games and having a fine time in general. By the time I danced with May it was time to go down on the plaza before the swimming pool for the initiation which was to be around a big bonfire of logs. First the swimming pool had been made attractive by little paper plates being set afloat, each with a lighted red candle.
These little plates floated away from where they were launched and collected in a group at the far end. Around the fire, speeches were said by numerous characters, “The Spirit of Unborn Generations,” “The Prehistoric Man,” “Spirit of the Flame,” “The Pioneer Mother,” “The Bones of the Pioneers,” “The Indian.”
These people were in funny costumes. Each person had on a false face mask and when he or she read, the face of course was immobile. The Pioneer Mother, while reading her speech, set it afire with her candle and burned it up before she could deliver it, but her memory sufficed. Townsend Godsy, one of the best photographers in the state, was there taking pictures, one of them being the group assembled for the initiation before and around the fire. Then the candidates were asked to go up to the ballroom again for the initiation - to ride the goat, some said.
The candidates were lined up in two rows facing each other and the master of ceremonies, Otis Macey, told us to bend over and lay our hands on the floor and to bend our knees if we found it necessary. We all bent over and repeated after him a serious verse, and presently found ourselves bringing it to an end with: “I know my heart; I know my mind; I know I am stuck up behind.”
When all the crowd haw-hawed, it made me feel silly but I could take it. Then we were full-fledged members. May had us play an old game called “The Miller’s Boy” and it was fun. I was sorry I was not there for the evening basket dinner and for the frolicking until midnight.
The next morning Charles and I bummed around until noon, visiting in the camp with a lot of people who were interesting. A couple of weeks ago one whole page of the Kansas City Star and the St. Louis Globe Democrat showed pictures Townsend Godsey had taken of a camp meeting of the Holiness people, some of them rolling at the altar and some being baptized. He said these people were so enraptured with or by the spirit they didn’t even know he was taking pictures, though they must have stumbled right over him. He took a picture of the “Crown of Feathers” which was on exhibit. In fact, there were two. These were taken from the feather pillows of people who had long illnesses and had died, and if you ever find one, or your folks do, it is a sign you were a saintly person. Honestly these things just knocked me with wonderment. One was about the size of a sausage patty like we make in the country and about as thick. The feathers are very compact and each had the quill end in and fitted as closely to the others as you would find them on a goose. I think no hand could make one.
Before the lady from whose pillow the perfect crown was taken died, somebody started to shake up the pillow and felt a lump and mentioned it and someone else said, “O don’t shake it up. Maybe a crown is formin’.” Lillian has examined my pillow and has found a lump and I told her for heaven’s sake not to shake it up, “Maybe a crown is formin’.” Those people down there were so wholesome and I was so delighted to meet many whose names were familiar to me since I have been taking the Springfield paper. May is always telling something they say or do and publishing the poetry they write.
Sunday morning before May got up, some people came to ask her to attend a funeral of their relative whose service was to be at two in the afternoon. They said, “Charlie (one who had frequently contributed to her column) would just love it if he knew you were sitting in the room at his funeral.” I think she promised to go but was persuaded to go over ahead of time and look at him and then get back in time for dinner and the speech afterwards.
The after-dinner address was held in the ballroom. For music, Jimmy Demoon, of the Forestry Service in the Mark Twain Park sang ballads and picked a guitar like no one’s business. He was six feet six inches tall, 18 years of age and if he had been raised in affluent surroundings, he would have been a knockout. Charles recognized the name Demoon as being of French origin and Jimmy agreed it was. Charles had visions of the family coming in through St. Genevieve. He asked Jimmy from where his family had come into the Ozarks? (There have been four generations of them singing ballads,) shy Jimmy said, “North Missouri.” When pressed further, he said, “Kirksville” and romance was all out for Charles.
Daisy Maxey, who took the part of Moon of the Painted Leaves in the pageant at the initiation was just as good in the daytime as she was at midnight. She told me in a whisper, “He was raised in direst poverty” and when a young woman joined him to play the “gittar” while he played the fiddle, Daisy whispered, “She was a guide in the Marvel Cave for eight years.” Otis Maxey’s nose was so strange that I have loved mine ever since I saw him. The Lord must have bit a hunk of bologna off and stuck it right above his upper lip. Honestly, it looks exactly like a big weenie, even to the color. Somebody whispered to me that Daisy Maxey had had cancer two years ago but still lived. I have heard May speak of Daisy as the loveliest character extant in the Ozarks. Vance Randolph, arming some widow, was at the night meeting but didn’t stay long. Judge Moore of Ozark had a good time speaking to the crowd and ended with such flowery stuff I wanted to say “Phooey, poetical beyond comprehension.”
May as Chairman of the Entertainment Committee was a whiz. Nobody old or young calls her anything but May. They all seem crazy about her and she seems to reciprocate every regard.
There were not many Painted Leaves in the Ozarks yet but there are some beautiful trees, sugar maples, in Springfield. But at Branson they were green as grass.
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