From a Columnist's Scrapbook

Innocents abroad • A big day in Boonville • Hanging • Thespians arise to save hall • What to do with dem bones • The church's evolution • My leper mission • Scams: Dishonest shenanigans style changes • About early telephones • Ring central • A Long and two shorts • How styles do cycle • Are you plagued by maramus? • Looking at the old Seminary building • Where can you find a rhabodomancer? • Jack the ripper • Sitting on the front porch - watching all the folk go by • The tent show's in town • What should a bundle of joy cost? • Wedding presents expected • Did you ever see a horse in bed? • Magical Hackley mad stone. Nothing to fear but fear • Did you ever have a leap year date? • When did you have your first radio? • How long did the candle burn? • The dressed up toilet seat • Do you remember the ringing and tolling of the bells? • That man looks like President Truman.

Innocents Abroad

This column in the Cooper County Record Annual Frontier Issue of 1972 shows the excellence of Lilburn’s memory and the sharpness of his observations. Such boyhood trips instilled in him a life-long interest in Boonville and its people.

A trip from my home to Boonville, a rare occurrence when I was a boy, left indelible impressions on my mind.

South of New Franklin I was curious about rough spots in the dirt road. My father said they were outcroppings of old logs which supported a plank road built with proceeds from the Franklin Lottery, chartered in 1833.

To reach the ferry we had to pass the Kinney mansion. I was curious about it as I had been told Captain Kinney had built, wonder of wonders, a fish pond in the attic. I felt uneasy, too, having heard it was haunted and restless spirits walked its spacious halls.

From the moment it came into view until we had passed it I never took my eyes off this great blue-gray house with rows of fig trees growing in tubs which bordered its brick walks.

Once past it, I had a feeling of relief at not having seen a spirit, mixed with disappointment at not having seen a living soul.

From there the ride toward the river was exciting because there was always a chance of missing the boat. We knew it left the Howard County side on the half hour.

To a country boy, anticipating arrival in the city, it was like having the doors of Heaven shut in his face. Delay would shorten his time for enjoying the “ivory palaces” of Boonville.

I was always elated when we arrived just in time to be the last one on. There was nothing more satisfying than driving off ahead of everybody else as soon as the gangboard was down.

I recall two business establishments in Boonville. One of them was Mr. Dan Wooldridge’s drug store where my parents bought such things as quinine, Hotetter’s Bitters, penetrating oil, antikamnia and extracts of lemon and vanilla.

On one side he had a combination of museum and zoo. I have no recollection of ever seeing the other side where he must have had his stock of goods. I would beg my parents to leave me there while they shopped elsewhere.

In a glass-walled tank there was a live alligator about three feet long. The sight of it called to mind a horrible picture I had seen of an immense one with wide-open jaws crawling stealthily toward a woman completely unaware of her danger.

Since I was perfectly safe, I enjoyed looking at and being so close to this one. At the side of the tank was a sign, “Don’t Devil The Alligator.”

Mr. Dan could pick it up, hold it in his arms and talk to it. It never opened its jaws an inch. When he had put it back in the tank and gone to wait on a customer, one of two men who had been watching, talking low, said:

“Dan handles the alligator better than he does things at home.”

There was a raccoon, the first I had ever seen in captivity, a squirrel, a rabbit, some frogs and a terrible looking snake.

There were coins, arrowheads, some live canaries and a cardinal, some stuffed birds, rattlesnake skins and rattles. All sorts of curious things. I think of it now as Boonville’s Smithsonian.

Mr. Dan was tall with a smiling face with reddish whiskers on its cheeks. He wore a black silk skullcap.

I knew where he lived—on Main not far from the business houses. It was a house of unusual architecture.

When my father came for me, I would have been loathe to go with him except for knowing we would be headed for the other place I remember so well, Wagner’s restaurant. It was the most popular place in town for food.

More than once, over those dishes of ice cream, my parents reminisced that when as children they came over the water to Boonville, their chief delight was ginger bread at Mrs. Beck’s bake shop.

Shoppers’ time flew. The chief concern of all late shoppers who stayed as long as possible was to make the last trip of the “Joseph L. Stephens.”

The possibility of missing it hung over their heads like the sword of Damocles as they picked up packages at Wagner’s, and buggy whips hung over the tails of their horses.

Captain Porter always seemed concerned to get everybody who had come over back to Howard county. He seemed always to know just who had not shown up. When time for casting off came, he rang the boat bell to urge stragglers within hearing distance to hurry-hurry.

Those already there and impatient, griped at the delay until the latecomer would round the corner.

After standing on the bow of the boat watching it cut through the water, and the ride through the tunnel of willows to the county road, the day’s excitement was over.

A Big Day in Booneville

The two column excerpts that follow describe the last hanging in Boonville. The gallows platform has been preserved and may be seen at the Headquarter grounds of Friends of Historic Boonville - at the old Cooper County Jail.

The quiet, prosy little city was filled with a hurrying, anxious crowd, dense throngs of people congregated to gratify morbid curiosity.

“At 10:30 o’clock the sheriff formed his guard in front of the jail, forced the crowd back and a wagon carrying the wooden coffin was backed up to the jail yard gate. In a few moments, the bailiffs in charge of the prisoner filed slowly out of the jail door, the doomed man guarded by one on each side of him walked erect and with firm step though gloomy countenance. He was placed in the wagon, took a seat on his coffin and slowly the awful and the solemn procession commenced the march to the gallows.

The guards surrounded the wagon and in their rear followed an array of reporters, physicians and others who had the privilege to occupy the area around the gallows which had been encircled by ropes and set apart for them.

In due time the fatal spot was reached. The scaffold was erected in a semicircular valley surrounded by a grass hill, the place being known as the Old Fair Grounds.

“The wagon drew up under the gallows, the prisoner alighted and bade farewell to his friends in tears and convulsive hand shaking. The scene was very sad...he ascended the gallows where he was surrounded by ministers, the reporters, the sheriff and his deputies.

“He wore a bouquet of flowers hanging on the lapel of his coat which he deliberately unpinned and tied to the railing.

During this time the immense crowd, estimated at 6,000, crowded up as near as permitted by the guards.

The doomed prisoner faced the crowd and spoke (at length). He then said, ‘farewell ladies and gentlemen, I must go. I must die. It is a debt we all have to pay.’

“The black cap was here adjusted, the prisoners arms and legs pinioned. At 11:58 the drop fell and a dull thud seemed to announce that all was over. But to the horror of all present the rope broke and the hooded form fell prone upon the ground. Quietly he was drawn up again and apparently, in fourteen minutes respiration ceased and in twenty minutes life was pronounced extinct and the body was cut down.

“Thus ended the tragedy of John I. West (convicted of murder) whose trial has for over seven months been progressing in our midst and once more the majesty of the law has been vindicated.”

Hanging

In the July 31, 1934 issue of the Boonville Daily News there was an article by Charles van Ravenswaay concerning interviews he had with elderly citizens who remembered April 16, 1879, the day John I. West was hung.

He learned that the prisoner, though convicted and sentenced, hoped until two days before he was hung to be pardoned by the Governor. Although he had admitted killing the man, he claimed that he had done it in self-defense. There had been no satisfactory evidence which was conclusive of his guilt otherwise.

Two days before the hanging was scheduled, John I. West made a full confession of the murder for money which yielded him 35 cents. Why?

An old man related that in anticipation of the hanging excitement, a group of men had arranged for an excursion train to be run from Sedalia to Boonville to accommodate those from Petti County who wished to witness the event. Fearing that the Governor might pardon West and ruin their business project, they arranged to slip a gift of whiskey to the prisoner in the jail. And it was while drunk that he made the confession.

Many citizens of Boonville were indignant, mortified that this occasion took on the aspect of a Roman holiday. For instance there was the silent resentment of Miss Amanda Kelly, daughter of Boonslick pioneers, who lived on High street at the time. She related that as she sat on her front porch disgusted at the continuous stream of people passing her house on their way to the Old Fair Grounds, a very fat woman, dragging a little girl by the hand had stopped to catch her breath at Miss Amanda’s gate. Seeing her sitting on her porch, she asked:

“Ain’t cha goin’ to the hangin’?”

Miss Amanda sniffed and replied, “No, I am not going to the hanging.”

“Well I do declare!” continued the visitor, “I thought everybody would be goin’ to the hangin’. I know I wooden miss it fer anything. I ain’t never seen a man hung an’ I wooden want Ruby here to miss it.”

Van Ravenswaay concludes:

“It was the last public hanging Boonville ever had.”

Thespians Arise to Save Hall

By L.A. Kingsbury

Daily News Columnist

Thespian Hall c. 1868

In connection with the current move to restore Thespian Hall, a story which was published in the March 9, 1950 issue of the Globe-Democrat of St. Louis is of interest. It reveals that this is not the first time an effort has been made to “lift the face” of this old building. The story appears under the headline, “The Silent War in Boonville.”

“There has been bitter language in Boonville recently. Thespian Hall, the oldest surviving theater west of the Alleghenies, is the cause of the whole trouble.

“The old timers who want the theater left alone, left just the way the American stage looked, back in the old days, are ready to oppose the young folks who take further steps to turn the theater into a museum.

“The old folks are proud to live in the historic town where guns blazed during the Civil War. Thespian Hall, the last frontier theater, was used for quartering troops as several battles were fought just outside its front doors.

“In 1937, it looked like the younger folks were going to have their way. It was about the time the Fox Midway Theaters in Kansas City which purchased the old building in 1930, announced plans to replace it with a modern motion picture theater. A public meeting was held and the Thespian Hall Preservation Committee was organized with representatives from nearly every civil and social order in town.

“The General Assembly of Missouri appropriated $30,000 for a new modern picture theater but when the old timers kicked up a lot of dust, only $15,000 was left and that was to be used just in case of emergency where the building might be in danger. And so the two-story structure of Greek Revival design with four Doric columns still stands.

“Today the theater is called The Lyric. But the old folks still call it Thespian Hall. At least the name Thespian Hall has a more significant attachment.

“Back in 1838, the Boonville Thespian Society was organized by 60 professional men. These gentlemen of wealth had been attracted to Boonville from Virginia, the Carolinas, Kentucky, and Tennessee by the thriving trade with the west and southwest. Their acquaintance with singers and actors in St. Louis, New Orleans, Philadelphia and New York stimulated their latest interest in theatrical productions and led to the organization of the all-male dramatic society. Boonville was literature conscious. Editions of Shakespeare and Johnson were common in most homes. Eighteenth and 19th century plays were read throughout the town.

“But, many Boonville ladies and gentlemen were not kindly disposed toward the bunch who were inconsistent in their practices. While most of them were substantial church members, they did a lot of things on Sunday, such as attending the circus, dancing or trading with the steamboats. They were no longer wanted in the houses of worship. So when they formed their theater group, they had strikes against them. ‘Play actors’ were considered immoral and theaters were ‘homes of the devil.’

But the theater went up anyway. It cost the members $16,000, and on July 3, 1857, the new building was finished. In the ceremony which launched the theater, the Mayor addressed the assemblage as follows:

“ ‘This monument will stand for the liberality and good taste of our citizens. The building of the hall . . . vindicates our public spirit and generosity . . . it proclaims a sentiment worthy of the enlightened age in which we live. . . .’ When the building was completed the State Legislature voted the property tax exempt.

“When the War came, the Thespian Society was destroyed. The different loyalties of the members ripped it apart.

“As early as 1898, there was talk of removing the historic building. The theater was dingy after so many years of usage. Audiences complained that the chairs were uncomfortable and the building was ‘out-of-date.’ But here and there were heard the laments of those who remembered the earlier years of glory. A writer in a local paper wrote: ‘It has been the scene of innumerable shows, many festivities and much oratory. During the war, it was occupied sometimes as a barracks, sometimes as a hospital for sick and wounded soldiers.’

“Several years later, the building was saved from destruction and the interior was brought up to date. Thespian Hall with its Society dissolved was rechristened ‘The Stephens Opera House’!

“The new Opera House was the stage for many famous Shakespeare plays, heavy and light operas. ‘Gentleman Jim Corbett’ and his minstrel troupe appeared here. Its opening had been a gala affair with the women of town and out-of-town arrayed in silks, satins and diamonds, the men in evening dress, arriving in closed carriages which scurried from one address to another trying to get everyone there on time.

“The new Opera House was converted into a motion picture house in 1940.

“Today, there is no such argument as wanting to tear down the old building. But there are opposing factions in the town. The old timers who 50 years ago were young folk, who wanted a new theater, now are fighting to keep the almost century-old theater. The younger set wants to see a museum established.

“The Fox Midwest Theaters who purchased it want to make a historical monument out of it. They have made the proposal on the condition that the theater will become public property through state or federal purchase on acquisition by a historical society.

“The company wants permission to use it as a setting for a summer season of plays and light opera, a form of revival which has been successful in many middle-sized towns of historical note.”

Thespian Hall has been restored by Friends of Historic Boonville. They conduct programs there which attract many visitors.

Thespian Hall today

What to do with dem Bones

An early incident in the Clark’s Chapel community’s history is told in this column.

Silas Bushnell was not related by blood or marriage to any of the Clark’s Chapel clan, but his family fit into the community like a stave into a barrel. Silas was 15 years older than Lida, his second wife, but they were a congenial couple. Of course there were occasional rifts. Once when bustles were in style, Lida bought herself one of the largest.

Silas was not opposed to bustles but his wife was a dumpy woman and he considered Nature had endowed her amply. He asked her to take back the big fine bustle and exchange it for a smaller one. Lida forbore tears and wore what she considered an insignificant little dab with wounded pride. She felt down-right conspicuous among the big-bustled women of Clark’s Chapel.

This was bad enough, but a more serious problem arose of which the neighbors were unaware. One night Silas awoke and finding Lida awake, confided to her he had something special to tell her. He said for a long time he had cherished the desire to bring the remains of Maria, his first wife, to Howard County for interment. Maria had died of childbirth among strangers in Kentucky on their pilgrimage to Missouri. He felt saddened whenever he thought of her being way down there with no one ever going to her grave to put a flower on it.

Lida was shocked speechless. For 20 years, she had thought she was the sole mistress of his heart and now he was asking her to make room for another. She drew her warm feet away from his. Long after deep breathing told her Silas was asleep, she pondered the matter. Silas did not mention it again for several days and then finally asked Lida how she felt about it. She refrained expressing her real feelings and told him to go right ahead. In due time all that was mortal of Maria arrived in a plain pine box. Silas was in a quandary. How should he dispose of it?

Lida too was not unmindful of the explanations she would be obliged to make at the church mite parties and sewing circle. So, when Silas, upset by the dilemma suggested the box should be stored in the attic for awhile, she readily agreed.

Silas carried the box upstairs and put it in a dark corner behind an old trunk. He was unaware that Cassie, his oldest child, saw him. At least for now his mind was at rest, knowing Maria’s remains were safe under his own roof and devoted Lida was at his side.

He was a busy man. The months rolled by into a year and Silas all but forgot the box.

One rainy day, Lida heard an unusual commotion in the attic where she had sent the children to play, as the weather was bad outside. She mounted the stairs two flights up to quell the disturbance. Quietly she opened the attic door and there, to her astonishment, she saw her oldest child Cassie, dressed in an old oversized green velvet dress which she herself had in her trousseau and that had been packed away in the old trunk for many years. She sat on an improvised throne, playing queen. Her curls were caught up with a beautiful silver comb for which Lida was unable to account for, until she saw a neat bone in Cassie’s hand which she was using as a scepter. Each of the younger boys, subjects who must have decided the queen was ruling them with an iron hand, showed their resentment by threatening, each with a bone in his hand, to pull her off the throne.

“Oh, no,” groaned Lida inwardly as she realized the children had found the box of Maria’s remains. Unseen, she closed the door and retreated silently. When Silas came in from work, Lida lost no time in reporting the shocking scene witnessed in the attic. She declared emphatically that the time had come to bury Maria’s bones. He agreed and assured her he would make arrangements the next day.

The next day, something occurred which in the end brought a solution to his problem. His Uncle Thomas who lived with them stumbled on the porch steps, fell and broke a hip. The family was greatly distressed and did everything possible to promote a recovery but in spite of their concern, the old gentleman died.

He was buried in the family lot in Walnut Grove Cemetery in Boonville. While he lay in state, Silas was inspired by an idea which would help him in putting Maria’s remains to rest.

After the funeral service when Uncle Thomas’ coffin was lowered into the grave, a plain box was put on top of it before the grave was filled. Silas did not expect this would go unnoticed by some, especially Miss Tutie Whittle, whose keen eye could see the wink of a fly and delight in telling it. Sure enough, she sought out Silas and Lida before they left the ceremony to extend her sympathy. Then inquired, “What was in the pine box?” Silas and Lida replied without batting an eye, “Just some of Uncle Tommie’s keepsakes.”

Today the greensward is smooth above him and nothing marks the spot where old Uncle Thomas and young Maria await the resurrection.

The Church's Mission

This column concerns phases of evolution witnessed by me in the life of the Methodist Church of New Franklin during the last sixty years. It does not seem that long since the new, past, and present church was built and dedicated. At that time there were several pairs of parents who brought their children to Sunday School and stayed for the following church service.

Today there are some families who follow the old custom of accompanying their children. Others bring their young to Sunday School and return to pick them up when it is over. They do not often appear in church. In general, Sunday School languishes. Aside from the primary department there is only one class, that of mature women.

There was an evolution in which women’s hats disappeared. The first woman who entered the sanctuary bareheaded created quite a sensation. She was viewed by many with distrust. Never before had she shown the least sign of being a hussy. But it wasn’t long until someone else followed her example, then others until one wondered if the practice would become general.

Another evolution began with the appearance of the first woman in church wearing pants. Such dress had created a good deal of critical attention on the streets. Nobody dreamed a woman would appear in church without her skirt.

The transition from skirts to pants is taking longer than the elimination of millinery. It is not yet complete. But gradually pants are being embraced by more and more ladies.

Then there is the evolution pertaining to men wearing coats. Until a decade or so ago, I never saw a male member, and certainly not a pastor, coatless at a Sunday church service. As a young “twig” my parents bent me in the way they thought I should grow. Consequently, never in my life have I attended a church service on Sunday in my shirtsleeves. Wearing a coat for an hour or two at church is about the only thing I do in this modern world that distinguishes Sunday from any other day. Perhaps the twig grew with a crazy twist which makes me wince when I see a preacher take off his coat in the pulpit, lay it aside, pull down his vest front and back and resumes his effort to save my soul.

What an old fogy I am! But, if and when, I want to be buried with my coat on.

My Leper Mission

Not so long ago something happened which presented me a first opportunity to administer missions personally.

Flosserfina Faller, an inmate of the far distant leper colony of Culion on one of the Philippine Islands, saw my name in a magazine. She wrote me a letter, using excellent penmanship and very good diction, saying: “I write something to let you know my very wish to have your friendship that I may have someone shower my poor family with sunshine and cheer. I am suffering from lingering illness modernly termed Hansen’s disease. To help let the weary long days pass in our miserable condition of being confined in an island isolated from parents and other loved ones, I thought to look for a friend through correspondence. Reading letters will mean a lot for we do imagine we are being visited personally. I would like some religious literature and will you be kind and communicate with me?”

I replied, enclosing a dollar bill as if I were putting it in a slot machine to hear another record.

And in reply to my many questions I received in due time a liberal education concerning leprosy, the colony and much personal information concerning Flosserfina.

She and her husband Valentin had come to the colony when their parents were no longer able to pay for their medicine. They were allowed to marry and had four children who were “non-Hansen.” They lived as a family in a small napa house on the seafront. There was no danger of the children becoming infected.

The government afforded them the essentials for living. Neither parent was able, because of infirmities, to earn anything additional. So there was no money to buy extra things of which they read in American magazines. I soon learned that Flosserfina would rather have money than religious magazines.

A storm damaged their little house. It needed repairs before the rainy season began. She wrote, “I beg of you send a little sum, possibly 25 or 30 dollars. I honestly believe this may be too much for you though I hope you have the heart to do it.”

She wrote that Valentin, sick in the hospital, wept as he kissed the money when he opened the letter. Never have I known money to buy more. The roof was repaired. Bamboo flooring was renewed and the walls were shored up, neighbors doing the labor gratis. And there was enough left to buy Valentin some gourmet food like ovaltine, fresh bananas, tins of milk and Quaker Oats!

Valentin died. Flosserfina sent me a picture of herself and the neatly dressed children among the floral wreaths beside the coffin.

She worried about what would become of the children were she to die. She wished so much I would bring them to the United States and adopt them so they would have a chance in life.

Soon she wrote her last letter to me advising me of her severe illness, likely terminal. Then eight-year-old Mercie wrote that her mother was so sick in the hospital, always crying for her father; of how she cried and cried to see her mother there, wondering what she would do if she could never go back home; the doctor said there was no hope.

A year passed. I wondered what had happened to the children. I wrote an inquiry to the superintendent of the colony telling him of my experience with the Fallers and that the little girl, Mercie, had written of the impending death of her mother in the hospital.

He replied that the children were fine; that Flosserfina had not died; she had married again soon after Valentin died. And as for any illness which confined her to the hospital, she had not been there except on the occasion of the birth of a baby by her second marriage.

All I know for certain is that Valentin is dead.

Dishonest Shennanigans Style Changes

As I have said before, there is nothing new under the sun. However, the style of dishonest shenanigans seems to have changed. We read in the newspapers today of many, but those of the 1880s have a little different twist.

For instance: the church is the last place you would expect an operator, but as soon as the pastor had pronounced the benediction, John Doe fell over in a fit. Of course, this enlisted the sympathy of the people. On the inside of his coat was pinned his name, and the home of his relatives with the injunction that should he die in one of his fits, the people should have the body sent home. But he suddenly recovered and prevailed upon the congregation for enough money to get back home. It took about $20. Doubtless he gets that much every Sunday. Then he pulled out for another town to have another “fit” the next Sunday.

Brick Scheme

When the Fayette Court House was being built in the ’80s, a fellow named Madison who worked on that job boarded with Mrs. M.C. Jasper. He played the “brickscheme” on his landlady. Departing, he indicated he did not have enough money to pay his board bill and take him to Kansas City. He agreed to leave his large valuable valise and contents for one week’s board. However, he did so with the understanding that he should have his grip just as soon as he sent his money for the board. The landlady became suspicious and opened the valise. It was chock full of nice bricks taken from the new courthouse building. The fellow, doubtless, is laughing at his shrewdness.

Horse Traders

A half-dozen “horse traders” have been in town for a week past and relieved several boys of their ready cash. It is said to be done in this way. The horses they carry along to trade are so trained that when they are traded off they suddenly become lame, fall down or get sick and balk. The one getting them is glad to pay a few dollars to the traders to take them back.

About Early Telephones - Ring Central

In the spring of 1908, Samuel Burgin came to New Franklin with his family, one daughter and several sons. Old issues of the New Franklin paper reveal that he rented “the upstairs over the post office” for living quarters and the switchboard of Howard County Mutual Telephone Company. By hard work through the summer, building lines and installing phones, there were 11 phones in as many business places and two lines from the country with 23, making 34 on the system. It was put in operation in September.

Sam Burgin’s young daughter, barely in her teens, Avanel, recalls how busy she was keeping house, cooking for the family and running the “switchboard” to “plug in” those who wanted to use their phones.

My father did not get on the “party line” running by our farm at first. He had to weigh the benefits against the cost. But before many weeks passed we were on with eight other families, each with a different “ring.” Ours was “four longs and one short.”

There was an unwritten law against eavesdropping. But we soon learned with so many on the line, one had to listen in to know when the line became idle so he could “ring Central” immediately to get use of the line ahead of someone else. In a sense one was forced to eavesdrop!

The present generation cannot realize the favors asked of the switchboard operator, commonly known as “central.”

It was not unusual for a farm wife to ring central and say, “My son is in New Franklin, would you mind looking out the window and if you see him, tell him to bring me a spool of No. 40 white thread?”

Not long after we “got on the line,” my mother was taking a sponge bath one night. During the procedure she had occasion to move an oil lamp. Setting it down, she missed a table and it fell to the floor setting the house on fire. Miss Ruth Tuttle who was helping with sewing and staying in the house and my sister Anna Rose were upstairs when Mother screamed “Fire!” and “Bring me some clothes to put on!” My sister called central and asked her to yell out the window that the Taylor Kingsbury home was on fire.

My sister, after calling central, with supernatural energy had pumped cistern water into a washtub, carried it into the house, put out the fire, got my mother some clothes and called central again to ask her to announce to the world that “Kingsbury’s fire is out.”

A Long and Two Shorts

According to the Boonville Advertiser of January 22, 1880, people in town were a little slow in appreciating the benefits of telephone service. The editor relates:

“The manager of the telephone exchange at this place who in every respect is truthful and reliable, informs us that if there is to be any further kicking, he is authorized to gather up the telephone, take down the wires, pull up the poles and ship the entire business to Kansas City. This plant has never made any money for the company and had they known what they know now before they invested here, the exchange would have never been established.

The Advertiser considers the telephone a necessity and would regret to see our citizens discontinue its use. Those who cannot afford it of course should abandon it. It looks like our citizens should endeavor to connect other places with Boonville by telephone, enlarging our business territory, rather than to discourage and kill anything which gives us the appearance of modern enterprise.”

In another column, he writes:

When telephones were new in Howard County there were “party lines,” and much “listening in.” Neighbors were all anxious to hear every day how Mrs. Wirt Muckley, who was critically ill, was doing. She had been quite ill a long time. The end was expected any day, Miss Tillie Droopers helped to take care of her.

Whenever the phone rang “a long and two shorts,” a lot of receivers came off the hooks in homes of people who wanted to hear Miss Tillie give the latest bulletin. Toward the end, she would say, “Well, last night she laid about the same. She ain’t dead yet but she is mighty bad off. Seems like she can’t get neither way.”

When she passed to her reward, the preacher was trying to comfort Thomas, her son, pointing out things which he should be thankful in spite of his sorrow. But Thomas was unconvinced and told him, “ They ain’t but one good thing about it an’ it was when she did shut off, she shut off easy.”

How Styles do Cycle

There is nothing new about the prevalent long hair style. I have a picture of my Grandfather Kingsbury taken almost a hundred years ago. His long hair comes down to his ears. Sideburns and heavy whiskers extend via his chin from one to the other. It makes a hairy halo around his face.

It is nothing new that girls and women wear their hair long. At a “Recherche Musicale” given in New Franklin in 1882 some of the young ladies “were tastily dressed in pure white with their golden hair falling halfway to their waists.” Some then wore long curls as did my mother in a picture taken in the early 1870s.

Do you remember when girls and women, not so long ago quit wearing stockings? Well it wasn’t the first time. In the 1880s the Fayette Advertiser mentioned them leaving off their hose and said “this knocks the socks off of ye editor.”

Many years ago I took to my heart a copy of a portrait of Pauline Bonaparte, sister of Napoleon. I hung it in my home. With her a member of my household I learned what I could about her. I already knew she was a beautiful woman. In 1803 she married Camillo Borghese, an Italian nobleman. She went to live in Rome in one of the most elegant palaces in the city. In later years the Borghese Gardens with its palace became one of the show places of Rome.

I wanted to see Pauline’s old home just as if I could come back home and tell her about it. The palace was elegant. Like most palaces in Europe it was full of portraits, (600 I was told).

But the thing which pleased me most and afforded me the greatest surprise was in an alcove with nothing else to detract from it. It was a white marble figure of a beautiful woman semi-reclining on a couch. I recognized her the instant I saw her, Princess Pauline Bonaparte-Borghese. The surprise was that her hair was done a la pony tail! And back home I had thought the style was new.

Today on TV I saw scenes of young people dancing in Paris, body to body and cheek to cheek. A lone woman had her long hair styled pony tail curved so high she reminded me of a young filly at a horse show.

Are You Plagued By Maramus?

No doctor ever told me, but in browsing in the dictionary I have learned that I have maramus. Strange that I had never heard of it when it has afflicted the human race. In fact, every living thing since the creation of earth.

Marking back to 1912 I wrote about New Franklin’s first Street Fair. It was held in the wide street, Broadway, between Missouri Avenue and Howard Street. Traffic was directed to side streets whenever the fair was in operation. There was a ferris wheel, a merry-go-round and numerous concessions for food and soda pop and for games of chance.

Seems everybody was there every night. Even old Mrs. D.R. Wayland who claims she never knows a well day, weaving like a shuttle through the crowds. Her unsmiling face made me wish she could throw a bit of confetti or blow a tin horn to get into the spirit of the occasion.

I persuaded Cousin Annie Boggs to ride the horses on the merry-go-round with me and we had a fine gallop through the street. I didn’t get up enough courage to ride a kiddish hobby horse until Friday night. It is great to take a person off his dignity and I think all elderly people should indulge in it if they want to keep young.

Mr. and Mrs. Bob Robertson enjoyed themselves at the Jap-ware booths, but they didn’t win as many premiums as the Burkhimers did. Mrs. Burkhimer won the prettiest set of cups and saucers on display, a pitcher and a vase shaped like a spittoon. Lutie, their daughter, won a poodle dog for herself and for all her friends who asked her to throw for them. She was surely the poodle dog winner.

And there was a minstrel show. One night my sister and I were there when a large Negro woman, Annie Mart, came in and sat in front of us. We both had to move to be able to see the stage. A duplicate of her, Alice Biggs, came and sat to one side of us but near Annie. When they got tickled at the jokes, they would laugh loud as they swayed back and forth, saying to each other, “Ain’t that a shame.” To us, they were better than the stage show.

On Sunday:

The Street Fair is gone. There is no blaring of “Casey Jones,” and the street looks very sad. But I rather like the pathos of it. Saturday night when I went out of town, everything was in a whirl. Sunday morning the street was deserted, not even a scrap of paper in sight.

[Incidentally, if you are not familiar with the symptoms of maramus, Webster’s defines it as: “to waste away; progressive emaciation...” As my 90th birthday approaches, I’m aware I have a serious case.]

Looking At ÒThe Old SeminaryÓ Building

The white two-story brick building located in the north end of New Franklin, known as the Old Seminary has acquired the reputation of having celebrated 146 birthdays. I know of no one able to confirm or deny it. The building is one of five brick residences still standing in town which tradition says were built in 1832 by Booker and Washington, two slaves owned by Senator Owen Rawlings.

My mother and father used to talk of going there, he riding his pony and she with a sister, walking from the Clark’s Chapel community.

When the Masonic Lodge was granted a charter in 1857, the upper story was used for its meetings. The Odd Fellows also met there. And I have heard older men and women talk of attending meetings of the Sons of Temperance there.

When the Methodists in New Franklin (incidentally it was the only church in town) decided to erect a one-story brick church, the lodges persuaded the trustees to allow them to build a second story so they would have a new meeting hall. They would run up the wall and put on the roof and would become joint owners of the building. The building was completed in the late 1860s.

In an effort to learn more about the early school I asked all of the old pupils I could find to tell or write me of their reminiscences. The best letter I received in 1950 was from a double cousin of mine who lived in Montana, Lillian Kingsbury, who related:

“Our family acquaintance with the old Seminary began in September, 1874 when Mr. James Moore was the teacher. No janitor, no reports, almost no nothin’. He boarded at Uncle Taylor’s (my father) and rode his own horse, a good one. The Dunaways, who both taught, had the next two years.

“And then there was a grand change. Prof. A.P. Barton, a real administrator, had the school for three years. The first year he used the big room downstairs, then the school grew so, the Sons of Temperance were moved out from upstairs. He moved the older class up there, his brother had the intermediate school downstairs, along with Miss Sallie Cook, who taught the primary.

“In the spring of 1881, Vaughan Bonham offered an essay medal. There were six contestants, four boys, Sallie McGavock and myself. The event came off Friday, April 1, 1881, and I was fortunate.

“And then Prof. Barton and his family, a gifted lot, left for Kansas City and he embarked in the practice of law. Mrs. Barton was a fine artist, Ethel, the first child, a gifted musician. Homer, an actor, Ralph, the stormy petrel of the family, associated with writers and even visited Lady Astor.

“The fall of 1881, I went to college. The Seminary was condemned as unsafe, and a new three-room school was built on the west side of North Howard St., where ten years later, a third building, eight rooms and still standing and being used now as a church school, was erected.

“When the school opened in the fall of 1882, Miss Mary O’Donnell was principal, Bessie Morrison of Fayette taught intermediate and I had the primary. My salary was $30 per month for six months.

“We closed with a May Day party in Ferguson’s pasture. Mag Herndon was Queen of the May and handsome Ed Long crowned her, the first time Taylor Bowman ever had a rival.”

It is interesting to consider that the “Old Seminary,” which was condemned in 1881 as likely to collapse on the school children and was bought by one of the school directors to be made into a residence, has been a safe home for many families since then. A few years ago, she was showing wrinkles and suffering from stomach ache, but a new family fell in love with her, showed it by giving her a face lift and internal operations which have restored her health. She looks vigorous enough to last another hundred years.

Where Can You Find A Rhabodomancer?

Can you tell me who is a good rhabodomancer in Boonville or Cooper County? No? Perhaps then you can cite me to a good dowser? No? Well surely there must be a water witch?

I dare say most of you know what a water witch is, though some of the younger generation may think it is an old snaggle-toothed woman with a pointed wide brimmed black hat astraddle a broomstick riding above a body of water.

I queried my grandsons on this and they agreed it was a shapely female at the beach wearing a string/mini bra outfit, projecting a “come hither look.”

Water witching is an art of finding it beneath the surface of the earth. It is so old no one knows when it originated. Witchers claim and have proven they can walk over land with a forked twig in their hands extended in front of them. When they pass over a vein of underground water, the butt end of the twig will bob up and down or bend towards the earth. Some witchers claim by counting the bobs they can tell how deep one must dig or drill to reach the water.

The forked twig may be of hazel wood, peach, willow or what-have-you. Some witchers use instead a metal rod. One used the handle end of a buggy whip. Another simply a blade of grass.

The art of being a dowser or a diviner as some call themselves is rare. One cannot buy it. No one can give it to you. It seems like an inborn intuition.

Historians, psychologists, geologists, students of the mysterious have given study to the art of water witching. But nobody has been able to offer a scientific explanation of it.

The Department of Interior of the United States after comprehensive research issued a paper with the following conclusive summary

“It is doubtful whether so much investigation and discussion has ever been bestowed on any other subject with such absolute lack of positive results. It is difficult to see how the matter could be more thoroughly discredited - further tests by the Geological Survey of the witching of water would be a misuse of funds.”

Stephen Wright, retired, makes no pretense at finding underground veins of water. However, he can locate a buried water main or a sewer line. It has been some 60 years since New Franklin laid its first water mains. Not so long ago, the city needed to locate certain outlying ones. There was no chart and everyone who had assisted in laying them had died. Someone suggested Stephen Wright could find them. He did.

His equipment is simple. He cut the long pieces of straight wire from common coat hangers. With one wire in each hand extended before him, he walked over the ground. Suddenly the front ends of the wire drew together as if drawn by a magnet. Stephen said, “Here it is gentlemen.” And so it was.

(Note: Before I finished this, a gentleman I had not known before called at my office. I mentioned what I was typing. He assured me he could not only water witch, but do other things with certain equipment. He suggested I get a couple of coat hangers and he would tell me the state of my health. Before he left, the hangers were mysteriously turning in my own hands. I may report in a later column that my latest hobby is water witching!)

Jack the Ripper

My brother, Robert Kingsbury, aged 91, asked me the other day, “Why haven’t you written something about Jack the Ripper?”

“Who was he and what did he rip?” I inquired.

“He was a tramp who used to come to New Franklin every fall to saw wood for a lot of people who used it for winter fuel. He was called the ripper because he could saw up a cord of wood quicker than anybody else who ever set foot in Howard County.

He never worked for anybody without the understanding that his dinner, all he could eat, was to be furnished as part of payment. The wives who had to feed him agreed that he had the right name for he ripped through food so fast it wore them out keeping it on his plate.”

Dr. Moser, aged 97, remembered Jack the Ripper. “He was just like a whirlwind with a cord of wood. He was the swiftest sawer ever known around here, measuring his strokes by the rhythm of his song. And he could eat more and put it down as fast as he could saw wood. Why one time, Paddy Lee hired him, and Mrs. Lee had to fry three rabbits in succession, and he ate every bit of them except the bones before his hunger pains for meat were satisfied.

“One fall another tramp named Willie showed up in town. Willie heard talk about how much Jack the Ripper could eat and he stated openly that he would like to challenge Jack to eat more than he himself could put away.

Men around town heard of it and some of them thought it would make a fine sporting event. A date was set. Arrangements were made to have the contest in the only eating place in town where any foods that Jack the Ripper selected were to be provided for the contestants.

Excitement increased as time for the contest rolled around. There was a lot of betting on the outcome. Jack the Ripper’s expertise in eating was well-known but Willie was a bigger man than Jack and looked like he could hold more, so many bet their money on him.

At the appointed time, all available space in the dining room was filled with spectators who had paid a dime a piece to watch the show. The proceeds were to pay for the food consumed.

Jack the Ripper ordered chicken, rabbit, sausage, coon, ham and eggs, possum and sweet potatoes, hot cakes and sorghum, milk and coffee. Willie and Jack appeared to be running neck and neck as their supporters cheered them on. But Jack didn’t seem able to get a swallow ahead and evidently was afraid he would lose the contest. He gave an order for something which was brought in as another course, dessert. When it was set before the contestants, Jack took a big spoonful and began to chew on it. Juice began to run down the sides of his mouth. Willie looked at it, and then at Jack and pushed it away toward the center of the table. His stomach rebelled, and Jack was declared the winner.”

“Doc, what was for dessert?” I asked him, curious to know.

“Well, now it seems funny, but I can’t think what it was to save my soul. Ask your brother Robert if he remembers,” replied the doctor.

I asked Robert what enabled Jack the Ripper to win the “Eat the Most” contest.

“Sure,” he replied, “It was axle grease.”

Sitting On The Front Porch - Watching All The Folk Drive By

If you live long enough you will remember many things that afforded you pleasure in your earlier years. One I recall is the front porch, which in some cases was large enough to become a second living room during the pleasant months of the year. We used to resort to the front porch to find a breeze on a hot summer day.

Electric fans and then air conditioners and TV sets put an end to the front porch for resting and conversation. It is no longer an important part of the home.

In the 1890s when houses were being built with front porches, my father had a large one 30 by 12 feet added to our house. It had spindling columns with a regular gingerbread of wooden curlicues at the top between them.

In later years there was a five foot long slatted wooden bench along the wall and a wooden bench swing suspended from the ceiling by chains, with cushions, on either side of the front door. There were a couple of old Boston rockers. And available always was a supply of palm leaf fans or paper ones advertising the funeral parlor in New Franklin. It was a good place to relax and watch the world go by. We were familiar with every horse and buggy which passed up and down the road and later the owners of the first automobiles. If your women heard over the party telephone line that someon’s automobile was on the road, they never thought of driving a horse on the road until it had come by and gone back up the road.

Morning glories trailed up trellises at the sides of the porch steps. I remember best the years when the Seven Sisters roses bloomed profusely. Then came the pink rambler. They never grew where they could interfere with the view of the road.

I remember my mother coming from the hot kitchen with the folds of her apron in her hand, to fan herself while she sat in a swing and cooled off a bit.

Sometimes she would entertain her Ladies Aid Society on the porch. Company who came in the evenings were usually entertained there. Occasionally she would be obliged to remark, “The mosquitoes are so bad tonight we had better go inside.”

The biggest social event for which the front porch was used occurred when one of my sisters had her wedding ceremony performed there. I undertook the task of decorating it with greenery from the farm. The porch was to be converted into a chapel. I robbed the woodsy farm hollows of long fronds of ferns, transplanted them into hanging baskets with vines. The long garden row of asparagus was bared of its feathery tops to make a railing around the edges of the porch and to ornament the columns and the wooden gingerbread at their tops. A contrivance was rigged up on the ceiling over the spot where the couple would be married. Just as they were pronounced man and wife, a string was pulled which released a shower of rice.

How long has it been since you saw anyone sitting on the front porch? New houses don’t even have them anymore like homes built back in 1832.

On the bottom of the column clipping Lilburn sent me, he scrawled, “One woman called to tell me she was sitting on her front porch when she read the column.”

The Tent Show's in Town

In a letter to Charles in July 1974 Lilburn writes of attending the Writers’ Group at Cedar Grove:

They wanted to make me President of this organization until I told them positively I would not be. It is bad enough to generally be the only man at the meeting. The refreshments are always good. I read my column to be sent to the paper about the tent show Ed “Toby” and Iola Ward used to put on here for many, many years to the delight of southern Howard County.

The column follows:

Before the days of picture shows and television, the people of South Howard County were highly entertained by the Princess Stock Company under a big waterproof tent pitched for a week in June in the middle of New Franklin’s Main Street.

The company was headed by a married couple, Ed “Toby” and Iola Ward. Beginning in 1915 they came to New Franklin for such a long term of years that when they arrived it was like home folks coming back for an annual reunion. Ed was a stocky, good-looking man with black hair and dark eyes. Iola was a pretty brunette. Each played a part in nearly every show. “Toby” was exciting as Simon Legree in “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” with a terrible looking whip. He was good as the poor old man who was about to lose his farm through foreclosure of the mortgage unless he gave the hand of his pretty daughter in marriage to the villain. And how he could play the part of a villain himself!

Sometimes Iola played the part of a rich girl, sometimes a drudge like Cinderella. But she was at her best when she was a pretty young, innocent girl, like Susie, trying to resist the evil slicker from the city, the trumpet player in the band. After one performance a Methodist lady said she prayed all through it Susie would be able to hold out. Susie was always triumphant in the plays.

To some of the women the plays were so realistic, like “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” they shed tears when little Eva made her jerky ascent to Heaven.

There were five or six strong-lunged men with band instruments who gave a very loud concert every night to attract the crowd and signal it was time to enter the tent and get seated before the show began. In 1919 a ticket was 27 cents plus the war tax of 3c. There were reserved seats for those who wanted to be closer to the stage when the hero would shoot the villain, for 9c plus 1c tax. And for those who wanted to remain for the vaudeville show which followed the play, the charge was an additional 9c plus 1c tax. One just remained in his seat until the drummer in the band could collect the toll.

Of course most of the gags of the comedian, sometimes a comedienne, were stale but the audience was so imbued with the spirit of fun, it laughed as if they had never heard them before.

Such entertainments would be allowed to set up their tents in the corner of Ferguson’s pasture just a block from the business section of the town. The change of location made no material difference to Toby and Iola Ward.

But time brought a change which made a difference to many of the Princess Stock Company fans. An advance agent brought the news that Ed and Iola Ward were playing new roles as separates. She was no longer with the company-no longer to be the pretty heroine to be saved from the wiles of the wicked trumpet player!

After each appearance in New Franklin, the editor of the news always wrote a paragraph of praise, saying the same things each year-it was a clean show with clean people. Through the many years it had come to New Franklin it had established a great reputation among the pleasure seeking people of southern Howard County and “had played to capacity.”

I inquired, naturally, but never learned what was the wedge that split Ed and Iola’s log of happiness.

What Should A “Bundle Of Joy” Cost?

A story recently in the Boonville Daily News about “Bundles of Joy” (babies) being so expensive now—as much as $1,000— reminded me of a black woman who lived in New Franklin before hospitals were established. Upon my request, she gave me a list of all the babies she had helped bring into the world between 1894 and 1920—150 of them.

Nannie was in New Franklin at the time of my earliest recollections and was no doubt a native of the community. She was a nice looking woman, always neatly dressed, highly regarded, and treated with great respect. Men and women never knew when she might be needed to help in their homes.

Because of her profession, Nannie was able to contribute to the support of her household. Charlie, her husband, had one empty sleeve, so was handicapped in performing many kinds of work.

Instead of hospital costs which the story says may run as high as $600 in a case of childbirth, there was none where Nannie presided as an assistant to the doctor (if he arrived in time). There was no delivery room at $75, nor $114 nursery charges. The room in the home sufficed for everything, and Nannie did all the nursing.

Not only did she nurse the recuperating mother and care for the baby, but she looked after the feeding, three times a day of other members of the family.

She was happy to have earned a dollar a day, $12 for her services.

In due time, the father of the baby got around to paying the doctor delivery charge of $25 instead of today’s current price as quoted in the story of $250. One would think the present high cost of bringing babies into the world would be an effective brake on the population explosion.

Wedding Presents Expected

It is interesting in perusing old newspapers to note the changes in their manner of reporting weddings.

A hundred and fifty years ago the Missouri Intelligencer used four or five lines to announce one, giving the names of the contracting parties, the date, maybe the place and the name of the minister or the Justice of the Peace who performed the ceremony.

Many years passed before we find the newspapers handing out compliments to the “estimable” bride and the “dependable” groom, and furnishing some details of the ceremony.

The day came when the newspaper published not only a complete account of the wedding but a list of wedding presents with the name of each donor. This custom of giving wedding presents was established, it appears, in the seventies of the last century. A Clark’s Chapel bride of 1872 told me with humor that when she was married, she received only a gold-embossed family Bible and a pickle dish, both of which proved appropriate.

But once established, the custom of giving presents flourished even to this day. And lists of presents were published in the newspapers.

Today no prospective brides would announce their choices of patterns of china, silver and crystal in the local newspaper. But none seems averse to slipping the word to the public through the privacy of a display in the window of a shop on Main St.

Newspaper lists of wedding presents in the newspapers would be of interest to many people who cannot go to the weddings.

The newspaper report of a crystal wedding celebration in 1886 follows:

“The latest social event of the season was the crystal wedding of Mr. and Mrs. W.W. Smith. At an early hour the doors were thrown open and the guests began to assemble. All who are acquainted with the royal manner in which Mr. and Mrs. Smith entertain bear me out in saying this time they excelled themselves a little.

The supper was abundant, substantial and delicate. Mirth was the order of the night and each guest enjoyed the occasion thoroughly. As the ‘wee sma’ hours advanced the crowd dispersed, each wishing in his heart, the words echoed from lip to lip, ‘Many happy returns of the anniversary. We hope you may live to celebrate in the same manner, your diamond wedding.’”

Did You Ever See a Horse In Bed?

Dr. Henry Moser tells me that in 1903 his dental office was over Arthur Cox’s store, here in New Franklin. “Jennie Dempsey,” said he, “was in the chair and I was preparing a tooth for a filling when the first explosion came. The floor beneath us seemed to rise. There were other explosions before we could get down the stairway to the street.”

Arthur Cox had show windows on either side of his front door full of fireworks of various kinds. Roman candles, small and giant firecrackers and an intriguing little thing called a grasshopper. When lit, a series of small explosions would make it jump between them.

It was the third of July and Jim Burch had brought his young son, Frank, uptown to buy him some fireworks to shoot off on the glorious Fourth. Arthur was showing his stock, and putting a grasshopper on the counter, he lit it to give a demonstration. But he never dreamed of the demonstration which followed. The “live” grasshopper jumped into a show window and set it afire. Before Arthur could pump and bring a bucket of water to put out the fire, little firecrackers and giant firecrackers sounded like bedlam broke loose.

Mrs. Harris’ old blind mare hitched to a buggy was tied to the rack in front of the store. She broke loose and sightless, headed directly across the street and into the plate glass window of Jake Hunter’s furniture store where the chief display was a bed made up in the best style to display a spread and pillow covers.

The old mare crashed through the glass and fell into the bed. There she lay, seemingly resigned and satisfied, so trussed by her harness she couldn’t move.

Hunter had never had a window display to equal this one.

Magical Hackley Mad Stone

News items from the Fayette Advertiser in the 1880s concerned rabid dogs and advised everyone to be on his guard.

“A young man named Smith was bitten by one this week. He went to Boonville to have a mad stone applied to the wound.”

“The son of J.O. Callaway, bitten by a mad dog a short time ago is, we are glad to report, getting all right again. The Hackley mad stone worked charmingly in his case.”

What was a mad stone? Traditionally it was a small, hard object which had lodged in a deer’s stomach, become coated with a calcium deposit. Its surface was as smooth as satin. It was said it made the animal twice as hard to kill as one without it.

The virtue of the stone was that when applied to the bite of a rabid animal it would draw out the poison and save the victim from hydrophobia. It was effective too when applied to the bite of a rattlesnake, even a spider.

Lott Hackley, mentioned above, brought his mad stone from Kentucky when he came and settled in the Boonslick Country in 1824. After he died in 1874 it was handed down through successive generations. It was in Howard County 115 years. In 1939 Hardin Hackley gave it to his own son David who took it to Dallas, Texas. It had been in Hardin’s possession for 25 years. He told me, “Of all the people who used the mad stone there was only one who died and he already had a couple of fits before he could get to it.”

David Crews and John Lusby, a couple of young farmers residing a few miles of Fayette were bitten by a young mad calf. When first attacked the animal had symptoms of being choked so the boys caught it and attempted to relieve it by thrusting an arm down its throat to remove whatever they might find. They found nothing but in their efforts each was bitten on his hand. The calf continued to froth at the mouth and finally developed a genuine case of hydrophobia from which it soon died. When the young men learned this they lost no time in getting over to Dr. Hackley’s, a neighbor, and applied the mad stone. During the ten days following, it never stuck to either of their hands so they felt no serious harm would come from the bites received.

Once when Mr. Hackley exhibited the stone at a Fayette fair, the late Dr. Charles Lee picked it up, examined it closely, shook his head and remarked, “I don’t think much of it but if a mad dog bit me and I didn’t have anything else, I would sure get my engine hot getting to it.”

Nothing To Fear But Fear

Old Mt. Pleasant Cemetery is within a thousand feet of my front door. As yet I haven’t played as much a part in its life as it has in mine.

Youthful memories linger of it and the abandoned church by its side. The Baptists and Campbellites who had worshipped there so long had moved to New Franklin and built new churches in the 80s.

On moonlit nights I used to see strange lights over there. Nobody had told me about the reflection of moonlight on polished tombstones.

As for the frame church with its boards cut to simulate rectangular stones and now pecked by woodpeckers, nothing could have induced me to enter its unlocked doors alone.

On the bravest occasions I would speak a few words so we could hear a spirit repeat them right after me. The church seemed so empty.

But the black men who worked on the farm told me that every night it was full of spirits which came out of the graves in the churchyard to hold a meeting inside.

One of the men made a $10 bet with my older brother that the latter wouldn’t sleep all night in the church.

I remember with what misgivings I saw him go down the lane at dusk with a blanket and his shotgun, I doubted if I would ever see him again.

Next morning when I saw him coming back, I ran to meet him. If I had had a fatted calf, it wouldn’t have had a chance.

But there came a day when I didn’t feel so solicitous about him. He used to milk the family cow.

I used to beg him to let me try. I thought he was very kind to favor me. Before long he was hiring and paying me a nickel every time I would do the chore for him.

When I became proficient he told me he would let me do it all the time! Thus he left me holding the bag. And being the youngest son, I held it for a long time.

I was afraid of the dark. The graveyard may have been the cause of my being afraid of the dark. My family was concerned about it.

Another brother resolved to cure me of this illness. He taught, and we drove to school in a buggy. One afternoon when we got home I forgot to take my books into the house. It was pitch dark before I needed them.

Despite my begging, no one would go with me to get them. To reach the buggy I had to traverse our large yard. Cautious at every step, I was passing a bushy cedar tree when something jumped from behind it and grabbed me in a tight embrace. I was sure in my terror that it was a ghost from Mt. Pleasant until I heard the familiar voice of my teacher-brother. I gasped.

“Why did you do it, why did you do it?” I cried

Before long I realized why. During that experience, something died within me—my fear of the dark. And to this day I am grateful to my brother for the harsh treatment which cured me of my illness.

Did You Ever Have a Leap Year Date?

I can’t remember when I last heard of a leap year party. Is it because women now have become so “libbed” that they feel that old-time special attention shown the men would be a waste of time?

These thoughts were induced by reading about a leap year party reported in the Central Missourian of Glasgow on the 1st of March, 1888. Arrangements for it were “perfect and satisfactory.”

The ladies called for the gentlemen shortly after 8 o’clock and cared for them in the most tender manner, having them driven to and from the party in carriages and bestowing on them every possible attention.

Arriving at the home they were ushered into a blaze of light by their gallant escorts. The evening was spent dancing, card playing and social conversation. At 12 o’clock the ladies escorted the gentlemen into the dining room where a bountiful repast was served and highly relished by all.

When Did You Have Your First Radio

On November 10, 1922 the New Franklin News reported:

“The radio craze is gaining momentum locally. The first set in town we believe was installed early in the summer when Mr. Mecum, son-in-law of Mr. and Mrs. J.K. Dodson was here on a visit. Soon after, Emil Bethke installed one and since then Elmer McMillin, John Agnew and Kelly Munro have installed outfits.

Mr. Wallace Estill we understand has also installed one of the high type machines. The radio is a great thing and is bound to grow in favor as people become familiar with the advantages it affords for keeping abreast of the happenings of the day.”

Radios grew in popularity with the speed of a race horse. Many people became devotees of listening to the news and serials just as today they are to television.

Concerning the radio craze Lilburn wrote of personal experiences. It follows:

Allow me to complain gently about people who will not let hell nor highwater interfere with their reception of favorite radio programs. In St. Louis recently I called on some friends I had not seen for a long time. Hardly had we exchanged greetings and launched into the natural exchange of questions about Tom, Dick and Harry, when the hostess announced, “Oh it’s time for Bob Hope to come on. We just drop everything to listen to him.” And on he came to their keenest delight. Stymied by the comedian, I sat and clocked off more minutes than I should have spent there.

Pat and Sue whom I visited for the first time in their beautiful new apartment had a different approach. There was a sudden interruption of a lively discussion about mutual friends when Sue said: “I’m crazy for you to see my new book on antique silver.” “Get him that old ship of mine too,” added Pat sitting within arms reach of the radio, his fingers tinkering with the dial. As she handed them to me, I heard the announcement from the radio, “Mr. District Attorney” and realized what they were doing to me!

By now both host and hostess were glued to the radio, their faces rapt with interest. They were lost to my world. I could have slipped out without them knowing it. I tried to look at the books but couldn’t keep my mind on them because of gunfire on the radio. My hostess suddenly grew more tense and clasping her hands gladly exclaimed, “Oh good, the police are coming, the police are coming!”

My silence was complete until Pat and Sue figured the casualties, seven killed and four wounded. “Phew,” sighed the hostess. The radio was snapped off, the books laid aside and visiting was resumed as it had begun.

How Long Did the Candle Burn?

How interesting it was to read the advertisement of Foster’s Drug Store in the issue of the Boonville Daily News of March 24th!

It told about the “biggest apple pie in the whole world.” It was six feet in diameter and six inches deep. It contained 22 bushels of apples and other ingredients in proportion.

It took seven men to “wrestle it into the oven” for baking. A hoist was used to load it onto the flatbed of a truck which conveyed it to Bell’s Orchard east of Boonville. It was a product to advertise Boonville as the Apple Center of the United States, and was enjoyed by members of Missouri State Orchards Association.

The account of the oversized pie turned my mind backward 55 years to the day in 1920 when the Bank of New Franklin (now the home of Exchange Bank) was opened and one of the most interesting events in connection with it was a guessing contest as to how many hours an immense candle would burn.

The candle was at least six inches in diameter and five or six feet high. It was put on display the day before the opening in the officer’s room to the right of the front entrance so that people who had been informed of the contest might view it and begin speculating. The first prize for the nearest correct guess was $10, second, $5, and third, $2.50. That day differences of opinion varied greatly from five hours to twenty-one days.

The formal lighting occurred at 8 o’clock on the morning of the opening. It was a gala day in New Franklin. As cashier of the institution, I had a ball. The ladies were given white and pink carnations, the men cigars and every little boy and girl had a tin horn which produced more bedlam than desired. Everybody wanted to record a guess about the candle, and 743 did.

The big candle burned 161 hours and 59 minutes and 45 seconds. All of its close “relatives” (those who worked in the bank) were at its bedside when it died. And fortunately it occurred in the daytime. The winner guessed 162 hours and 20 minutes.

The Dressed Up Toilet Seat

Zip and Lula Coated have lived in the country all their lives. They are plain people. They have a comfortable home, but nothing pretentious. They have one bathroom, not a fraction more. They have never been disposed to “keep up with the Joneses” and buy every creature comfort that comes on the market. In fact, they don’t pay much attention to the market.

Lula recently had a birthday. Her sister, Dilsie Peeling, who lives in the city sent her a present.

When Zip brought it from the mailbox, Lula could hardly wait as she struggled with the wrapper.

Zip, who had sat down in his easy chair to read the Boonville Daily News looked over his glasses.

He watched her raise the lids of the box and take out a rectangular piece of material covered on one side with what looked to him like a lemon-colored kitten fur with a half- moon shape hollowed out on one end. Puzzled, she held it up in front of her so that her neck fitted the hollowed out space.

Zip remarked, “Why it don’t have any strings to tie it around your neck or waist either! Funny sort of bib!”

“And what would you want with a bib anyway after you get your hair washed?” Lula asked him.

She laid the bib aside and took out what looked like a night cap of the same material. She stretched its band of elastic and put it on her head.

Zip didn’t like what he saw. It wasn’t Lula’s color, it did nothing for her. He resumed his reading until she exclaimed, “This is sure a crazy outfit!”

Then Zip remembered a letter in his pocket that he had overlooked in giving her. She was delighted that it was from Dilsie. She hadn’t read far when she exclaimed, “Well, if this isn’t the beatenest! Listen Zip! ‘I do hope you and Zip will like the present I am sending for your bathroom. You may have to trim the little rug to make it fit closer around the stool. The covers are a little hard to put on the lids but the elastic is givey enough that you won’t have much trouble. I ordered a jacket for the flush tank but they were temporarily out of stock and I will send it later. Tillie my best friend, has a complete set, hers is pink and covers everything but the hole. It is lovely and lends such a nice touch to her bathroom.’”

Lula stopped reading to remark, “How far behind can we get with the new styles?” Then, “It is just too nice to use everyday, we’ll just have to put it up in the back room ‘til company comes.”

“Yes,” replied Zip, a tone of displeasure in his voice, “Keep it up ther ‘til Pat Nixon comes! I’ll have nothing to do with it! It’s just one of those womens’ lib contraptions to make sissies of us men, to cramp our style.”

And so Lula’s birthday present reposed up in the back room. She is wondering what Dilsie will say when she comes.

Do You Remember the Ringing And Tolling Of The Bells?

The following story is in the September 14, 1900 issue of the Boonville Weekly Advertiser:

“On Monday the three bells of St. Peter’s and Paul’s Catholic Church of this city which for the past forty years have announced the time of day, morning, noon and night, and called the people of the parish to prayer and devotion, were taken down and shipped to Trenton, Illinois where they were sold to Rev. Father Dolson, Pastor of St. Mary’s Church.

They weigh in the aggregate 4,225 pounds and the Trenton Church paid $844 for them.

These bells will be replaced in about a month from now by three fine new bells which are being cast at the McShane foundry in Baltimore, Maryland. They will weigh 6,225 pounds and will cost $745. They will be noted in F, A and C-sharp, will harmonize beautifully and produce a sweet mellow sound.

“At present St. Peter’s and Paul’s church is doing without any bells. The Rev. Kussman says he relies upon the ingenuity of his people to find out the correct time.”

My first thought after reading it was of wonder whether these bells of 1900 were in use seventy odd years until the old church was recently razed and replaced by the elegant edifice at the corner of 7th and Morgan Streets. I have been told they were sold at that time.

While ringing of bells has been generally upon joyous occasions, there were and are occasions when they proclaim sadness. As when the church bell is tolled to announce the death of a beloved member, one dong for each year of his age.

And some churches toll the bells after a funeral as the cortege moves away toward the cemetery. But church bells are not rung as commonly as they were in earlier days. The custom has been passing along with many others so significant to older generations. Today people are too busy to hear them.

One beautiful Sunday morning I set out in Nice on the Mediterranean coast of France to see things never available on a conducted tour.

At the foot of a street I continued by climbing in a succession of wide stairways with a succession of straightaways between them to the top of a small mountain. On either side were three and four storied dwellings in pastel colors. On top of the mountain were the ruins of a castle which in ancient days had been built by one of the Caesars who came to the coast for relaxation. From this vantage point the view was overwhelming.

To my left was the sea, intensely blue, stretching to the horizon, to my right were distant snow-capped peaks of the mountains and before me lay the whole City of Nice along the crescent shaped seashore and extending up the mountain side.

Suddenly every bell in Nice was ringing. There must have been hundreds of them. Already filled with the beauty of the surroundings, this was too much. My feelings exploded.

Another time I had gone by train from London to visit the famous Cathedral of Cantebury. Arriving in the small town I elected to walk from the railway station so that I might enjoy the English architecture. It was New Years Day. Just as I arrived before this magnificent edifice at noon, all of its many bells began to ring. It was indeed impressive, extremely so until someone told me not to think it was to welcome me, but rather the New Year, repeating what had been done the midnight before.

We left late with the music of Evensong and soft bells ringing in our ears.

That Man Looks Like President Truman

Do people like to be told they look like someone else? I asked a number of men and women. They said it would be all right if it were someone handsome, pretty, great or good. One man said he would not mind if told he resembled his father or mother. Still another suggested politics might enter the picture. Which reminded me...

Once upon a time I joined a group of people from Chicago for a tour of Mexico. As the train pulled out of St. Louis I passed through a car where the director of the tour was sitting by and talking to Senator Connolly of Texas. Seeing me, the latter remarked, “That man looks like President Truman.”

Lilburn with his sister, Lillian: "That man looks like President Truman"

That gave the director an idea. When he introduced me to the other members of the party he did so as “President Truman.”

Although he followed up with my proper name, to the group I was “President Truman” throughout the trip.

But the fun was not all on their side. At the first hotel in Mexico, one lady lamented that there was no piano on which the “President” might play the “Missouri Waltz.” Deep regret was feigned by all. The next night at another hotel when assembled for dinner there was a piano in the room and being invited, I went over and played the “Missouri Waltz” in a manner second only to President Truman. This set the group back a little. Some thought maybe I was! In London during World War II, I enjoyed dinner with a friend at an Officers’ Club. As we checked our coats and hats and turned to leave, I overheard one of the attendants remark to one the other, “Did you notice how much that man looked like President Truman?”

A little later I was enjoying the magnificent scenery along the Amalfi Drive in Italy. I sat by an English speaking Italian and on the reply to his question about my home, I told him it was in Missouri. I had observed that the word, Missouri, usually brought forth the remark, “Ah! Missouri. Independence, the home of President Truman.” It did here and the gentleman added, "You look a lot like his pictures." His next words with an appealing tone amazed me, “Please, would you whistle for me the "Missouri Waltz?"

And whistle it I did as we swung around the cliffs with matchless blue Mediterranean below us on one side and fruitful orange and lemon groves and flowers in profusion above us on the other.

And incidentally my attention was diverted by a woman from the Argentine sitting across the aisle, addressing me, “Cawn Margaret Truman sing?” I knew well how to answer that question safely!

And whistle it I did as we swung around the cliffs with matchless blue These incidents happened many years ago but the pleasant memories came trooping back into my mind recently when my bus passed the former President's home in Independence on my way to Kansas City.

And whistle it I did as we swung around the cliffs with matchless blue The very next day at the check-out counter of the grocery store I was behind Mrs. Harry Chipley who turned toward me and asked, “Do you know who that picture of you in the Boonville Daily News looks like?”

And whistle it I did as we swung around the cliffs with matchless blue “Who?” said I, nibbling at the bait and thereby springing the trap. “President Truman.”

Brother Billie Is Dead

Your Golden Years I'll Spend With You

Stubborn as a Mule

What Do You Kow About the Great Depression?

Her Body is Gone - Her Spirit Lives On

American History in Pressed-Glass

Saddling the History Hobby Horse

Clark's Chapel

Robert Taylor Kingsbury's Death

Farm Life In Boonslick Country

Folklore Hobby Horse Rides

Boonslick Country and the War

Horace Kingsbury's Death

Collector of Characters

Bottling

Music, Music, Music

Buttoning Up - Buttoning Down

Rivercene

From Fringe-topped Surrey To Planes In A Hurry

How I Became a Columnist

From a Columnist's Scrapbook

What A Glorious And Colorful Sunset

Sunset Afterglow

L'Envoi