South Through Barefoot Pass

Life

2012-01-26T11:50:00.000-08:00

A Fine day to You

Supper Talk
At home in the 1940’s when I was growing up, supper was the last meal of the day. I believe it is referred to as dinner at the present. The talk was usually about daily occurrences such as school, crops and etc. There was also table etiquette which meant your hands were clean, you set up straight in the chair and no elbows on the table and no subject was discussed that would turn the stomach. These were good rules to follow.
Fast forward to the Twenty First Century and things have changed. It is not unusual for me to turn on the television at supper time and watch the local and national news, especially since the children grew up and left home. At best during each half hour program there are about fifteen minutes of news and the rest is a bombardment of commercials, representing an irritating array of drug products. Most commercials are loud, abrasive and the contents are often inappropriate to watch during mealtime. Serenity pads are explained, reducing the leaking of bodily fluids and constipation is discussed proclaiming the natural wonders of a patent medicine that will reduce the prolonged discomfort of irregularity. Viagra of course is among the products flashed across the screen with romantic music in the background with a couple sitting in bathtubs on a hill overlooking a valley. Cholesterol is portrayed graphically with scenes of a high toned man or woman about to succumb to the destructive force of blockage in an artery. Butterflies float above sleeping people and leave at dawn insuring a goodnight’s sleep. Inhalers representing hay fever, colds and asthma flash across the screen. Pills for bone strength or loss show someone climbing a mountain. All of these commercials nearly always end with the statement, “ask your doctor,” including the infamous Purple Pill.
What has happened to the human race? Anyone after learning about the advertised products should take a couple minutes when asking a doctor about a particular medication and if there are any disabling side effects and weigh the odds against a debilitating occurrence happening. This is not to say that many people suffer from conditions that warrant some medication, but to offer it at such a grand scale is suspicious to me at least.
My wife and I while in a restaurant one morning sat behind an elderly man who while waiting for his order to arrive, carefully placed on the table sixteen pills of assorted colors and size and then one by one he placed them in his mouth and sipped some water. I have wondered if he had only one ailment and was taking the pills to counteract side effects of the side effects of the side effects of the side effects of the first one. This is not to say the man needed all the pills, but I know a few people who have been forced into such a scenario. On fellow after taking popular cholesterol medicine, along with blood pressure and blood thinner medication experienced devastating side effects and was permanently crippled and forced to retire on disability. He is no longer on any of the above medications, but remains disabled.
Many of the medications seen on the airways and in magazines and newspapers are patent products not unlike those in the 1940’s and 1950’s. They remain untested for the most part and some do relieve itchy skin or rashes, but I think the buyer should beware and seek the advice of a trusted physician.
A man of ninety plus years after being involved in an automobile wreck was taken to the hospital with minor injuries. He returned home with several prescriptions to fill. After a week or so of taking the medication he became senile, chasing the devil from his yard each day. He was taken to a nursing home and from that time on his health rapidly declined. They took away his cigarettes, a smoker of eighty years, a man of endless energy and sound mind.
The hospitals and medical centers are perhaps second only to prisons in growth. Health is a number one business in the country, (and rightly so) but from the time of birth until death, people are encouraged to take medication. For the most part a headache is no longer treated with an aspirin, but drugs that have deadly side effects. We are a nation of people it seems, unwilling it seems to be uncomfortable and turn to some kind of pill to sleep, to walk, run and play.
We are living longer and I believe most people who live long are watching what they eat, enjoy using their brain and keeping active. Medicine has undoubtedly helped many to live longer, but it must be regulated and not overdone. I am sure it is tempting to medicate every discomfort, but after all life is uncomfortable most of the time but exhilarating. Adios

Pecking Order

2012-01-22T12:38:00.000-08:00

My First Painting for 2012

Pecking Order
By Ronnie Powell
I learned early in life as most people do there is a system by which we are supposed to adhere to and it is the pecking order. Not only humans are affected by this, but animals as well. It is apparently an important trait within all societies or groups, both human and nonhuman and perhaps an inherent aspect in many life ways. It is in my opinion in some humans it may reflect insecurities, selfishness, down right meanness or an inflated ego. In humans it is a class issue that for the most part is accepted and even admired, or at least outwardly. The primitive and literal art of pecking can be observed quite easily in a flock of chickens, a bit more sophisticated in hogs and more graceful in horses but often still are very cruel acts.
There are many instances of which I will for the most part relate to in this writing. Some are sad events; others are humorous and so on. I remember a particular day when a man driving a very expensive car came into my shop where I do my woodcarvings and paintings. He stood for a moment or two in a very elegant looking suit and asked the price of one or two carvings. I politely informed him of what I sold them for. He picked up the one he favored and observed it more closely and set it down and asked me to come down a on the price.
I said no and explained to him the amount of time involved in the piece. I good naturedly said that I was charging only for the time I spent creating the carving and it, (the carving was free).
The man scowled and appeared to swell a bit. “I tell you what,” he replied sarcastically and reached for his wallet and laid a few bills on the counter. “I have here some real money, I doubt if that happens much around here. It is yours for the carving.”
I looked at that man of whom was pecking at me and shook my head in disgust and said to him quite calmly. “Over the years I have sold many carvings and painting to folks and gave away a few to folks who couldn’t afford them. I like sharing what I do with everyone and if possible I see to it that they leave with something of mine. I say to you Mister, pick up your real money and leave as quickly as you can.”
The man stared at me in disbelief, grunted something and then turned and rather noisily left the building.
There was another time while working for the Missouri Department of Conservation, I observed a young man who appeared to be crippled very badly and could not speak clearly. (I later learned the fellow had Cerebral-palsy. He was standing in the middle of a bridge that spanned Bennett Spring Stream and people were laughing at him darting around him as he stumbled along trying to get to the stream. He was babbling or so it sounded. No one made an attempt to help or to try and understand what he was to say say.
I quickly went to where he was standing and could see he was very distressed. I ask if I could help him and he pointed to a fishing rod lying at his feet. I picked it up and he grasped it tightly in his hand and stumbled away. I called out and he stopped and I asked again if I could help and he smiled the best he could and nodded. I listened closely, very closely to what he was saying and was surprised at what I understood. He had been advised by his mother to wait until she could help him to the stream, (they were camped in the park), but being an independent fellow, he said he could take care of himself.) “I think I made a mistake. People are making fun of me.”
I suggested he follow me back across the bridge to a place below the hatchery where he could fish without much difficulty. I left him there having the time of his life. He came with his mother several times after that and upon seeing me; he would run as fast as he could to shake my hand. The next season came and he did not return again and after a time I assumed I had seen the last of him.
While attending a school near the farm where I grew up, (a one room school house), there were nearly all of us that attended the school, poor people, however two of the girls were from well to do families. Their pecking order was not of their own accord and none hostile. It was simple, they carried lunches in fancy pails and on several occasion I was able to see what they were eating. I could only determine the bread was store-bought, but the contents of the sandwiches remained a mystery. Each girl usually had a large orange or a huge shiny red apple, where as in my lunch pail it contained a smaller home grown apple from our orchard and a couple of biscuits containing fried eggs and a huge piece of molasses cake. On the other hand the girls had a store bought cake wrapped in plastic. They were beautiful looking cakes, like big snowballs. I could only imagine what those cakes and dainty sandwiches tasted like.
One day while following the two girls around the building, one of them stopped and waited for me to catch up. “Ronnie,” she asked timidly. “Would you like to eat your lunch with us today?” I blushed I am certain as red as beet and nodded and then followed the girl to a spot under a big hickory tree. I was rather self conscious as I removed the oil paper from my fried egg sandwich.
The girl who had invited me to dine with them said to me, “Mother always sends too much for me to eat, would you take one of my sandwiches?”
At last, I thought I would find out what those sandwiches contained. “Oh I suppose,” I replied.
I slowly removed the dainty wrapping, fascinated by the crust less bread and not wanting to look greedy, I bit off a small bite. “This is delicious, what cut of beef is the meat?” I asked innocently.
Both girls giggled and looked at me in disbelief. “Oh Ronnie your kidding,” the girl answered, It’s just bologna. You don’t have to eat it.”
But too late, for I had poked the rest of the sandwich into my mouth and later informed my brother and a friend of the tasty tidbit and said to them it was the finest cut of beef I had ever eaten. Adios

A new year ahead

2012-01-14T11:34:00.000-08:00

The Windyville Community Building, an old landmark in town

Fort Albert and Captian Redoak

Buzzard

Winter came for a few days with snow and bone chilling winds. Only two months of winter to go, I hope. My last three paintings of 2011 are posted here and I'm looking forward to others as the year proceeds on. I am still working on two books I hope to finish this year and eventually have published. I am also going to put one of my books on e-b00k,( Life Along the Dousinberry) and see what happens. Adios

Prince Edward and Miss Gray

2012-01-03T08:58:00.000-08:00

Prince Edawrd singing a love song to Miss Gray

A very happy Miss Gray, with Prince Edaward

The story of Prince Edward and Miss Gray were residents of Windyville for a short time. It may not seem possible for two chickens, a rooster and hen to be the characters of a love story, but they are. It all began one spring day when they along with five other chicks were brought into town by one of the human residents. They were kept for a awhile in a cage, but soon the chickens grew too large and they were turned loose to forge on their own. They joined an old rooster that also ran loose. For several days they did alright, scratching for food along the road and in my yard. Two of the flock was run over by an automobile along the road and then the old rooster was attacked and carried away to be eaten, possible by a raccoon. Another young hen was also run over by an automobile. Four young chickens were left including Prince Edward, a fine looking red rooster. For a time the flock wandered about scrounging for food along the road, my yard and a small nearby pasture. But alas two more hens were run over and died. Miss Gray and Prince Edward were all that was left of the original flock. Prince Edward discovered another flock of chickens not far away and began working his way toward them, followed by Miss Gray. The two became very close and soon she was laying eggs each morning while Prince Edward guarded her. Miss Gray was his only possession and he cared for her very much, however being a rooster he needed more hens and stubbornly kept getting closer to the flock of chickens nearby.

The rooster of the nearby flock came out to meet Prince Edward and they fought, with Edward turning and running away. Prince Edward was just too young to beat the older rooster. And so it was at this point in time I decided to capture the pair and send them off to another place where there are lots of chickens. Miss Gray was easily caught and put in a cage. Prince Edward was now a fugitive and grief stricken by the loss of Miss Gray. He searched every where for her and attempted to go to the nearby flock, but I ran him off. One evening several days later he was caught and put in the cage with Miss Gray he immediately began singing to her.

A couple of days later Prince Edward and Miss Gray arrived at their new home, where turkeys, ducks and lots of chickens were there to great them, none to kindly I must say. The story does not end here, for Miss Gray left Prince Edward and he found other hens that would follow him. Oh, by the way, last I head Prince Edward had whipped all the other roosters and is now the king of the barnyard. Adios.

Thanksgiving Day

2011-11-24T08:23:00.000-08:00

A wonderful view of fog rising from the Niangua River over McKee Ridge

The crossroads are the same

I can remember many Thanksgiving Days when when our families were still with us. It was a great day, some more elaborate than others, but most important was the gathering of families. This morning was beautiful with fog rising into the sky as ragged clouds that were quickly whisked away. The old town, our home for many years was once, I considered the crossroads of the world. But time has taken it's toll on the little village and now two old remaining store buildings are left and are remnants of a once colorful past. There once stood a barbershop, farrier building, a canning factory and an area where cattle, turkey and hogs where brought in to be driven to market. The roads are the sames, leading to the world around me. But I love it hear, for I can see the river fog, buzzards circling in the distance and deer that often quietly pass through. It it a good day as are most days in Windyville and this day will be a time for our family. Adios

A tribute to Tiddleson, Son of Tiddle

2011-11-21T09:58:00.000-08:00

Page 205- Beautiful Shanna, from Ambersham

Beloved wife of Tiddleson

Page 180 An unexpected arrival

Page 8- First contact in Wilderness America

Page 231
A deadly encounter at the Wilson House

Page 38
The voyage of the Una Zoe across a storm driven sea

Page 1, Tiddleson,Son of Tiddle

The story of Tiddleson and the Amicus People

During my journey through life I have encountered many strange events, places and people, but none of them came close to Tiddleson, Son of Tiddle. I was forunate to have been allowed to write his story. Tiddleson's saga is indeed a remarkable event, in places that are beyond the realm of reality among the people of the of the world and beyond. It

is a tale of great adventure, drama, danger and undying love. I have often wondered why Tiddleson came into my life. Oh I know there are some people who say that perhaps I have let my imagination run a muck believing as I do of Tiddleson’s existence. This does not concern me at all. I remember the day clearly when Tiddleson appeared for the first time and became a part of me. It has been several years since that fateful day. My son Ronnie Jr. was but a small lad at the time. The boy loved to visit old homestead dump sites containing rusting tin cans, crock shards and many other items that had been discarded.
An old cedar forest that lies across the road from our home contains several of these small dumps. We were approaching the last one before returning home and my son as usual was ahead of me, eager to be the first on site. I heard something rattle inside a large tin coffee can. I hurried forward calling for the boy to stop. I feared a snake might be inside the can. Within a few seconds I was standing at the dump with my son, when a small creature dashed from the can and ran into some tall grass.
“That was a little man!” the boy shouted.
“Well I don’t thinks so,” I laughed. “I think it was a lizard running on its hind feet.”
The incident could have been easily forgotten, if not for a door so to speak opening in my mind and there stood Tiddleson, Son of Tiddle. He was a red haired man, with bright blues eyes, standing no taller than a dandelion stem.
“I have a story to tell,” he smiled and so it all began.
The Amicus People of which he was leader, were and are to this day a remarkable people, a part of an old clan appearing quite mysteriously long ago at a river that ran from the Garden of Eden. To the world they were misfits and were feared and considered evil by many among large humans, for since the beginning of time, superstitions no matter how absurd has often merged with religious beliefs.
The Amicus cannot lie and are totally compassionate to all creatures around them, including large humans, but sadly they have been forced on occasions to defend themselves. Horribly persecuted in medieval times they were ultimately driven from Wicklow Mountain in Ireland and fled the land after building a tall mast ship (The Una Zoe) no larger than a row boat and set sail to wilderness America. The journey to say the least was fraught with unimaginable dangers. After many, many months they arrived in the cedar forest, where they sought refuge in the numerous caverns within the pinnacle of a high stone located deep with a glade, surviving there within the glade and the magnificent stone some call Lone Rock.
The Book, Tiddleson, Son of Tiddle is a detailed story of these unusual people. There are some who have read the book and they too believe and are always looking, hoping to at least to catch a glimpse of the elusive Amicus.
I have heard it said a time or two that facts are often stranger than fiction and I can say with certainty the story of Tiddleson, Son of Tiddle is a true, fiction tale. It can be no other way and cannot be proven or disproved, for the road back to where the Amicus were created is narrow, so narrow a rabbit could hardly walk. The fleeting glimpse of something most people have seen or felt deep in the woodland or sage grass cannot be described but leaves one to wonder.
A friend of mine while visiting with his mother and about to fall a sleep on her couch the first night, he became aware of the sound of soft footsteps near the couch and without moving he opened his eyes and saw a tiny man walking by. The little fellow stopped momentarily, smiled and quickly walked out of the room.
The next morning my friend informed his mother of the incident and she looked away then nodded and said. “I know Son; the little people come and go quite often in the house. They have chased all the spiders away and cleaned all the webs from the windows.”
Most important, to me at least, is how fortunate I am to have been allowed to write the story of Tiddleson and the courageous Amicus People.
A book is nothing but an inanimate object until opened and carefully read and to do so with Tiddleson, Son of Tiddle will take the reader to a world of fantasy, adventure, drama and reveal a truly remarkable, but elusive people. Adios

Cat Hollow

2011-11-19T10:34:00.000-08:00

A man called Ike and Butcher Redoak near sundown

in Cat hollow. My last painting for 2011.

The old carving brought to light

Cat Hollow lies along the Niangua and drains into the the meandering river. The hollow is very deep and the sun rises and sets over the hollow a couple of hours earlier than it does anywhere else. Cat hollow is bounded on both sides by very steep and rocky ridges. It has been used for many things in the past, including moonshine making, (white lightening whiskey). The Ozark Ridge Runners, a renacting group for mountian men and buckskinners used the site for rendezvous for a time. I was a part of the band and enjoyed the events very much. My last painting for 2011 is a winter scene in the beautiful old hollow. The found the carving pictured above after it stood for several years in a corner of my studio. It stands about five feet tall, carved from a slab of cedar. Adios.

The Invasion

2011-11-15T08:31:00.000-08:00

My old neighbor is a fugitive for the next several days.

I hope he makes it

Not a safe place to be on McKee Ridge for deer gun season

A couple of mornings ago I was rudely reminded that gun seasons for deer was in progess. Five rapid gunshots rang out shattering the peaceful morning. I have nothing against the hunting of deer, for with out it the deer would become much too abundant. I was once a deer hunter, keeping in mind the safety aspect of it. Do not hunt in someones back yard or trespass. Shoot only when a deer is well within range and the list of do's and don't go on. Those five shots came from the same gun, and I qoute, "bang, bang, bang, bang, bang." unquote. The deer must have running through the brush. Where were the bullets going? In this country, with few exceptions, fifty yards is about max and in my opinion never shoot at a running deer. If you are a hunter, then stalk the deer, make one shot suffice. During my hunting years I hunted game for the table and did not care a hoot and hollor about the the antlers. You can't eat them. Bragging rights is all you get out of them and that ain't much if you have to shoot five times. It is not a war out there. I stopped hunting years ago because of too many people stomping through the woods carrying weapons that were powerful enough to bring down a bull elephant. I was brought up to make the first shot count and bring down the deer, dead when it hit the ground. I only used singe shot weapons. Adios

The last rose of summer and autumn roads

2011-11-04T11:11:00.000-07:00

A new coat for winter

Beautiful Heidi

Defying frosty mornings

East Road out of Windyville

The last Rose of Summer and Autumn Roads

My summer has been a busy one and I have neglected my blog, “South Through Bare Foot Pass.” This morning was very cool at 32 degrees, but very refreshing and colorful. Despite the cold and frosty morning one of my wife’s rose bushes has survived and the blooms are beautiful. I have been to book signings sponsored by Home Grown Books. One was in Mt Vernon and the other in Springfield.. Book signings are not one of my favorite events, but I enjoyed them. I suppose it is the setting up and taking down that I care not for. I have completed three paintings this summer and one that I have near completion. They are a part of a series I call, “For The Ages.” They have a western theme with horses and people from the past. It is remarkable at least to me how the past can be brought to life in words, painting and woodcarving. And of course without the past as a reference human would be nothing more than herd creatures wandering through life with little purpose. The east road out of Windyville was especially beautiful this morning with autumn colors and restless leaves hurry along the old trace. Heidi, my beautiful dog is doing well and has come a long since I adopted her. She has less fear now and enjoys her home. I am looking forward to winter, writing, painting, carving and keeping my blog updated. Who knows what stories there are to tell? Adios.

The Imitators

2011-08-16T10:54:00.000-07:00

The Imitators

By Ronnie Powell
We are at last enjoying a much cooler time here in the Ozarks, with rain. It may not last, but with September looming ahead, summer will soon fade into autumn. I have been editing a book that will soon be ready for publication. The title is "The Imitators" and is a story of invaders from outerspace. The saga takes place here in the Missouri Ozarks with world wide occupation of the dreadful creatures which have brought humankind to its knees. I must say I get goose bumps each time I read it. With luck I hope to see it published sometime in the near future. Adios

Mister Lafferty And A Man Called Ike

2011-08-05T18:18:00.000-07:00

Last Known Sighting of Two Lanterns Lafferty

A Man Called Ike

A few days ago after we set a live mouse trap in the house, one tiny little mouse was detained. I took the mouse across the road and set it down next a piece of cheese. As I turned to leave it looked up at me as if to say, "I won't make it out here, I'm too young." Later I decided I shoud not have left it there. Another mouse, also a young one was caught in the trap and as I walked out the door with it, I decided I had two options. One, to kill the little fellow or take care of it until it was grown and then turn it loose. I chose the latter and it is growing fat and healthy and soon I will turn it loose in an old abandoned building not far from here. I still think about the first one I sat down in the woods and left behind. I have painted two more Of The Ages Paintings. The first one was started several months ago and the second one I have recently completed. I hope they are enjoyed. Adios.

2011-07-12T08:35:00.000-07:00

Today is not forever, tomorrow is but a dream.

Somewhere in between there is life, a fragile event more precious than gold.

Goodbye my friend you will now stand among the angels. Adios

Legendary Bare Foot Pass, for the ages

2011-07-11T08:48:00.000-07:00

Bucher Redoak and Twinkle John at Bare Foot Pass, heading South of Course

The Queen of Thistles satands outside my door

A beautiful moth resting and then she was off to somewhere.

It is possible I will remain at Bare Foot Pass for a time. The old shack where I do most of my work is a bit dusty but I don't mind. The spiders and a mouse or two welcomed me back not to mention a lizared that always watches the door. There was a newcomer standing outside by the road, some would call an intuder, but no. She is a musk thistle about seven foot tall and will soon bloom. I will remove the bloom for I don't need anymore musk thistle. I have just completed another painting. It features Butcher Redoak and Twinkles John on horse back at the legendary crossing called Bare Foot Pass. It is my feeble rediition for the ages of one of the most beautiful places on the Niangua River. Sadly I have recieved word that two very good people, friends, have been told they have cancer. Life is often not user friendly. Hot weather and I mean hot has settled over the Ozarks with prospects of many days ahead. I will welcome the autumn and cooler days. I have a story or two that I intend to work on, another old sailing ship and a couple of painting tickling my imagination. Adios.

Heidi

2011-06-15T09:49:00.000-07:00

Beautiful Heidi

My latest painting

Our son and his family spent most of the weekend with us and everyone seemed to have a great time. We all gathered at a daughter's house for a feast and a lot of catching up. Some of my evenings were spent creating another painting of a ship on the high seas, The S.S. Daphene. She running before a storm. Now that I have looked at it for a few days, I like it better. My next painting will be closer to home. In case you have forgotten, Heidi my beloved dog is still with me and doing just fine. She is slowly forgetting her past and abuse she suffered (I hope). Adios.

A long way back

2011-05-31T11:01:00.000-07:00

A painting I have just completed

It may have seemed to some that I had abandoned my post at Bare Foot Pass, but not so. I have been preoccupied with other things. Two old friends of mine are now in a nursing home and one of them is not long for this world. The last time I saw them they were dancing together the Tennessee Waltz. They both loved to dance. Sadly neither knows that the other shares the same nursing home. I have earned the title of jack of all trades and have been very busy around home working and completing many odd jobs. It was a long list and I am down to three. We have had a lot of rain in the last month and very stormy weather, but as of the present we have not faced the storms others around us have. Heidi and I have walked in the rain a lot this spring. She dosen't seem to mind, nor do I. Rain dripping off the brim of my old Stetson is a common occurance these days. I have come into possession of a thirty x beaver hat. A fine hat it is. The so called Rapture passed and all is well of course. I just don't understand people who make such talk. I have completed anther painting, a seascape. I believe I like it. My wife says it is one of my best. Adios. Ronnie

The Gunfight at Buffalo Head

2011-04-16T09:55:00.000-07:00

I Reckon This Story is True

Butcher Redoak's Forty Four

Two Lantern's Patriot

I stood on the porch of the Old Theater, the sun was nearly down. --------------------Gentleman George was there with a double barrel twelve and I with my trusted, forty four. I wore a sheriff’s badge and had sworn to keep the law in that prairie town. -Gentleman George a deputy, vowed to back the persuasion of my notched forty four. *************************************************************

A rowdy bunch came early that day to Buffalo Head, buck skinners, ragged and lean of a dirty hue. They set their lodges on the outside of town, howled like wolves and called it a Rendezvous. ---------------------------------------------------------------- Coffee was boiled in a rusty old can and they killed an opossum and stole some taters to make a stew. A man called Two Lanterns stood away from the rest, wore a red bandanna on his head and clothed in dirty buckskins. ----------------------------------- He held in his right hand, the Kentucky Patriot, a long barrel pistol, some said was his next of kin. There was a gleam in his eyes when he spat down the barrel, poured in gun powder and rammed a round ball in. ---------------------------------------------- Two Lanterns looked about and then capped the Patriot with its hammer yawned back and shoved it into his Irish green sash. ---------------------------------------------- Smiling wickedly he drank from a tin cup, savoring the drippings of good corn mash. He dropped the cup at his feet, squinted an eye and looked up the road toward Buffalo Head. Soon, Two Lanterns would come to town I reckoned, to shoot me with a hot round ball of lead. I am told he howled, spat on the ground and slipped into the shadows a closing around. ---------------------------------------------------------------- That rascal crept out of that unholy camp and up the road and into town, making not a sound.

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The talk on the street was an ugly tale of a mountain man a gunning for me. ---------- So I pulled down my hat, stepped to the ground with Gentleman George and walked along the street, him and I as bold as can be. ----------------------------------------------Gentleman George walked to my left, ready to take Two Lanterns or die. --------------- Many of the town’s people hurried along the street and a mother hushed her child’s fretful cry. I saw Two Lanterns standing in the shadow of the church, his feet spread wide apart. “Butcher Redoak,” he squalled like a wounded panther, “it shames me to see a lawman’s badge a hanging over your heart.” ---------------------------------------------- I drew my forty four and fired a round into the air. --------------------------------------- I knew the voice that hailed me, a friend from the days at the Baldy Mountain lair. “Get out of town, Mountain man,” I shouted friendly like, “Buffalo Head ain’t no place for the likes of you.” ---------------------------------------------------------------- Two Lanterns walked onto the street, looking mean out of his eyes of blue. ----------- He stood with the Patriot in one hand, a man alone but defiant in that prairie town. --Well dang, all I could do was to stride forward, ready to do my job and willing to shoot that mountain, put him down. ---------------------------------------------------------------- Quicker than the wink of an eye Two Lanterns ran, yelling like a rebel somewhere in the night. I crouched low and headed the way he’d gone, truly expecting the man to stop and fight. I ran passed the church and beyond into a tangle of brush and then heard the click of a hammer not far from my back. ---------------------------------------Two Lanterns swore and squeezed the trigger on the Patriot and I stumbled and fell in my tracks.

***************************************************************

Gentleman George said the town’s people gathered around where I lay, to see me dead or watch me die. ---------------------------------------------------------------- Gentleman George stood up and smiled. “Fear not, Two Lanterns should have fired to the left and high.” Well I reckon my old friend heard the news and slunk away like a coyote in the night. He knew come morning I would be a looking for him to finish the fight. ----------------------------------------------------------------

A prairie breeze cooled the August morning on that fateful day of Eighty Four. --------Hundreds of people gathered like buzzards in Buffalo head to watch me settle the score. There was Twinkles John and Irish Bob and Banjo Boats among the many that gathered there. They were also friends who rode with me across the fork to the Baldy Mountain Lair. They came not to take a part, but to see which man would end the fight. They too had shared a fire with Two Lanterns, drying their skins on cold winter nights. A theater troupe arrived and put on a show and then came the Cherokee. A fiddler played Shenandoah a couple of times and then a waltz about Tennessee. ***************************************************************

The gentleman and I stood on the porch of the Old Theater, sworn to keep the law in that dusty old Prairie town. ---------------------------------------------------------------- Gentleman George with a double barrel twelve and me with a forty four cinched down. Now some say it was high noon when we stepped off the porch to make our play. The street was empty except for a gang of mountain men a coming toward us at a hundred yards away. A window broke above our heads and two men appeared a looking mean as sin. ---------------------------------------------------------------- Gentleman George brought up the double barrel twelve took aim and fired into that den. Those rascals squalled and were seen no more. ------------------------------------- Gun smoke shrouded the street and I saw ghostly figures a creeping up and drew the forty four. I shot from the hip and a mountain man fell, but another took his place. --Gentleman George cut loose again and there was one less member to fight for the Osage Trace. A Hawkins rifle roared across the street sent round ball lead into the Gentleman that was his plight. Black smoke hang heavy over the town, two were left standing waiting to end the fight. ---------------------------------------------------------------- I have heard it said a time or two that I fired first and Two Lanterns fell dead on his back.

Well now, if Two Lanterns died that day, (no one else did), where was the body, for all we found were coyote tracks.

(Footnote) Buffalo Head is no more on the prairie where once it stood, only the wind can be heard a blowing across faded tracks where once people watched Two lanterns and Butcher Redoak duel. Oh by the way nearly every night you can hear a coyote a crying not far from where the Rusty Bucket saloon stood. Two Lanterns has disappeared and I have no idea where he went, but would like to know.)Adios

Goodby Old Man

2011-04-05T09:09:00.000-07:00

A cold morning and a warm breakfast for Heidi

I have never cared for the term goodby, but I will make an exception to Winter. It is not that I am down on old man winter or that I did not enjoy his passing through, for winter is beautiful, the air fresh and clean. Winter was rough for awhile and when Spring made the scene there was too much bullying like 85 degress one day and 35 the next. So goodby Old Man Winter. The photos above are the last, hopefully of the winter and like it or not Spring was rather beautiful in the white lace of snow a few days ago. Adios

Dusty Solace

2011-03-26T10:36:00.000-07:00

A few of my attic treasures

A toy from long ago

A reminder of bygone days

An old relic standing among a spider's lace

Cherish the past for it is the key to the future

A Time to Remember
Dusty Solace
By Ronnie Powell
Spider webs are more often than not unnerving and fearful to people. Ragged dusty lace suspended from a doorway containing the remnants of flies and other insects. A shriveled up mouse or rat lying in a corner of a room or pasteboard box has dampened many an adventure. There was and still is not much that can discourage me from exploring old attics that for a number of years remained intact in abandoned houses and most of the time the owners did not mind or care who trespassed into them.
One such dwelling sat on the South bank of the Niangua River, secluded in a grove of walnut trees, far from the main road. I discovered it one day while squirrel hunting and sat for awhile observing the place. There was a house, a barn, large open shed where inside sat a buggy and not far from it a cellar. I thought it strange that I could see no one about and after nearly an hour I approached the house and called out. No one answered and again and again I called out, receiving no answer. There was no automobile and only a weed grown trail that led away from the house to the top of a hill. Unwilling to go any closer I sat down by a tree and again closely observed the house. The windows were dirty but I could see ragged curtains hanging inside each window. The lawn was grown up in weeds and the fence around the building was in a ramshackle condition. The front porch steps were covered in dust and two side saddles on the porch were also dust covered.
Convinced no one lived there I decided to go up on the porch and look into the windows. I finally went inside and stood at the door for a time observing the quite house. On the kitchen table sat a plate with food that had dried up. The bed was turned down as if someone had just gotten up, but it was evident that had taken place a long time ago. A long cap lock rifle hung on the wall, dust covered. In one corner of the bedroom I saw a stack of hand made quilts and other articles too numerous to mention. It was at least to me the house appeared abandoned. It was full of treasures, objects that at one time were important to someone. I later talked to a man that owned the house and he said that his mother had died there. He stated that he did not care about the house or its contents. It wasn’t long; perhaps a year later and someone went in and looted the entire house.
One pastime my wife and I enjoyed was frequenting estate auctions. At one particular event lasting nearly a day we waited for the auctioneer to begin at a line of boxes of assorted items often referred to as the final cleanup. Like others we began looking into the boxes, rummaging through them to determine their contents. In one box, small compared to most of them and when lifting the lid I found a top layer of dried grass and laying on it a dead rat, completely withered to nothing more than hide and hair, an unpleasant sight. I gently raised the thick matt of dusty vegetation and saw the box contained several pocket knives and fountain pens. I carefully replaced the top cover, patted it down and walked away.
I continued my probe of the boxes keeping a curious eye on the box containing the rat and saw no one examining its contents after discovering the dead rodent. The winning of a two dollar bid brought the box into my possession.
My childhood memories include Aunt May Gann’s attic, a spacious mysterious place containing many years of accumulated items, a few exceeded a hundred years, which included old letters, a calendar or two and most precious of all a diary written during the Civil War by Great Grandfather Wright. In her later years Aunt May did not go up to the attic often which was evident when climbing the steep narrow steps, whisking aside cobwebs as spiders retreated into the walls. My brothers and I were not allowed to go there but a couple of times over the years. I was always first in line cutting a path through the shroud of webs, followed by my twin and younger brother.
“Do not pilfer,” Aunt May, would warn us, “and be careful not to break anything.”
The attic was in fact a second story of the old house, one large room with two windows on one side. Three walls were lined with boxes, paper sacks and large wooden trunks. Everything lay under a thick cover of dust. Across the center of the room were stacks of clothing, cloth feed sacks, both white and of assorted colors. A few ladder back chairs sat about containing boxes and there was a large drop leaf table containing dishes and other kitchen items.
My first impression upon seeing the room and its contents was amazement and speechless wonder as I began cautiously exploring the boxes and sacks, confronting a spider now and again, or glimpsing the tail of a mouse disappearing from view.
Boxes of books were quickly reviewed including an old leather bound dictionary of which Aunt May gave to me later. Family letters found in a trunk were plentiful some dating back to the Civil War and of course the beloved diary. Vintage ladies hats were a delight, most were elaborate and quite stylish. There were hundreds of Magazines dating back to the turn of the century treasures in their own right chronicling everything from World War One to the deadly flu epidemic of the early years of the 1900’s. Men’s and women’s apparel from the skin out representing the turn of the century were abundant. Carnival and depression glassware stood on the table, along with a couple of large metal boxes containing costume jewelry, including watches and a gold wedding band or two.
The attic was a wondrous place, a time capsule of immense knowledge that would have taken much more time to explore and I went away each time wanting to return.
Several years later after my last visit to the attic, during the first years of my union with Joyce, Aunt May passed way and her estate vulnerable at last to the discretion of family members, (she had no children) gathered at the old home place to clean out the house. Mother was late and arrived to find a huge fire a short distance from the structure destroying heaps of boxes and sacks removed from the attic. Totally involved, the flames were quickly devouring a lifetime of precious memories. Too late, Mother could only weep, running about salvaging only an item or two, including a large Prehistory flint knife I had earlier mentioned to her. The diary and letters were victims of the fire reduced to ashes to be caught in the wind and scattered beyond my reach. Adios

An Old Friend

2011-03-17T10:20:00.000-07:00

My Friend Bluto

Bluto
By Ronnie Powell
Friendship can be simply defined as an unquestionable love, devotion, loyalty and respect that results in great companionship. To share life equally with a friend whether it is a human or animal is truly remarkable.
My first impression of Bluto was that of a juvenile rat. A tiny ten week old Rat Terrier that would in the years ahead to become a part of me and me him emerging into a friendship that knew no bounds.
Teresa, my oldest daughter requested a puppy for her 4th birthday and my search for the proper companion for the little girl led me to a friend who raised Rat Terriers. I arrived a week too late to prevent the docking of the pup’s tail as is required for registering of papers. I was allowed first choice and immediately centered my attention on a feisty pup undeniably the leader of the pack. White with black spots and inquiring eyes that missed nothing waddled over to where I crouched and wagged the stub of tail. I gently placed him in my lunch bucket, closed the lid and headed for home.
Upon arriving at home a short time later I sat the bucket on the floor and told Teresa there was something in it she would like. She with curious delight responded lifting the lid taking the sleepy puppy in her arms, calling him Bluto after a character in Pop Eye the Sailor Man. Bluto, had found a home with an equally young human family, resulting in an enduring relationship.
Bluto was given the run of the house and with few mistakes soon learned to go outside when necessary. We expected much from Bluto as if he was a child of our own and he seldom faltered. It was not in his best interest to remain cooped up inside and began following me around outside exploring an old barn and chicken house. He quickly learned to dig for mice and rats, chased a rabbit or two, setting the stage for life as an adventurous hunter. A small dog at best, Bluto feared nothing, protecting Teresa when necessary. He followed me into the woods one morning to squirrel hunt and spotted a young squirrel on the ground and the chase was on, never loosing sight of the creature until it made a stand in a tall sycamore tree. Bluto delighted, stood yapping, jumping about. Bluto’s devotion to Teresa was second to none yet there was a part of him she would never share.
My treks along the Niangua River were nearly always accompanied by Bluto, disappearing for an hour or two and then reappearing scratched and dirty ready for his share of whatever lunch I carried. I could only imagine what encounters had kept him so long. Bluto’s love of adventure often surpassed my own, following me into caves along wet passageways so narrow we barely made it through.
I had only to say,” “let’s go home,” and he would lead me unerringly through passages offset by others to the outside.
One particular warm summer afternoon while resting by the river, Bluto barked and ran into a field. I stood up calling for him to come back and then saw the reason for the hasty departure. A huge groundhog darted into a hole with the terrier on his heels. Bluto never broke stride and followed the groundhog in the tunnel. Fearing for the dog’s safety I ran quickly to the den and began calling his name. I sat down and listened and heard much growling and commotion deep underground and then silence, prolonged silence. Thirty minutes passed and still no sign of Bluto and I began to fear the little fellow had been killed. A muffled growl, a grunt or two caught my attention and Bluto appeared tail first out of the den dragging a large dead groundhog and no sooner than he cleared the hole with the body he again went down and a few minutes later returned with yet another large groundhog. He lay down between them panting, proudly looking up at me and wagging the stubby tail.
Bluto never content to trot along beside me, ranged ahead and one afternoon while returning home I failed to see a large bore skunk sitting on a log ahead of us on the trail,. Bluto growled and ran toward the skunk intending to give chase. I yelled but too late. Bluto leaped on the log and was hit point blank with a dose of spray knocking him to the ground. He lay whimpering, gagging. Unmindful of the dreadful odor I ran to where he lay, picked him up and retreated.
The encounter with the skunk left Bluto blind in one eye but it did not diminish his spirit and soon insisted on following me again Age had begun taking its toll on the spunky terrier and his sorties into the woods beyond me were not as frequent and often remained at my side.
One gray winter day in 1968 after leaving an overhang where I had previously discovered a large earthen pot and had spent the day Bluto and I headed home. We had crossed the river earlier that morning in an old flat bottom boat that had gone astray from somewhere upstream, and we returned to the site boat was gone, retrieved perhaps by its owner. We faced a cold crossing through a fast moving riffle. I stripped down to my underwear, placed the clothing in a backpack and stepped into the icy cold water. I could barely stand the bone chilling temperature, but had no choice but to continue on. Gasping for breath I waded deeper into the numbing water that soon rose up around my waste. The current pulled at me unmercifully as I stumbled out into the channel.
Bluto swam ahead of me and reaching the bank he stood waiting. Soon I could no longer feel my legs and again I faltered and dropped to my knees, feeling the rush of cold water close around my neck. The bank lay perhaps fifteen feet further on and fear of drowning sent me plunging ahead into the frigid water.
Bluto again jumped into the river swimming quickly to my side, barking and nipping at my arms. The presence of the dog and courageous act was all I needed and soon I staggered ashore, my hair crusted with ice and collapsed near a pile of driftwood. Crucial moments passed as I franticly searched the pack for matches and lit a fire in a pile of driftwood that quickly it rose into a massive bonfire surrounding us with wonderful life saving warmth.
Bluto passed away at the age of nine years, a dear friend and companion that even to this day he is greatly missed. Adios

A Cup of Redrose Tea Might Help or-----

2011-02-19T09:15:00.000-08:00

“Apply Skunk Grease and Call Me in the Morning.”
By Ronnie Powell
Many of the immigrants that came to this country carried with them folk medicine, family cures or treatments so to speak. The American Indians also possessed nature’s remedies. How effective any of these remedies are is a matter of opinion and has spawned a viable industry world wide.
My first encounter as a boy growing up in the Ozarks with Dog Fennel as we called it, a small obscure plant bristling with nettles immediately when touched created a severe itching that did not go away too soon. Dogs whimpered when coming in contact with it, some adults cussed and children often cried.
After returning to the house complaining, Mother applied a balm to the wounds which consisted of skunk fat rendered to grease mixed with salt. The application soon brought about soothing results. Skunk grease was also used to treat chest colds, sore throats and minor cuts.
The inner bark of a Black Oak tree, brewed to a tea was often use as a gargle to treat a sore throat. The inner bark of a Slippery Elm was used as a gargle for a sore throat or canker sores.
One of the hazards of going bare foot is coming in contact with nails, broken glass and barb wire. Most of the time these types of injuries if not too severe were treated with stove pipe soot or cobweb to stop the bleeding and a long soak in coal oil, (kerosene).
A popular sport especially among the boys was to rid the outhouse, (privy) of wasps and stings were enviable. A mixture of mud, crushed Black Simpson leaves and chewing tobacco was applied to the stings to draw out the venom and reduce swelling. However my twin brother and I attempted to remove a huge red wasp nest from a Dogwood tree one afternoon while on our way from Dousinberry creek to home. I being fleet of foot ran from the scene but poor Donnie was quickly covered in wasps. By the time I dragged him a safe distance from the angry wasps, the lad’s nostrils and eyes were swollen shut. Both lips were turned inside out and he could barely breathe and was quickly loaded in the Chevy and taken to Buffalo to be treated successfully by Doctor Plummer.
The inner bark of a White Walnut tree was often used to draw out the infection of an ulcerated tooth, but also killed the nerve and the tooth turned black. The liquid boiled from Polk root was used to treat Scabies, (seven year itch), lice and mange in dogs. To both dog and human the treatment was rather painful.
The dreaded head cold was treated in a number of ways, honey and vinegar, red pepper tea, sulfur and molasses taken internally, Mule Tail leaves boiled to a tea was taken for diarrhea and skunk grease applied liberally to the chest.
One variety of snake root, boiled to a tea had a calming effect quieting a hysterical person or distraught animal.
I doubt if folk remedies will ever fade from society and should not be used unless at least reasonably certain of the potential side effects. I for one cannot attest to the safety of these medications even though I was often treated with them. It is logical to assume many of them possessed healing properties, used when there was no other choice. The list of home or folk remedies is long and are contained in many books or old faded instructions tucked away in a bible or drawer. Bottles found in dumps out back of a dilapidated home often contain residue of some special mixture to ward off worms, snake bite, upset stomach and any number of common ailments of country folks. Adios

Winter's Wrath

2011-02-11T11:27:00.000-08:00

Round One

Round One

I was hoping that by February, winter would ease up a bit, but of course I was wrong. I was also bitten by a virus of some exotic strain, ( probably common) and with it chewing on me and facing mandatory work outside to at least shovel paths, clear driveways and other essential chores and shovel fifteen inches of snow off one roof. I had little time to rest. Gates refused to shut, steps froze over and the temperature dropped below zero several nights and we left the water dripping from every faucet in the house but the commode froze, but fortunately we had water stored. There were times when I could hardly walk to the barn, breathing was difficult and I had little appetite. I do believe I had walking pneumonia, (ain’t kidding), but by the time I figured it out it was too late to go see a doctor or so I reckoned. I of course abandoned my blog and e-mail. I am feeling much better now. The sun is shining and the temperature is supposed to be in the fifties and sixties by this week end. I am still tracking and gratefully so. It may seem like I am whining, but I am not. It may be quite sometime before all the snow has melted and forced into the rivers and streams and then spring will be waiting to usher this nasty winter out of the picture. Adios

Where is Spring?

2011-01-14T09:01:00.000-08:00

A good day to be alive

Summer, an abundance of beauty and life

A great way to end the summer

A zero day, a cold wind and not user friendly

Spring is waking up, wriggling her toes, peeking out from under her cover, but it is not time to make her entrance. She has much to do before her arrival, choosing a dress of a delicate color of green to wear and a bonnet of flowering blooms. She must select a chrous of birds to anounce her arrival and many have yet to return to the Ozarks. There must be a blamy breeze laden with her fragrance and it is still lingering south of us. Winter still has a hold on the land and will not give up easly, but take heed Winter Spring is coming in all of her beauty and compassion.Adios

A Misty Moon and a Butterfly

2011-01-03T09:49:00.000-08:00

Queen Misty Moon

Princess Butterfly

One morning about three years ago, I was about to leave my tool shed, when a kitten as wild as fox sped past me and ran under the floor. It was an especially brief encounter, but I was able to see the kitten quite clearly and it was wonderfully marked with every color of the royal cat kingdom. Several days or weeks later my wife came in contact with the little stray and in time caught it with food. The kitten was a female and scrappy and independent. She knew how to take care of herself more or less. My wife named her Misty Moon for her beautiful colors. She was taken to the Vet for a checkup, shots and made sterile and it wasn’t long and she began sharing our home with us, but mostly on her own terms. She finally settled down and became a queen, pampered and petted and she grew into a most beautiful cat and devoted to my wife. I on the other hand was her servant until one day she decided to up my rank a bit and we became friends. My wife and I were perfectly happy with Misty and did not considered adopting another cat, one of the reasons being we did not want to upset Misty.

One morning my wife and I started on our walk, when from the window of an old store in town we saw a tiny cat sitting in a window of the building mewing plaintively. The cat was extremely beautifully marked with many colors that most calicos are. The sight of the cat and obvious distress of the animal trouble her. Later and it may have been the same day in the evening the little cat came to the front porch, mewing I suppose for food. The process began again. The cat was female and pregnant, much too small for that. She was named Butterfly for her many colors. My wife and one of our daughters combined their efforts and soon Butterfly was housed in a large maternity cage. Butterfly gave birth to six kittens that soon became a bit much to handle. But all went well and when it was time to wean them, the kittens stayed with our daughter and Butterfly came home with us to live in the barn. All six kittens were taken in the home of our daughter and oh are there stories to tell. She, like Misty was taken to the vet for a checkup, shots and made sterile. Butterfly went through a winter in the barn, harassed often by opossums and raccoons and even though she was secured in a cage at night it must have been terrifying to the small waif. I will fast forward to the present. After much discussions and concerns for Butterfly, she was brought into our home to live with us, much to Misty’s objections. Butterfly was afraid of me, which did not help matters, but a few months have passed now and the transition is still an on going process and slowly Butterfly has become a truly wonderful friend to me. She is a princess, loving and devoted to us and her new home. Only time will tell as to what kind of relationship the cats will have, but hopefully, at least tolerant of one anther. Adios.

2011

2011-01-01T10:02:00.000-08:00

I have at last reurned and am delighted to be back and I am looking forward to the new year. For those who have yet to travel with me, why not take the time and hit the trail that leads to Bare Foot Pass. It is a long journey with much to see and so we begin again and I hope you find it interesting. And check the attic now and then.

Our Christmas tree with over seventy years of memories hanging from its branches

Heidi is well and more beautiful than ever

A harsh ending to the old year, with snow and forty mile an hour wind

2011
I will begin this New Year after a relative but pleasant delay on my journey South Through Bare Foot Pass. I enjoyed last year for the most part of it even though I took a break from writing, woodcarving and painting. I turned everything off and instead focused on other endeavors such as enjoying my guns, (peaceful guns). I love to shoot, both modern and percussion weapons. I am not into the semiautomatic varieties including the large and intimidating assault handguns and rifles. A young man a member of the posse I belonged to made light of a handgun I was carrying and remarked to me. “My gun shoots sixteen rounds,” The gun he was making fun of was a double barrel thirty eight special. My reply to him was after I pointed to a tree about twenty feet from where we stood. “Stand over there; if I have to shoot someone it will be up close and personal and one shot will suffice.” He of course declined and shut up. And while on the subject I decided to end my association with the posse. I am not interested in tracking or apprehending bad people, nor am I gung ho, willing to show off a brace of pistols strapped to my thighs. I joined the posse to help when someone became lost or help during a felon hunt, securing roads and trails where necessary. Traffic control and parking was also a vital aspect of the posse. I met and obtained many new friends while on the posse, but I am glad to be free of it. My thoughts have again turned to writing and perhaps in time publish another book or two. One book I have started, a sequel to Tiddleson, Son of Tiddle is tickling my imagination and I will again soon be in the thick of the ongoing adventures of the tiny Amicus people. I have learned the imagination has no boundaries and it is awesome. At least two new characters have joined the Amicus, of which all stand no taller than a dandelion stem. Mitsu a petite Amicus woman of Japanese heritage only two inches in height is a prominent and wise, but obscure woman in the Amicus clan. Akio a huge white cricket standing as tall as Mitsu is her companion and fiercely loyal and is three hundred years of age and much more intelligent that most Mendex, (large humans). And then there is Sir Albern Weedon. Another book in the planning is to be nonfiction and features the prehistory Indians of the Niangua River Basin. The book will contain many years of searching for the remnants of these elusive people along the meandering rivers and streams and within the caves and overhangs and field sites where secrets abound. The book represents an adventure that took me to places where most people will never be. I have found comfort from time to time while goofing off snuggled in my blanket amidst the yesterdays, reminiscing and yes still learning from those bygone eras and gently touching dusty relics of the past that were once an important aspect of my life. The past is as much alive as is the present and should never be ignored lest one misses a vital part of a new day and forget to look toward the distant horizon for fear of being ridiculed by the masses. I am proud to say I wear a San Angelo Stetson and not a cap that is currently in style and boots that are timeless instead of plastic sandals that quickly become outdated and thrown onto the trash heaps of man, but everyone to their own druthers and rightly so. More and more people are massed together than ever before and it is difficult to distinguish individuals as they plod along in their current style clothing. Even the faces are set the same as if that to is in style. If something occurs that disrupts or excites the mass all will follow to whatever disastrous outcome may occur. It is not that I have lost faith in humanity, just their ability to think and function as an individual. I see them pass me by, their eyes set ahead, their feet pointed outward, all going somewhere, but nowhere. This of course is typical for after all the Earth is round and for the most there is nothing better to do. Over the years I have lost contact with friends of who were important to me, for they were truly individuals. One friend in particular is a man called Two Lanterns fading at times into the past but always a part of the present. Two Lanterns if you read this let me know. I now face a new year and where it will take me is unknown. I am content with that aspect of life. I must admit that once in awhile I see someone in the mass of people around me that stands out, looking not directly ahead, but everywhere, seeing the world as it is and ready to strike off from the crowd. So I am not alone and until I reach my destination I will continue to explore and look about me and beyond. I welcome all to explore my blog on the trail to Bare Foot Pass. Check out my books, carvings and paintings and in the attic there are trunks yet to be opened. One name that should be kept in mind is Fletch Gideon. He is a big man and wears a tall Stetson; worn slick by time and strangely the hatband is a piece of rusty barbed wire. And then there is the story of the rescue on the Niangua River during a flood and only I was willing to take on the river, but a stranger stepped forward and asked to accompany me. Deep within one of the dusty trunks in the attic there lays a story once published of ghosts, spirits and such. I swore not to reveal it again, but I have decided to edit it a bit and bring it forth. I cannot honestly say that I believe in ghosts, spirits and such, yet I have written of them and created havoc on a small town. There is nothing more chilling than to be presence of a specter yet I have not been harmed by the alleged presence of them. There have been sights and sounds that have troubled me, quite severely, yet I have always rationalized those phenomenal and elusive sights and sounds. Adios

Taking my time

2010-11-12T10:32:00.000-08:00

A beautiful view from the new bridge over the Niangua River

I am certain it is apparent that I have not posted much for several days. I am remodeling, adding more pages to showcase my books, carvings and paintings. It is a difficult job for me and is taking time, so if anyone is interested take a look. It won't be long and I'll have the project completed. Adios

My Destiny

2010-10-19T09:28:00.000-07:00

I have never felt the hand of destiny on my shoulder, I just followed him. He appears to be clothed in a great coat, his face shadowed by a hat. The trail he treads is narrow and I have stumbled and he turns and patiently motions me on. Many times I have faltered but he never abandons me. I have stopped on occasion to share what I have learned and have left behind and he waits until once again I follow him along life’s way. Adios

October, the dawn of my life

2010-10-16T10:13:00.000-07:00

White lace of October

Another old oak tree at the edge of town.

October, a time to stir the wanderlust

Another beauty of autumn

An old tree dressed in autumn colors

My life life began quite precariously on a cold rainy night in October nearly seventy five years ago. My twin and I were born premature at seven months and were not expected to live, but we beat the odds. October is of course a special time for me, for each passing year I marvel at the wonders of my time on this tiny planet. I have no less enthusiasm or curosity for life than I had when a small boy and continue to learn even the most simple of tasks. I still look toward that distant horizon and find I am no closer than I ever was, but along the way I have discovered many secrets shrouded in the mist of of time past. Adios

I am still of this world

2010-10-11T09:44:00.000-07:00

I have not abandoned my blog, but enjoying beautiful autumn weather and will post again on my continuing journey into Prehistory. Adios

Reflections of our Heritage

2010-09-28T10:17:00.000-07:00

A display of my books to Sell

For me it was a good place to be on a Saturday morning

Ike and me

Coffee is brewing

Camp of the 8th Missouri

Weapon Display

More of the Weapons Displays

From Near and Far, They began to Arrive

A Great Scene

September 25, 2010 began early for me as I began a journey. The day, a Saturday was cool, but the sun was shining and in the distance fog was rising from the Niangua River. Hidden there along the bank where fog was rising into wispy clouds was a place where many people would soon gather to celebrate their heritage. It is a beautiful location of bottom fields and hills and not more than a mile from where I live, but my journey would take my friend Ike and I back one hundred fifty years or more. Our part in this festival was for me to talk about the Civil War and Ike to talk about the dos and don’t of his huge display of weapons of that era. We chose to set up like a working military camp and represented The A Company, 8th Missouri Cavalry, originating in the county where we reside. Coffee simmered over a fire along with an iron kettle containing chili. Ike was clothed in period garments and I in a Union Uniform. The day passed pleasantly and many people came by to talk and listen to Ike and me. A black smith was present on the grounds along with other craftsmen and on the hill above us a short distance from a teepee, a man portraying the fur trading era supervised live shooting with black powder weapons. A horse drawn wagon provided rides for people along with two saddled horses. The sheriff of the county came dressed as a lawman of long ago. Many people came during the day, most clothed in period clothing. It was a good day. Adios.

A Time to Remember

2010-09-14T09:38:00.000-07:00

Time Capsule or Buried Treasure?

There are no photos, only Memories
Buried in the obscurity of Mother Earth, man has since the dawn of time hidden many aspects of the past. Wealth of great measure secretly buried during war time and forgotten or unknown to a living relative to be discovered years later during construction projects such as highways, home sites and the clearing of a fence row are but a small number of such places. In a fence row near the south bank of the Dousinberry Creek a quart jar was unearthed containing a few twenty dollar gold pieces. A small treasure by today’s standard but at the time these coins were placed in the ground represented a goodly fortune. A friend of mine, a metal detector enthusiast located a stoneware jar of approximately a quart capacity containing over fifty gold pieces. He understandably would not reveal the location. This treasure represented a significant fortune in any time period, past or present.
Pirates were noted for burying plundered gold, silver and jewels and even as far inland as Missouri, legends tell of buried treasure hidden somewhere in the hills. One story comes to mind of a stagecoach loaded with Federal gold hijacked not far from Corkery, Missouri and supposedly hidden in a cave along the Niangua River. The gold has never been found or so the story goes.
During the years I spent exploring the land along the Niangua River Basin I too uncovered small caches of treasure, a coin here, an old sliver ring there, a seven shot revolver to mention but a few of the artifacts unearthed by an intruding pix or shovel.
It of course does not necessarily take a pirate, an old west outlaw or a family member fearing for the safety of gold to bury treasure in the ground, on the contrary, a lad of ten years of age is capable of such an act. A stealth figure slipping through tall grass to an old log barn, where beneath a log he places a brass box wrapped tightly in oil cloth next to a rusty Civil War musket barrel, an iron spur, missing its rowel and a broken World War One bayonet.
The brass box contained a wonderful array of artifact, collected over time and considered priceless by the boy. Four promotioal cards wrapped in tin foil lay on top of the heap within the box. Two of the cards portrayed Lash Larue, another Roy Rogers and the last Gene Autry. Four pocket knives with a blade each broken off lay in one corner of the box next to an assortment of large glass marbles. Two silver rings fashioned from silver dollars lay among several large costume brooches along with a glass beaded necklace of striking colors. A small cloth bag containing Ten Indian Head pennies, a nickel plated cigarette lighter, a lead skull ring and lastly a pocket watch missing its hands were the sum of the contents of the vintage sewing box.
The lad confident the treasure was safe replaced two large stones over the hole and left. But unbeknownst to him, at least at that time, groundhogs had taken up residence under the old barn and quickly established a network of burrows, running the length and breadth of the structure. Unfortunately several months later upon checking the cache, the lad found it gone, falling deep into a burrow, beyond the depth he was allowed to dig.
On occasion when passing my boyhood home site I wonder about those treasures laying deep in the soil where the barn once stood. It is possible that someday, perhaps there will be reason to dig there and unearth that small collection of treasures or time capsule that I so carefully placed to keep hidden from my brothers. It will not be a significant discovery or bring great riches to the finder and no one will know that it once was very important to a boy of the 1940’s. Adios

News briefs from my neck of the woods

2010-09-10T09:53:00.000-07:00

A fine way to start a day

A barren, lonely tree

Sometime ago a scoundrel, or scoundels came in the night and stole all, or nearly all the apples from our only apple tree. It was a dastardly deed assulting that old tree and hauling away the fruit of her summer. The tree stands barren and lonely now. The deer will with have to do without as well as the birds, opossums, racoons and of course there won't be any apple pie for me.

I have been told a few times that I am never in style with the clothing I wear, but I disagree, for about every ten years or so I stand out among the best. Most people cast aside, give away or sell their unwanted clothing after only a few times of wearing it. I do change my wardrobe a bit in the spring and summer, but always return to winter garb when it is fitting. I suppose you could say I am like most animals I shed when it is time and resume a nice coat for the winter. I have shirts that are twenty years old, boots that are thirty or more and this goes for the hats as well. There is nothing finer when the cold wind comes than to put on one of my favorite shirts, jeans Stetson's or Justin boots and last a warm fleece lined leather coat. I am sleek, warm and content as I go forth. You don't have to guess what specific subspecies I am. Adios

A den, or a loft, perhaps a room with a window

2010-09-06T10:20:00.000-07:00

The hub of the room

A dusty Indian, Lawman and Outlaw

Stetson hats, a life staff and saddlebags among other things

More books and other items

A part of my wonderful library

Images from a far away time

There is a particular room in our house that contains many stories, a few dreams, a haunting and represents me. It is not a beautiful room, nor free of dust or kept in order, a small room that yes I lose many things and most of the time they are exactly where I put them. The room has a window looking out above the yard and the beautiful country side. From this window above I have watched many season come and go and been inspired often to write what I see in my mind's eye. I love the clutter and seeminly perpetual items stuck around. All of it is important to me, but of course I could live without it. Perhaps much of it should be thrown away, but I won't. Most it is reminders of other days or a story, or just because I put it there for no particular reason. The above photos are only a glimpise of my room to present as is. Adios

Foot Prints Into The Dawn Of Prehistory, Continued

2010-09-02T09:39:00.000-07:00

Curosity is not just a human trait

In memory of Hawk

Man has always exceled as a counquer

One aspect of the dawn of time

The exit of man from Earth may occur sometime in the distant future

A Related Notation
Animals, (non human varieties, including cold blooded species) possess basically the same instincts as humans. So in that aspect we are cut from the same cloth or substance, (Mother earth). This alone should bring about more compassion and respect. Every creature on Earth is a predator, like it or not, but that doesn’t mean we and all the other creatures are without heart and we as humans, should be more compassionate and of course many people are. One night some time ago on Jay Leno’s talk show, Mark Harmon, star of NCIS after being informed he was required to pay a penalty for plugging his film, was ushered to a table and told to put a blindfold on and then to identify the contents of three bowls. The last bowl contained crickets and the audience was instructed to scream as the guest lowered his hand into the bowl. He did not flinch and smiled. Jay told the man to remove the blind fold. Mark carefully brushed the crickets from his hand and the show went to a commercial break. A minute or two later the show was again on the air, catching Mark on the floor gently capturing stray crickets and then placing them safely into the bowl. This man, a star of NCIS is a good man to take the time to care about crickets, mere insects. He is a real life hero.
I do not advocate a total ban controlling any creature that has gotten out of control. We along with our animal counterparts must take drastic measures at times to survive. A long time ago predators kept most of Earth’s creatures in balance, but as time past and humans foolishly, greedily and religiously, due to ignorance destroyed the delicate balance of nature. Most of the deer, moose, elk and other related species do not have adequate predator control and man must control the population through hunting seasons and rightly so, for without control these animals would overpopulate, become sick and die horribly.
I do question the motives of some hunters, based on my own experience while working with the Missouri Department of Conservation and also as a private citizen. Some hunters, pick up a gun for the time during the year, go into the country and shoot anything that moves and if they are lucky and shoot at a deer, sometimes hitting it multiple times, but not immediately slaying it and then lose it in the brush to slowly perish. Cattle have been shot, horses, donkeys and in one instance, of which I witnessed, a small light tan Ford sedan. It is not unusual to find a headless buck deer, shot only for its antlers. Semi auto rifles of large enough caliber to kill a bull elephant are often used to kill a one hundred pound deer. One can only imagine what one of those large slugs would do if shot wildly. Most hunters are responsible men and women, carefully, safely and most important humanely shooting their prey and later don’t sit around and describe every gory detail.
Several years ago while deer hunting with a friend in a deep hollow, two intoxicated hunters began shooting at us. They were firing large caliber semi auto rifles. One slug hit a rock where my friend was standing, ricocheting, hitting a heel of his left boot. We began shouting and the two hunters fled. This incident does not represent most hunters. It does, however, emphasize the fear that must occur when hunters of such low morale take to the woods.

As in humans curiosity is prevalent in most creatures, of this I am certain. Curiosity can be a double edge sword in both human and nonhuman creatures and must be used cautiously or pay a dreadful price. In order to learn, curiosity is essential to obtain shelter, to build, to explore and to mate. To what depth curiosity in nonhuman animals go is not exactly clear to me, but from experience it may in some species parallel that of humans. The instinct to survive is a product of collective memories of countless generations, including man. To what extent the memories of most animals are I do not know, but I have suspected at times, there are recollections of certain animals that are remarkable. A common dog, listens intently to the howl of a wolf or the cry of a coyote and at time tries to answer these haunting calls. Humans accept their ancient heritages, but often scoff at the idea a nonhuman can do the same. Love of a mate in some nonhumans is for a lifetime as is supposed to be in humans. Defending an offspring is no different in a nonhuman than a human. Language is important of course to communicative and all creatures seem to have a form of communication. To wonder is seldom attributed to non humans, but I have watched horses, dogs, birds, cats and many others sit and quietly observed me, sometimes coming closer without fear.
Several years ago I was entrusted to care for a male Red Tail Hawk that had been severely injure and would never fly again. Fear was all I could see in the bird for several days and I would leave a fish for it to eat and then walk away. But one morning as I was approaching the hawk I saw him standing tall on his perch, quietly observing me, turning his head to one side and the other. He called to me then, not loudly but calmly and I was allowed to come closer without him threatening me. In the days that followed I was allowed to place him on my arm and walk around. He was a proud bird and held himself straight. I did not try and pet the bird or touch his wounded wing, but attempted to show my respect each time we were together. He and I were aware that he would never fly again, a reality of life. Sometimes I would sit with him in the grass and let go of his chain and he would walk away and then return. But as time went on I could see in his eyes despondency and each time after that as we sat in the grass he would walk farther away until one day I had to bring him back. The last day I brought him back he sat on my arm with his head down and I knew he had given up. That magnificent, courageous Hawk died during the night.
When first Heidi,(my dog) came to live with me, she timidly would smell my face, hands and arms, wondering I suppose if I was to be trusted. One night while sitting with her in her cabin she licked me several times across my face, a wonderful gesture of an animal that had been horribly mistreated most of her life.
I can only say the animals that inhabit this Earth with us share a common bond in the mortality of flesh and blood, (be it warm or cold) and in affection, fear, dominance and all the aspects of life. We humans are now, apparently the keepers of the Earth and although we are still predators as all creatures are we should as the Indians were noted for, show more respect and reverence to our creator for all life on this planet, for without them we would perish.
Of course not all humans will agree with me, for there are those who consider some forms of life here on Earth of the devil’s making or would rather not have laws that protect the nonhumans which would create devastating results. Our creator as I understand brought forth all the animals first and saw it was good and decided to create man to watch over them. Man in general of course has not done well.
Adios

A Time For Heidi

2010-08-29T07:14:00.000-07:00

Waiting at the Gate

A Treat and a Gentle Word and All is Well

Heidi Guarding Her Rock

One of Heidi's Rocks

Heidi is emerging from summer more beautiful than ever. Each day I learn a little more about her, for instance she is a rock hound. She collects rocks and pieces of cement blocks and a couple of them are rather large, but she carries them around anyway. Heidi is spoiled, no surprise to me. When I leave the yard and she stays inside the yard she lays by the gate waiting and sometimes she is a bit mift and it takes a treat to bring back her good humor, but I would not have her any other way. Have a great Sunday morning. Adios.

Foot Prints Into The Dawn Of Prehistory, Continued

2010-08-21T09:11:00.000-07:00

Yours Truly

Lucky Seven Revolver With Restord Handles

Present Day Photo of Cave

Photo of Cave Taken Aprox. Forty Years Ago

Hideout Cave
There is a place up stream from Moon Valley on the Niangua River where a deep hollow empties into the river from the south. It is a narrow hollow, more of a gulch or perhaps could be called a canyon. It is not an ideal locale to be, for the walls are steep and littered with stones and dead trees and in places the brush is near impenetrable. The hollow is cut deep with a gully where storm laden water has rushed unencumbered to the river for untold years. There are hidden dangers there in the quite solitude of this site, especially near the river. Copperhead Snakes and on occasion a Cottonmouth can be found, for many small creatures such as wood mice and rats and chipmunks thrive there, easy prey for any number of reptiles and other warm bloodied predators. A bluff, broken by the hollow follows the river, much of it is a majestic formation towering above the meandering stream.
Not far up the hollow is the remnant of a trail where a horse could be led safely down to the river and along the base of the bluff and even so it would be a precarious journey. This trail although faint and in places obscured with brush winds down from the top of the bluff past and around large boulders through old cedars and buck brush to the entrance of a stone overhang. At first glance the shelter appeared to be insignificant, too small for an extended family dwelling. The hole in the wall for all practical purposes is not a comfortable dwelling for a portion of it is damp. The most positive aspect of the overhang is the extreme seclusion, hidden from view by boulders.
In the autumn of 1982 I discovered the trail, a difficult task at best and while traversing it a thunderstorm overtook me and I began looking for cover when I stumbled onto the overhang. I sat for awhile smoking my pipe, watching two men in an aluminum flat bottom boat floating down the river, hunkered against the driving rain. Lightening flashed constantly overhead, with thunder crashing through the turbulence. The two men in the boat undaunted by the violent display slowly continued on down the river and soon passed from view.
No immediate let up in the storm seemed evident and I turned my attention to the interior of the shelter. The interior was about ten feet by fifteen feet with a ceiling of at least fifteen feet in height. The floor contained little to no soil and was strewn with stones. Fire blackened stones and wood ash lay near the outside and around the ash and stones and beyond into the interior lay several crock and stoneware shards, (present day material and later I was able to piece together three medium size bowls a small jug and pitcher.) Lying near the back wall was the rusted remains of a gray granite coffee pot.
Intrigued by the immediate discovery of the artifacts I dropped the backpack and slowly began a closer scrutiny of the shelter, convinced it would not reveal prehistory influence. Little had changed or so it appeared since the use of the artifact with exception of dust and rock debris.
Lying near the east wall I noted two rusted metal straps of about eight inches in length and an inch in width. Both straps appeared to have been cut haphazardly. The longest strap contained a screw or metal stud. I could find no markings on either strap.
Rain continued to fall and with time on my hands I decided to make a day of it and excavate the small shelter to try and determine what had transpired in the shelter. With a garden trowel I began raking the shallow dirt and stone debris into small piles and continued this until I had covered most of the floor. Then with a flashlight I began screening the piles starting with one near the entrance. It gave up two unspent twenty-two cartridges; several crock shards and a brass button used on overalls and the broken blade of a pocket knife. About midway in I discovered a horse or mule shoe and two unused shoeing nails and the rusted remains of a tin coffee cup.
In the meantime the rain had stopped and the sky cleared flooding the shelter with much welcomed light. I sat back and lit my pipe and poured a cup of coffee and inventoried the artifacts I had found in the piles of dirt and stones. There were eight twenty-two unfired cartridges, four spent cartridges, a horseshoe, two nails, coffee cup, two metal straps, a button and a short remnant of a bridle rein.
With most of the piles of dirt and stone recorded I decided to start at the rear wall of the shelter to look in every crook, cranny and ledge. With the added light it was easier now. My first discovery was a metal ring embedded in the wall about four feet from the floor and above it on a ledge lay a small seven shot twenty-two caliber revolver. It lay in mud, partial covered with grass tufts. The revolver was frozen in rust, the wooden handle long since decomposed. The weapon contained a short hexagon barrel and two spent cartridges. A Santa Fe brass railroad key lay behind the pistol and I would have been missed if I hadn’t scraped the ledge clean.
A thick bodied metal box of approximate eight inches high, twenty four inches long and twelve inches wide lay in a corner of the back wall, nearly covered in mud and gravel debris. The extent of the decomposition was near complete, a rusted hulk of metal. Two other metal straps were also noted and they too were nothing more than rust. A rusted tin frying pan and additional tin cup along with a short piece of copper tube completed the excavation with the exception of questionable items too badly decomposed or rusted to determine identity.
It is my assumption the railroad key, metal box and straps are an important aspect of the mystery or saga of the cave. The box may have contained currency taken in a robbery somewhere in the area around the turn of the century on or about the 1880’s or 90’s. (Note the following information is unrelated to the site. An acquaintance of mine discovered a safe in a hollow several miles away that had been blown open). The metal ring as far as I am concerned was used to tether horses. The story will remain a mystery I am sure, but is fuel for an imaginary story featuring the Lucky Seven Revolver as is now told in my third book, A Stranger in London Smoke.
The high back of McKee Ridge is scarred by an old county road that evolved from an Indian trace. The road begins east at Jones Crossing and meanders westward for possibly a mile across the ridge along the ruins and home places of early settlers to Highway K. It is said that Chief Black Hawk and his bandits frequented the road stealing unattended cattle and horses. A major portion of the vintage road has been invaded by brush and expanding plum thickets. Fireplace stones and remnants of farm machinery are all that is left of a time that dates back to the late 1700’s and early 1800’s. A secondary road veers off the main trace and follows the rim of the bluff for a half a mile or so. Adios

The Last Hero

2010-08-17T10:48:00.000-07:00

When I was a lad my heroes to name a few were, Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, Tarzan and a host of other movie stars. They were good people, at least in the roles they played and I grew up with that in mind. My first real life hero was Truman and I cheered when he defeated Dewy, to my Father’s dismay. Mother cheered with me. The years slipped by and there were so many heroes to choose from, real people and of course movie stars. I really don’t know if John Wayne and I would have gotten along too well, but he was the best in the roles he played and I would much rather watch one of his movies, than waste my time on the trash that appears on t. v. these days. Anyhow time keeps marching on and nearly all my heroes, including good friends and family are gone, but along came a man of whom I greatly admire, of great moral character, honest, brave and a man I would stand with any time. He is going to be around for a very long time, so I won’t be concerned about the fellow dying. He, I must admit is a strange looking man, very large, but as humble as pumpkin pie and he loves animals. His name is Shrek. Adios

The Twilight of the Primitive-Lewis Cotlow

2010-08-14T07:29:00.000-07:00

There is one small difference between Lewis Cotlow and me and of course there are other differences. Lewis is a great writer and Journalist with several very good books to his credit and I am not. The small difference I have mentioned is I love to write about Prehistory and Mister Cotlow writes about the last of the primitive people. The word primitive is used simply because society in general does not know better. If not for the primitive people much of what we have become, both positive and negitive would have not occurred. Nearly every segment of the primitive people have been overwhelmed and in some aspects completely obliterated, leaving behind only fragments to wonder about.

Mister Cotlow's books on the twilight of the remaining people that have survived the massive rush of civilizations paralel that of our own societies of the present and that to me is a bit scarey, however nothing remains the same and the old must bend with the new or be pushed down to become remnants of bygone eras. For me at least, Mister Colow's books are remarkable accounts of The Last Primitive People on this planet. Adios

Once Again They lead the Summer Into Autumn

2010-08-13T10:57:00.000-07:00

Although We are Still in the Grip of An Extremely Hot summer, Soon the Sumac Will Change to a Scarlet Hue and usher in the Autumn. Adios

The Sumac
They endure timidly in the realm of ragged fence rows
Among the wild rose vines and where the ivy grows
They never swell as tall as a sycamore tree
Or as stout as an oak on a windy hill
But wait, when September arrives in scarlet hues they stand
To lead the weary summer from the melancholy land
Adios

Back Home Again, My Old Tractor

2010-08-13T10:43:00.000-07:00

My sixty year old Tractor was taken away as posted on July 17 for much needed repair and today it was returned to me purring like a Kitten. Adios

Good Monday Morning

2010-08-09T08:40:00.000-07:00

Beautiful Heidi waiting for our walk

Last fall I relocated this wild sunflower from a road ditch to my garden and she has grown tall and is about to bloom. She is a beautiful creature of the wild. Adios

A Wilson Creek Connection

2010-08-06T08:35:00.000-07:00

I Am a Refection of My Grandfathers Below. I am Captian Hurd in the Movie Arkansas Yankees and Captain Butcher Redoak in a Meladrama The Last Osage

James Mitchel Wright, Confederate Civil War Veteran

Henry Allen Pitts, Union, Civil War Veteran

A Time to Remember
Encounter at Wilson Creek
By Ronnie Powell

This chronicle, an edited version from an article of mine in the Country Folk Magazine, began at approximately 5: a.m., August 10, 1861 at or near Wilson Creek, not far from Springfield, Missouri. It is a saga of two men, who along with thousands of other men would soon take part in one of the bloodiest battle of the Civil War and helped to make it possible for me to be here.
James Mitchel Wright although very ill with the measles was one of more than 10,000 Confederate troops bivouacked along Wilson Creek. They were under the command of General Ben McCullough. James was a part of the 4th Arkansas Infantry.
James was born in Livingston, Overton County, Tennessee. On February 13, and at the age of ten, he moved with his family to Carrol County Arkansas near the town of Kingston.
James planed to be a medical doctor but in his twentieth year, the Civil War began and in the spring of 1861, he volunteered his services to the Confederate Army. He served the entire four years of the war. James equipped with only a common rifle and a cloth bag to hold powder and ball set out on an adventure that would change a nation. The blue eyed, sandy haired young man would become a loyal defender of the Confederacy.
The march to Wilson Creek was grueling and food was in short supply, consisting of roasting ear corn, potatoes and tomatoes, most of it foraged from fields along the way.
Not far away in a valley near the Ben Short farm, Henry Allen Pitts also prepared to do battle. He had been hastily awakened, ordered to keep quite and to fall in line.
Breakfast had been a hurried event on the move and consisted of a small portion of cooked pork carried inside a large turtle shell loaf of bread.
Henry served under the command of General Nathaniel Lyon and a part of Colonel Boyd’s Home Guard and would become a fierce defender of Bloody Hill around and above Wilson Creek.
Henry Pitts was born in South Carolina in 1840 and in his early teens, slipped away from home and headed west on a wagon train. The young lad made it to Orla Mills near the town of Lebanon, Missouri.
Henry settled at Orla Mills, became a blacksmith, a boot maker and veterinarian and married a local girl near the beginning of the Civil War. Henry, although a Southern Democrat, did not believe in slavery and chose to fight with the Union. The tall blue eyed young man of English ancestry carried with him a politeness and good manners that would remain unchanged during his lifetime.
At 5:a.m. the Union battery under Captain Totten sent shot and shell crashing into the trees above the 4th Arkansas. James Wright scrambled for cover. John Ried’s Rebel battery unlimbered their smooth bores in response. It was sometime during this barrage from the Union that Captain Ried quickly sought higher ground opposite the mouth of Skeggs Branch.
This battery was accompanied by the 3rd, 4th and 5th Arkansas Infantry. At 10 a.m. the infantry groups began fighting their way up Bloody Hill. It was during this perilous accent up the hill that James Wright and other of the Confederates came upon General Lyon’s iron grey horse lying dead. It was learned later the Union general had also been wounded but chose to reenter the battle. The general was again wounded and died and died from these wounds.
Henry Pitts and others in his outfit were pinned down. Captain Totten’s battery opened up again and they were successful in routing the Rebels and securing the ridge. From that position, Henry and his outfit went to the crest of Bloody Hill.
The Battle of Wilson Creek lasted from 5: a.m. until 11:30 Saturday, August 10. The losses on both sides were devastating and although the South was the victor, they chose not to advance into Springfield. The Union forces made a hasty retreat from the city at daybreak to Rolla, Missouri. The journey was over one hundred miles.
Henry Allen Pitts and James Michel Wright survived the war and returned to their homes, strangers and enemies of war. But years later they were destined to share a common bond.
On December 13, 1888, James Pinkey Pitts, first son of Henry Pitts and Lula Beulah Wright, first daughter of James Wright were united in Marriage. They moved to a farm a few miles northwest of Charity, Missouri. On this farm they reared nine children and were married fifty years. Minnie Minerva Pitts the youngest of the nine children was my mother.
There were two other known family members who fought in the bloody battle of Wilson Creek and survived. Both of these men were of my father’s family, an Uncle severing in the 8th Missouri Cavalry, a locale unit. The other man a Grandfather fought with the Confederacy. Adios

As Time Goes By, Five Hats, Four Books

2010-08-02T09:12:00.000-07:00

A Book Signing in Branson

My First Book, South Through Bare Foot Pass

My Second Book, Tiddleson, Son of Tiddle

My Third Book, A Stranger in London Smoke

My Fourth Book, Life Along The Dousinberry

The above books were written and published aproximately one year apart. For more info please contact me at rdpowell@hotmail.com Each book will be signed, dated and the last three numbered. All four books are limited first editions.

P.S--- I would like to address the word Blabber. To ildly chat, to give away a secret, is but two aspects of the word. Picture if you will a man or woman talking recalling days past, revealing wonderful stories of early days or historic events etc. Personal details are often revealed, perhaps secrets of humor and drama that make the past come alive. If not for blabber I would not have been able to write my books and of course I am a proud blabber. Oh yes, I have had people roll thier eyes at time when listening to me, but that is alright, for I continue to blab. Adios.

The Journey of 1999Rq36

2010-07-31T10:46:00.000-07:00

"Hey, I'm Just Wondering"

Beyond the Moon is the Awesome Power of the Universe

A Reminder of One of Many catastrophe Events

According to what I have learned via new releases sometime between 2100 and 2200 an asteroid will pass very close to Earth or impact it. If I am correct I believe we have a one in one thousand chance of it making contact with our planet. If it is to be diverted it must be attempted on or before 2080. The chance that it will hit Earth is remote I understand. But of course all who may read this are in no danger, and a couple of generations or so beyond. The size of the asteroid if allowed to impact the earth would be devastating to say the least.
I have as others have viewed such scenarios in movies and just about every time the Statue of Liberty and Eiffel Tower along with other well known landmarks are brought done. I realize such occurrences are dramatic but why pick on them. Usually a hero or heroine saves the day and while most of human kind is destroyed a few select beautiful people start over.
I imagine as time grows closer to this expected event there will be much prophecies take root and many will resign them-selves to the ultimate end of time as we know it. But with an ever increasing arsenal of technologies and ever increasing intellect of humans there will be a calculated attempt at diverting the Asteroid. This true life scenario will play out with no scripted ending. However I am confident that man will find a way to avert this potential threat to our tiny blue planet.
It is of course a sure thing I won’t be here to see or experience this anticipated event, but perhaps one of my descendants of my mindset and sense of great adventure will be watching the sky to witness this natural phenomenon for better or worse. Adios

Posse Man

2010-07-25T07:20:00.000-07:00

Posse Man

The word posse may conjure up men on horses riding hard across a hot dusty plain trying to catch up with, oh I don't know, maybe Jesse James. Sweat stained Stetson shield their eyes from the glaring sun as they race toward a phantom they may necver catch. That was not the case yesterday evening as I set out to join the posse. We assembled at Louisberg to assist in traffic control for the Old Settlers Reunion. Grant you the sun was hot and seemed at times to set on your shoulder. Patience was number one priorty for the people we encountered for at times for whatever reason some are not a hundred percent cooperative. The handicap needed special attention of which we gladly provided, and over all just about everyone were nice people. After about four hours in the scorching sun and three bottles of water a dark ominous cloud appeared on the horizon and it wasn't long and the sun was hidden and soon the wind came and then rain and our job was over. Oh how it it rained and for all practical purpose ended the Old Settlers reunion. The reunion had a good run though, three days. A fish sandwhich, bag of potato chips and a great cup of black coffee rejuvenated me and then I headed home along a rain swept trail. Adios

A Gateway to the West, Fifteen Mile Prairie

2010-07-23T09:44:00.000-07:00

One of Many Reenactors

History in the Making on Fifteen Mile Prairie

A Line is Drawn

A Play, The Last Gunfight, Featuring Marshal Hiccup and OutLaw Black Jack Ace

A Relic of Prairie Days

A Time to Remember
Prairie Days
By Ronnie Powell
The first official rendezvous came together in 1825, near Green River, Wyoming, northwest of South Pass. Trappers, traders and Indians converged on the sight and it undoubtedly became an especially boisterous affair. The core purpose of the event was to sell beaver hides and restock provisions and to let off some steam.
An annual Prairie Days hosted by the Dallas County Historical Society began in August of 1982 at the Historical Park in Buffalo, Missouri, situated on Fifteen Mile Prairie, a gateway to the west. The intentions were to recreate particular elements of our historical background and add a little color and flavor. The festival lasted ten years. The first couple of years the event was little more than a craft show, developing into a popular historical event, or rendezvous. Much like the early years of this country, Prairie Days became an assembly point where people from all walks of life gathered not to rest and buy provisions before heading westward into the wilderness, but to share in the historic past of America.
The Dallas County Arts and Crafts Unlimited and Ozark Ridge Runners were instrumental in creating many of the aspects of the event. Artists, craftsmen, re-enactors of the black powder era and historians of these organizations labored together to transform the park into a memorable occasion.
The cast of characters were many talented and dedicated people from all walks of life, color and creed, a melting pot of Americans proud of their heritage. The Will Rogers Indian group represented Native Americans providing traditional attire, song, dance and authentic lodges. The dance of friendship opened to the participation of the public each evening and was enjoyed by many people.
Traders and other contributors took part in eleven frontier camp sites set up around the perimeter of the replica settlement. The visiting traders came from as far away as Arkansas, Joplin, Collins and Stockton Missouri. One man from Kansas, a former stunt double for the Virginian television series was among them. They provided replica articles of clothing, tomahawks and many other trade items.
Other attractions included an Eighth Missouri Cavalry Camp, (originating in Dallas County during the Civil War) along with a display listing the names of those who served in the unit and of course Civil War reenactments. A Butterfield stage and other horse drawn vehicles provided rides for the public. A quilt show featured the art of quilt making in the Eberhart Cabin. Fiddle and banjo players recreated the music of the distant past along with local balladeers. Cloggers and Scottish bagpipers added energy to the festival.
In 1985, the Arts and Crafts Unlimited constructed a frontier town along and in front of the permanent buildings and named it Buffalo Head. The Rusty Bucket Saloon, city jail, a theater, Wells Fargo and other mock-ups of establishments once found in frontier settlements graced the historic park. The added feature brought about a new enthusiasm to the celebration and an atmosphere of reality not experienced before allowing the public within the realm of the activity. Colorful saloon girls sang and wandered the main street. Desperados were among those that came to provide more excitement to the festivities. Two melodramas were played out twice each day at the theater. Banjo and fiddle music and the soulful sounds of folk and gospel songs filled the air.
Apple butter was made on the grounds along with other food representing the times. Front street crowded most of the day and evening offered the public many viewpoints of an earlier period. Mountain men, trappers, Indians, outlaws, saloon girls, actors, preachers and lawman mingled with the public on the dusty Front Street of Buffalo Head.
At times during the black powder shooting contest, smoke drifted over the town, while ponies carrying children dolefully followed a beaten path. Money in the haystack sent children scrambling into a pile of hay to try and find several dollars in coins planted there. Square dancing was also present at the event, along with a talent show and tobacco spitting contest. Many people came early on Sunday morning to worship at a brush arbor where a minister stood waiting dressed in black.
During the last three years of Prairie Days, people came from as far away as California and England. It was not uncommon on Saturday for the attendance to reach several hundreds. Buffalo Head was truly a frontier town diverse in many ways swelling with people eager to witness the conflict between the lawless and town lawmen. They hurried to the theater for choice seats to watch The Life and Times of Marshal Edward Hiccup and The Last Osage. Many took part in the Indian friendship dance, square dancing or sat and enjoyed the singing of Judy Gross and others.
The annual prairie gathering offered numerous aspects of the past and left a deep appreciation for the freedom we have in this unique nation. Several of the principals established by our forefathers were there at Prairie Days shining in the sun. History was made on Fifteen Mile Prairie during the ten years of the event especially on one hot dusty Saturday evening in 1987 during the American flag lowering ceremony conducted by the Lebanon Boy Scouts, Pack 190. They, after taps, presented the folded flag to Floyd Reed, an African American, Ed Webb an Indian and I, a white man, dressed in Union Blue. We stood shoulder to shoulder as Floyd Reed’s Father; a Minister provided a short oratory as we proudly awaited the Stars and Stripes to be presented to us. Such a blending of man had never occurred before on Fifteen Mile Prairie.
Among the prominent visitors that came by during Prairie Days were, former Governor Kit Bond, KY3’s Fred Schweitzer portraying Wild Bill Hickok, Roger Herman, founder of Frontier City near Marshfield and producer of the movie, Arkansas Yankees, and last but not least a postcard from Festus of Gun Smoke Series sending regrets for not attending Prairie Days due to health reasons and a congratulatory telegram from President Ronald Reagan.
The dust has settled on the prairie park for the imaginary town has long since been dismantled and Buffalo Head no longer exists. Twinkles John - buck skinner, Two Lanterns - renegade, Banjo Boats- outlaw, Ike - desperado, Ernestine Didwall - a tale or two of Marshal Hiccup, Gentleman George - deputy, Butcher Redoak - town marshal and Chief Lone Eagle - the last Osage are but few of the characters that were there.
Perhaps Prairie Days of course is history like many events have become; nevertheless, it is worthy as a time to remember. Adios

As Time Goes By

2010-07-19T08:55:00.000-07:00

Christmas, She Was A Queen, No Doubt

Smokey and Me In 1972

My Father And Baldy Many Years Ago

A Few Of The Little People I Have Carved Over The Years

Thank you for sharing some of my yesterdays. Adios

As Time Goes By

2010-07-17T09:24:00.000-07:00

A Friend and I (Me On Right) Many, Many Years Ago In Odessa, Texas. We Had Jack Rabbit For Supper.

] This Old Outhouse Was One Of Many. It Stood Across The road Next To A Store. The Others Were Hauled Away On Halloween Night, So The Owner Built This one Around A Tree And There It remained Until It Succumbed To Time.

My Sixty Four Year old Tractor Is Ill And Had To Be Taken To A Repair Shop

A Snowy Day Last Winter much Different than Today

Adios

To Heidi's Friends and Family, one year

2010-07-13T08:30:00.000-07:00

Heidi One Year Ago Today

One Year Later

Beautiful Heidi

Haunted by Her Past Less and Less

Safe At Last To dream

A Celebration of Life For Miss Heidi Jade

Today marks one year since Heidi came to us, snatched from certain death only hours away. She had known nothing but abuse in her young life and expected nothing less from me. She cringed in fear at my touch, coward at my voice and was in extremely ill health and I feared the worst for her. But when we got her home with us, through the yard gate one year ago today, she began the first day of her life and although she may not have realized it at the time, a wonderful healing process slowly began. I built her a cabin, large enough for her and me and for a time she was fearful of it and would not go into it out of the rain, but gentle coaxing finally brought her to it and only this sunner has she used it without being told to do so. Just within the last few months has she begun trusting me completely and is a devoted and loving friend. (She is not a pet.) We still share penut butter sandwhiches, go for walks and often now she plays in the yard with me. I am deeply humbled by her trust and devotion. All is well with Heidi. Adios

The River Niangua

2010-07-11T07:03:00.000-07:00

Have a great day and enjoy the trip. Adios

Standing on the south bank of Bare Foot Pass

An old grave site of early settlers across the river from McKee Ridge

Looking downstream from Moonvalley bridge

Niangua below Moonvalley Bridge

The river flowing past Cat Hollow where once a huge Indian vilage lined its bank

A Sunday Morning Along The Wild and Beautiful Free Flowing River Niangua

Foot Prints Into The Dawn Of History

2010-07-02T11:10:00.000-07:00

On One of My Last Expeditions and a Story Yet to be Told

A Painting of Mine Depicting Prehistory Life Along the Niangua

Me, Not far from Cave in Story, After Camping on the North Face of A Bluff

A Cave Much Similar to One in Story

A sculpture of mine, the face of Prehistory

Foot Prints Into The Dawn Of Prehistory

The journey to distant horizons was undoubtedly intended as a point of origin but little did I realize just how an elusive trace it would be. My footprints can be found along the way and beyond several millenniums into the deep shroud of prehistory. The trace plainly speaking did not follow a straight line, for after all I was and am Earth bound. I discovered early into the journey I would not reach the horizon I so wanted to find. There is an inherent part of me that fueled an insatiable curiosity and greatly influenced my desire to explore the unknown. I also discovered the unknown would always be just out of reach and no absolute conclusive discovery would ever be made.
My foot prints can be found along with tantalizing fragments of early mankind that dated back long, long before the birth of Christ. Retracing the roads, trails and mere paths that meandered unhurriedly into the dawn of man has brought me closer to kindred spirits of old. I share the same DNA as some of them possessed, therefore enabling me to fashion from stone or wood desired images and the same talent that allows me to paint on canvas my interruptions of what I see and feel. Upon their land I stood, where beneath my feet lay their stories and much of it is lost or misplaced. My life story is not lost or misplaced as yet.
The life-way of early man has and is constantly being analyzed, tangled in a web of controversy of conflicting opinions. I have no doubt that I traced man back to at least eighteen thousand years or more, but even so I was no where near the infancy of humans. The physical aspects I encountered and closely noted along the way stirred my imagination; therefore all that I have learned or possess of the journey is subject to dispute. This is of little concern to me, for I have no desire to add the bedlam of wonderful assumptions that will never cease. My journey to distant horizons represents a personal endeavor, a splendid and frequently dangerous adventure into Prehistory and has provided me with a deeper sense of immortality.
The wraths of the gods have and still remain a major aspect of mankind. Many of the gods emerged from the collective mindset of early man, influenced by the wind, fire, sun, rain and every conceivable superstition within the early humans. Sacrifice became an important ritual in the belief that one could obtain favor or spiritual afterlife if something of great importance was offered to the gods. Blood the essence of life eventually became the mainstay sacrifice for scores of centuries, resulting in many poor souls put to death. Incredibly within a short period of time something changed and a part of humanity found solace not in the sun, moon and stars but in man’s inner being or eternal soul. This dramatic change resulted in the establishment of fundamental values, however blood sacrifice prevailed but with animals. The written word was established and thus the Old Testament appeared on the scene changing forever the hierarchy of controlled religion. Jesus Christ the Son of God brought forth Christianity to put an end to blood sacrifice by giving of his earthly body and blood to die for man’s sins on a cross.
As far as I know man is the only creature on Earth that buries his dead with ceremony. Carefully placed in the ground, or laid on a funeral pyre where ultimately the body is reduced to ashes, therefore releasing the spirit or soul. The elaborate tombs of the kings of old, attest to the belief that these individuals were thought to be immortal.
There were many burial grounds of the Prehistory people in the Americas at the arrival of the Europeans, sadly many of the grave sites were plundered or simply plowed under for planting crops. Many of the burials contained artifact to be used by the deceased on the journey to the afterlife. Precious metal, stones and finely woven garments and pottery were respectively and lovingly place with the deceased. Weapons for the male were very important and the very best placed in the grave. In some cultures it was not unusual where at least one female was killed and her body placed in the grave. There was I am inclined to believe exceptions made in the ritual of placing the deceased in the ground. I know of two burials where both deceased were females and the bodies had been mutilated. In one grave the feet and hands had been removed and an attempt, (poorly executed) partially cremated. The other site also contained a female, pregnant at the time of burial had met her death by a savage blow to the head and both of her feet had been removed. The cremation was also incomplete. These two burial sites were approximately thirty miles apart, one located on the Niangua River the other on the Osage Fork River. I can only assume these two women were punished dreadfully for some reason. I doubt if the two events were directly related. After noting type of pottery shards in and around the burials it is my opinion both individuals died about ten thousand years ago.
In the summer of 1970 while following a creek, (tributary of the Niangua) I located a north south bluff. This bluff is approximately one mile up river from the Niangua Bridge. The bluff is well above the floodplain of the river and faces east. The bluff in comparison to others along the river is not impressive. It appeared to me at least to be very old and in a state of marked deterioration. Huge chunks of its face had broken off and slid or rolled down a steep slope. Much of the top portion of the bluff was no more. The primary disruption of the bluff had not been recent, but occurred several years before. Erosion however, was taking its toll on the ancient pinnacle. In one very large piece I noted a sizable deposit of crystal clear quartz and it was evident to me at least that some of it had been chipped or cut out.
The slope I was to traverse was covered in thick brush and briar, so much so I was forced to remove my pack and hold it in front of me to continue on. It was a struggle to climb the slope and I times the brush was higher than my head and I could not see the bluff. After about thirty minutes I took a break and smoked my pipe. I decided I was about half way up when I stood to begin the climb again.
Red wasps are noted for their huge nest, especially in remote areas. Most nests are relatively close to the ground and if avoided, the wasps are not a threat. I finally came to a small clearing and could see the bluff clearly on up the hill. Anxious to begin exploration of the formation I stepped out of the brush, but in doing so came directly in contact with a very large wasp nest. The nest was teeming with deadly sentries and they immediately swarmed around me, stinging me. I could not run, for the brush was too thick and fell to my knees and pulled from the backpack an old blanket I always carried. The wasps were hitting me unmercifully. They sounded like hail hitting the blanket. Under the blanket I began pulling dead leaves into a pile. I was afraid I would be stung to death and had decided to set afire the leaves in hope of driving them back.
Several minutes past until I had a large pile of leaves under me and I struck a match and drop it onto the leaves. Smoke billowed up, but I stayed under the blanket until I could no longer breathe and with back pack in hand I darted out into the clearing. The more aggressive wasps followed and I took a few additional hits on my neck and arms, but within a few seconds the wasps dispersed around the smoke. I clawed my way up the remaining distance to the bluff and collapsed. I don’t remember how many wounds I had, but too many nevertheless. Water from my canteen cooled my feverish skin and I sat for a time resting quite shaken and wounded by the event. My left hand swelled grotesquely and I could feel other stings on my neck and back and arms. There was little I could do but leave and return another day.
Upon my return to the bluff a few days later I wisely averted the nest and in the cool of morning began a careful exploration. Near the north end of the bluff I discovered what looked like a tunnel large enough for me to enter and I did so but with caution, for in the past I had been confronted by skunks, coyotes and on two separate occasions by a female bobcat and in another cave opening a wounded buzzard. Snakes were also a danger, especially Copperheads.
I discovered quickly the opening was not the beginning of a tunnel, but a direct access into a spacious cave. I settled back on my heels and slowly played the beam of my flashlight the length, breadth and height of the cavern. Intrigued by what I saw, a cavern of at least thirty feet in length and breadth, with a ceiling height of about twenty feet. I slowly scanned the area and found erosion had damaged the floor on each side of the cavern for about three feet out from the walls. Gravel and mud covered these areas. The center of the cavern appeared to be bone dry. Near the front where I sat, I saw with dismay two pot holes from previous digs and on closer scrutiny found them to be very old. Upon standing up I look back and discovered the original opening had been quite large, but now was choked with fragments of the bluff that had collapsed many years before.
I took from the backpack a small garden spade and knelt down at the highest point in the center of the cave and began pushing aside the soft dry dirt. It didn’t take long until I had a hole around me about eight inches deep. It was during this time I raked across the fragment of a large shell tempered earthen vessel. Moments later I found the rest of it. I carefully laid the pieces aside and widened the hole and near the east end discovered hearth stones and bone fragments belonging to turkey and deer. Wood ash and charred wood was evident around the stones. Two small Dalton type points were also found. (I had yet to use a screening box and later chose not to do so.)
After a short break, smoking my briar and enjoying a cup of coffee I moved to the west end of the dig and began pulling the dirt up and over the rim of the dig. Pot shard, animal bones and small scrapes of leather was abundant for about the last twelve inches down. Three hours had past when I discovered human rib bones lying east to west. A story was about to unfold, a secret beyond recorded history.
I remove an oversized paint brush from the pack and began brushing aside the
powder dry soil, revealing with each stoke more of the skeletal remains. I lost track of time as I worked, completely absorbed in the discovery at hand.

By mid afternoon the skeleton lay before me, remarkably well preserved, containing small clumps of hair and some mummified facial features, but not enough to determine sex. I had disturbed some very small bones in or near the center of the skeleton and upon closer examination discovered them to be the remains of a child. A portion of the skull about the size of a chicken egg was noted.
The discovery of the smaller bones literally set me back and I turned my complete attention to the adult remains. With a magnifying I started at the top of the head and found a hole and with this in mind slowly covered every inch of the skeleton. It did not take long and the story was near completion considering the time it had lain there. Both feet had been removed and each leg bone fractured. Evidence of charring was also evident on the lower torso. The only artifact found in the burial was a braided rawhide bracelet still clinging to the left wrist bone.
During the next hour I began replacing all the artifacts as I had found them and carefully filled in the hole and then it was time to leave. Outside I took the time to roll stones into the opening as best I could to preserve this haunting place, where once life and death occurred. Adios.

The Song of a Man and His Dog

2010-07-01T11:05:00.000-07:00

Young Indian Creek Smokey

The Song of a Man and His Dog
The man stood alone on an Ozark hill, listening to the faint bawl of a lone running black and tan hound. The autumn night was bright, the air was still. Far below tall sycamores shadowed Indian creek. The man continued to wait, his head bowed and he smiled and looked down into the gloom of the deep hollow below. The bawl of the hound was that of his own Indian Creek Smokey and he was on the scent of a Wiley raccoon.
“Come on Smokey,” the man sang softly, “bring that coon up the hollow and put him in a Sycamore tree.”
The man turned then and headed toward the southern ridge, ignoring the briars and clutching Ivey vines, for he knew soon the hound would tree. The man reached Indian Creek, jumped across and headed up the ghostly ridge. He ducked below a willow branch and stopped to listen.
“Hey Smokey sing to me,” the man called out and smiled.
The deep resounding bawl of Smokey sent the man hurrying on into the pale moonlight. His anxious eyes searched the wooded slope caught up in the melody of the running hound. After several minutes the man stood resting against a twisted oak tree and waited. The song of the hound grew louder and then he burst from the brush in close pursuit of a large raccoon. The raccoon leaped from afar onto the trunk of a mighty Sycamore and disappeared into the high canopy. Smokey caught up in the moment sat down and sang a treeing song and then began a chewing and fussing around the old tree. The man praised the hound and shined a light up the tall, tall tree. And there he saw a big boar coon peeking out of a hole about as safe as he could be.
The man squinted into the sky and noted the first flush of dawn. “Come on Smokey it’s time to go,” sang out the man. “We’ve had our play. That was a good hunt boy and that old coon will be a waiting for us another time.”
Adios

An Angel In The doorway Or Maybe Not

2010-06-25T09:44:00.000-07:00

A Time To remember

The Power Of The Written Word

I have in my lifetime witnessed some very strange occurences and discovered that some of these events were explainable or close to it. Within a fog rising from the opening of a very large cave early one morning revealed quite clearly to me or so it seemed human images and they faded as quickly as they had appeared. The ghost of a woman that had passed away appeared to me one night in my home. The specter frightened my dog and she lay down and whimpered. A friend of mine who lay dieing asked me if he would know when it was time. I told him an angel would be waiting at his door. Early the next morning as his wife entered his room he told her to step aside for there was an angel in the doorway. He passed away moments later One particular day several years ago while sitting in a small room in the rear of the building that housed the U. S. Post Office and trying to finish a chapter in a book I was writing. My wife, the Post Master of our town, occupied the front part of the building separated by one door. The spring day was bright with sunlight and very pleasantly warm. Nothing seemed amiss to suggest an unusual day and I sat at my desk quite content enjoying a cup of coffee, pecking away at the keyboard of my word processor, changing a sentence or two from time to time. I stood up to stretch my legs and think about how I would finish the chapter.
Later, with a steaming cup of coffee in hand I sat down again still uncertain how I would end the chapter. I could not decide whether to end the life of one of the characters or let him live and become a major aspect of the book. Pondering the question, evaluating the man who stood on the brink of death, I sat with fingers poised to either kill the man or let him live.
Unbeknownst to me, my wife at her station was suddenly confronted with a cold wind entering the outer doorway, so cold she shivered uncontrollably. She sat down unable to stand for a few moments.
The mail carrier came and found her sitting and asked if she was ill and she replied she didn’t know but was very cold.
During this time or shortly after, perhaps a moment or so I made a decision to let the man live and thought no more about it.
An hour past and during that time my wife was still not feeling much better and commented on the cold wind that had entered her work place, for as I have said it was a very pleasant day outside.
Sometime during that approximate hour and after my decision to let the man in my book live, a neighbor came to town and told the store keeper across the road from the post office he had come close to drowning in the Niangua River after falling from his mule. The fall had addled him, he said and he couldn’t get up and lay face down in the water. Struggling desperately he tried reaching for the bank, but couldn’t get a hand hold and just as he was about to give up he felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up into my face. He said I quickly pulled him upon the bank, but too weak to speak he said, he lay there for time before sitting up and looked around for me, but I was no where to be seen..
He finally managed to get astride the mule and by the time he reached his house was feeling much better and came to town to tell of his close encounter with death. He told the storekeeper he didn’t understand why I didn’t wait around, but wanted to thank me for saving him from drowning. The man left and returned home.
The storekeeper came to the Post Office and told my wife of the incident and asked if I had returned from the river. My wife told the storekeeper I had been in my studio all morning and the neighbor must be mistaken.
Some later I confronted the neighbor about his experience at the river and he without hesitation expressed gratitude for saving his life. He asked why I hadn’t stayed and had been a bit disappointed by my quick departure from the scene.
I told him he must have been mistaken and it was someone else who had pulled him from the river.
“No,” he replied emphatically, “it was you!”

Adios

A Hat and An Open Road

2010-06-18T11:16:00.000-07:00

The above are some of my credentials and represent memorable events in my life and continue to do so. Adios

Take Notice Elizabeth

2010-06-15T10:09:00.000-07:00

Short Stories, A Journey Across The Ozarks And Beyond

A Boy's Journey Through The Troubling Years Of The 1940's

This Morning Elizabeth I received your letter. The Book, Life Along The Dousinberry and South Through Barefoot Pass will be in the mail very soon. Both books will be signed and dated. I deeply appreciate your interest and I am quite certain you will enjoy the books. Thank you. Adios

Heidi And Me And The Secret Garden In Bloom

2010-06-15T09:28:00.000-07:00

AS If To Say To Me, "This won't Happen Again."

The Sumac Tree Crowns The Wild Garden

The lilies Will Not Be Outdone

A Beautiful Jewel in the Garden

I found this old statue broken and put part of it back together and now it watches over the secret garden

Hollyhocks that originally came from England over a hundred years ago.

A quite, polite rain slipped across the crossroads this morning. Heidi waited in her house until it passed and then we went walking along a road bordered by wild flowers, nodding in the breeze. Heidi has changed so much in the last few weeks and I think she forgets at times the bad days of her past. She does not care for strangers and is a very private creature. This morning after returning from our walk she sat quitely while a photo of her and I was taken. The secret garden is in full bloom. Adios

An Old Man's Passage To White Mountain

2010-06-12T10:19:00.000-07:00

A Woodcarving of Mine

A Time to Remember
The Journey
By Ronnie Powell
There is undoubtedly an abundance of stories hidden in the minds of all people, stories that too often are never revealed and too late when death occurs. They are aspects of life, often simple tales, yet compelling, exposing unique qualities that fall by the wayside like autumn leaves and swept away into oblivion. Knowledge of these tales I have learned can often be easily acquired by asking or showing interest in the individual’s life. They may not be promptly revealed or may follow a negative train of thoughts at first, nevertheless they are given up often in an unusual way.
I sat quietly on the floor next to Delmae, (fictitious name) an old man of Siouan stock; the face bore symbols of time, deeply creased, weather worn to the texture of old leather. Grey black hair shadowed the eyes that reflected the single flame rising and falling like an ancient warrior of old in a stone fireplace huddled against the wall. The old man sat with his head bent in prayer and I waited, sipping cold coffee from a tin cup.
Delmae and I were not close friends, but we talked and respected each other. He said to me moments after I arrived that evening the dark eyes boring into mine. “The white man’s defeat was Custer’s last stand, but the Indian paid a terrible price for the victory.”
This statement seemed to open the door to many haunting tales of his upbringing. He believed a savior would come to right the world and replenish the buffalo. Delmae openly mourned the destruction of the land, rivers and its animal inhabitants.
“A time will come when Mother Earth will grow weary of man’s cruelties and cleanses her-self of the rape. It will begin on the White Mountain.”
The following is but a small part of our time together during the evening.
The grey dusk lingering in the window of the small room faded as night crept close and as if on cue many flames rose up in the fireplace, dancing to a rhythm as old as time. The old man lifted from his lap a small cassette player and set it on the floor. The distant bellow of a diesel truck on the highway broke the silence in the room.
“Hey. Hey." Delmae said softly. “I am ready for the journey. I doubt if you will follow, but say nothing and listen.”
He bent over and pushed the on button and the machine emitted only wisps of sounds at first and then faint drum beats began, unyielding growing in intensity, demanding attention.
“Look,” Delmae said softly, pointing to the fire, “the sunset. I see a trace that leads to the mountains and the Great Plains, with grass as tall as the buffalo. See? “
I leaned forward captivated by the deep pulsating sound of the drum beat, tempted to join the hypnotic rhythm, but hesitated and was left behind. I listened to the voice, sensing urgency in it, but could not determine whether it held fear or reverent appreciation.
“I am standing at the edge of the plains and beyond lies nothing but desert that should not be there,” he said gazing intently into the fire. “There are huge pinnacles of stones scattered out across this waste land as far as I can see and I am turning back.”
Delmae said nothing more for a time, sitting quietly, swaying slowly to the beat of the drums. Night had claimed the room and if not for the firelight pushing aside the shadows dancing erratically on the walls I would not have been able to see the old man’s face.
Delmae smiled and raised a hand as if in greeting and then he spoke. “I saw nothing but the remnants of mountains and man’s skeletons, bleached white and I felt the icy touch of fear, but beyond I saw the White Mountain and knew Grandfather has not forsaken the tribes.”
He reached out and touched the cassette player and the journey ended, the drums fell silent. “Hey. Hey.” Delmae whispered and scooted closer to the fire.
Reaching into the fireplace he picked up a glowing ember and scooted back to where I sat. “Hold out your right hand, do not flinch, for no harm will come to you.” He stated gruffly.
Slowly I extended my hand; it was surprisingly steady suspended near his. I could feel the intensity of his eyes and without hesitation he laid the ember upon my open palm. The ember glowed wickedly lying there for perhaps ten or fifteen seconds and then he picked it up and tossed it into the fireplace.
“Hey. Hey.” He said. “You did well, you are human like the Indian. It is late, you should go now.”
Delmae again turned the cassette player on.
I did not leave.
Delmae’s journey continued for nearly an hour, raising an arm now and then, looking up, and lapsing into silence a time or two as tears slipped from his eyes. The recorded drum beat was a remarkable hypnotic aspect and vehicle by which he traveled and I am certain was never out of his control. Perhaps it was only the musings or reminiscing of a time worn soul and he sang.
“The whole world is coming.
A nation is coming, a nation is coming.
The Eagle has brought the message to the tribe.
The father says so, the father says so.
Over the whole earth they are coming.
The buffalo are coming, the buffalo are coming.
The Crow has brought the message to the tribe.
The father says so, the father says so.”

-Sioux Ghost Dance Song-

Queen Ann and the Secret Garden

2010-06-10T11:38:00.000-07:00

The Guardians of the Secret Garden and the Wee People who live there

I brought this home a couple of years ago.

The butterflys love it.

Queen Ann

The secret of my garden will remain with me. It is not a neat place, but need not be. Over the last few years I have found wild flowers that appeal to me and planted them in the garden and to me at least it is ammazing how much more beautiful a wild plant can be if left alone to grow and mature. In the garden are Blackeyed Susans, Indian paint brush, Daisies and many others. Last year I brought a start of Queen Anns Lace to the garden and forgot about doing that. This year it came up and in all the years I have admired the plant did not know how beautiful it can be. The plant is considered trash and like the dandilion is for the most part mowed from pastures and lawns. But the Queen is here now in the secret garden to reign surpreme. Adios.

Heidi On The Run

2010-06-10T11:13:00.000-07:00

Heidi cooling off after her run

After laying in her hole.

Cleaning up a bit

With help from me, Heidi is clean again.

Yesterday evening a long about sundown I sat brushing the dead hair from Heidi, (she enjoys that) I took a break and laid down beside her in the grass. She looked down at me and jumped over me and began running around the yard as fast as she could go, leaping over me, nipping at my feet. This went on for about five mintutes and fearing she might get too hot I stood up and then she ran circles around me. She stopped and took off again and jumped into her pool and laid down. I decided to get a picture of her, but when Itried she got out of the pool. I went into the house and snapped a picture of her from a window. She laid there for a while and then ran over to her hole next to a fence and laid down and instantly got very muddy. She came to where I was sitting and laid down in the grass and began cleaning herself. Heidi is truly becoming a dog. She really enjoyed the run and playing with me. Adios

Polly Anna

2010-06-05T10:08:00.000-07:00

Pup Polly Anna

Polly Anna at about five years of age

A Time To Remember

Polly Anna

Over the many years of our lives, stray animals found their way to this little town above the Niangua River. Most were in desperate need of care and most found it at our home. We located homes for a few and others, especually the cats stayed to live out their lives. The dogs that came were often just runaways that eventually left to return home, but there were those who also stayed with us. I could name many, but that would take awhile and so I will recall a few. Bluto, was not a stray, for we aquired him as a puppy. King was an adopted dog as was Maggie.

Indian Creek Smokey, a bloodhound was purchased. Tootsie was a stray that lived with us for many years. And there came another one day with her brother and sister, foot sore and and hungry. The brother was given away and the females stayed with us and then one day one of the females disappeared and that left Polly Anna. Polly Anna beacome family and lived with us, shared our home for eleven years. We were told that she was part pitbull and redbone hound. But I have never known a more gentle and compassionate dog as she. She was completely devoted to us and understood many words. While sitting on the back steps one evening, she brought me a baby rabbit and laid it down carefully at my feet. Another time she brought me a baby starling. But of course the years past and she grew older. Then it was discovered she had cancer and I let her live on until one day she could no longer get around, but worst of all the pain had become unbearable for her. She died peaceably in my arms when the vet gave her a lethal injection. When she passed away, a part of me was gone, but I have my memories of her and that is a wonderful aspect of life. And now there is Heidi. Adios

A Reckless Adventure

2010-06-04T11:35:00.000-07:00

From Where The Reckless Adventure Began

The Hole

The First Passage

The First level Above Main Cavern

When deciding to post this story, I could not come up with a title other than a reckless adventure, which after much consideration seems quite appropriate.

A Reckless Adventure
Several yards northwest of Jones Crossing on the Niangua River stands a massive bluff well above the floodplain of the river. The bluff faces roughly south where in a portion of it is one of the largest and deepest caves in the area. I will not reveal the cave’s name. A large field lays along the river a little southwest of the bluff and was used by the Prehistory Indians as a camp site and at one time artifact of these ancient people were abundant along with burial sites and deep remnants of lodges.
The cave has for over a hundred years been a favorite place for people to gather and in the early days of legend and folktales tell of outlaws hiding out and moon shiners making and selling white lightening within the spacious front cavern. The enormous entrance is now cluttered with years of trash extending well below the surface of the floor. Beer cans and bottles, assorted soda containers, broken shovels, tinfoil, decomposed condoms, spent rifle and shotgun shells and quite possibly hundreds of plastic forks, spoons and cups are but a part of the litter left behind by thoughtless people.
Deep holes and associated mounds are evident in the dirt floor from many years of digging and all but remnants of prehistory artifact is now nonexistent. Sometime around the turn of the twentieth century, approximately 1920 much of the artifact was removed and included burial sites within the cave. The stories I have heard are conflicting. Some say it was a sanctioned dig, but others have told me it was pot hunters who ravaged the cave entrance. I cannot prove or disprove any of the tales. Perhaps a thousand years from now people that are interested in Nineteen and Twentieth century cultures will come to dig once again.
A steep incline must be ascended to access the spacious front cavern of the cave. The opening is protected by a massive overhang and portions of it have collapsed over the years. The opening to the cave is approximately forty to fifty feet in height and about sixty to seventy feet wide and deep. The shelter would have been ideal for multifamily or small clan occupation. The walls of the front cavern are honeycombed with cracks, crevices and deep ledges, a haven for birds, small mammals, bats, wasps and spiders. I can remember a clear running stream of water flowing from deep within the cave along the west wall.
Three major passageways lead off from the rear of the front cavern and all but one go very deep into the bluff. One passage veers off to the left, merging into a channel where sweet clear water used to run. Up until 1960 at least, the stream was teeming with life. The stream bed was rather wide and about knee deep and was abundant with salamanders, Cray fish, fish and frogs and many of theses creatures were nearly transparent. The stream bed gradually ascended upward deep into the bluff and ended too close to the surface where I am certain a sink hole fed the stream. Years later I made one last journey up the stream bead and found the ceiling had collapsed. I managed to squeeze round the huge mound of rock and soil debris to a point where I could see tree roots protruding through the ceiling. I wasted no time evacuating the area, a very dangerous place to say the least. The source of water had been effectively shut off and only a muddy stream bed remained. The distance from the front cavern to the cave-in was approximately a quarter of a mile. Gone were the many forms of life I had noted years before and in their place was rubbish left behind by again thoughtless people.
The center passage takes a direct course straight into a very large cavern with a very high ceiling where water falls from high above. Along the outer perimeter of the dome shaped ceiling perhaps a thousand or more bats clung and were easily disturbed. Guano is quite deep around the pool of water on the floor. I call this space the Cathedral room and as far as I know magnificent stalagmites and stalactites are still there, high enough to have not been damaged, but unfortunately through out the rest of the cave many of these formation have been destroyed.
The right passage meanders for about fifty feet to a wall of stone that rises to a height at twelve feet where beyond I could see passages fading into the gloom above me. Water dripped from the high ceiling and red mud oozed over the wall to the floor below. Although above me in the semidarkness the passages did not appear to be an ideal and perhaps a dangerous place, I mentally began planning an exploration into the unknown.
Two years later in the spring of 1960 accompanied by Gene, a friend, we returned to the cave. We located a small dead cedar log about twelve feet in length and carried it inside and leaned it at an angle against the wall passage. Gene and I were equipped with hardhats, one carbide light, one kerosene lantern and two small backup flashlights and fifty feet of small rope. We also carried other miscellaneous articles. We began the climb up the wall at 10:00 a.m. with the intentions of returning in three hours. Our objective was to try and locate the water source that drained into the Cathedral room.
Several minutes later after successfully climbing the log we stood in ankle deep mud observing several passages, or I should say a maze of dark tunnels. Most were too small to enter and we chose the largest and then began a steep ascent upward.
It didn’t take long and we were covered from head to toe in mud, slipping and stumbling precariously regaining footholds on the treacherous slope. We slowly continued upward arriving at the entrance of the passageway in about thirty minutes. The tunnel appeared to be large enough to enter and just barely high enough to stoop over. The ascent continued although not nearly as steep as the first climb.
Gene and I entered the passage and sat down next to a wall to rest. Our hands were caked with mud and we cleaned them as best we could to take a few photos and smoke. Sitting there neither of us speaking, I played a beam of light into the far depth of the passage and could see several large stones scattered along the tunnel about sixty yards beyond, I saw what appeared to be the crest of the incline. Water dripped from the ceiling, enough to create a small stream flowing past us. It was obvious at least to me the water source was not all that far away.
After resting awhile we began exploration into the tunnel, a slow process that kept us slipping back down the slope. Not far from where we had rested, near a very large stone we came upon a hole in the center of the tunnel and below could see standing water. We had about two feet next to the north wall to traverse around the hole. With my back next to the wall I slowly made my way forward, digging my heels into the mud. It took me several minutes to clear the hole and I waved to Gene to come. He reluctantly did so and completed the process successfully, although upon arrival he voiced his concern and suggested we turn back. I refused to do so for curiosity of what lay ahead had taken the upper hand.
The immediate danger that now faced us was slipping down the tunnel to the hole, for the passage had steepened and not far a head a smaller hole confronted us and when we looked in could see no bottom. We were now on our hands and knees clawing at the mud, digging our feet deep into the red muck. By the time we reached the crest, regretfully two hours had past, jeopardizing our scheduled departure. We sat for time discussing the situation and decided to venture on for a time.
The passage had widened some and we began a short descent, however we could no longer stand stooped over and had to crawl on our hands and knees. Muddy water flowed freely down the slope. We were soon forced to sit down and slid on our butts, using our feet as brakes. The mud deepened and had formed small dams, creating rather deep pools of water. Progress down was very slow and unnerving. I believe approximately an hour had passed when we reached the end of the decline where we found a large vertical opening in the passage. The opening covered most of the floor area, offering only a narrow passage along a stone ledge at the north wall. I turned the beam of my flashlight into the cavity and at that moment was convinced we had found the source of water flowing into the Cathedral room. I could see about a hundred feet below to a large pool of water and detected the squeaks of bats.
Gene insisted we turn back, a very sensible decision, but as I played the light beam across the large crevice I could see the passage had entered the opening of a huge cavern. The opening appeared to be only a few hundred feet on up a steep incline eroded by flowing water. The urge or perhaps impulse to proceed on was strong and unyielding and I informed Gene I was going around the hole for a look inside the far cavern and he could wait for me if he wanted to. This did not set well with him but he nodded and said he would wait.
Curiosity or the desire to go beyond the next hill so to speak is not an oddity among humans for without that instinctive trait humankind would not have amounted to very much. But of course it can be foolish at times, deadly in some cases as I have learned over the years. Falls have been frequent, snake bites, attacks from wild animals have not diminished my desire to find out what lays ahead.
A few moments of rest and after cleaning my hands and shoes, I tied one end of the rope around my waste and taking the lighted kerosene lantern and one flashlight I cautiously stepped upon the ledge with my back to the wall. I dug my heels into the soft grit that covered the ledge and with the lantern in my left hand; I pushed ever so slowly with my right hand and began moving around the hole. Gene held the other end of the rope firmly. About midway around the hole, one of my feet slid forward and Gene pulled on the rope throwing me off balance. I let go of the lantern to try and get a hand hold, but too late and I fell. Strangely the lantern caught my eye and I seemed to hesitate in midair watching it hit some rocks below me and explode into a fiery ball, sending rivulets of fire cascading down the steep slope into the darkness below. I do not remember the first impact, but it knocked the breath out of me and I rolled down the jagged slope and up against a large stone where I lay gasping horribly for breath. I could faintly hear the frantic voice of Gene and feel him tugging on the rope. I manage to sit up and called out to him not to pull on the rope. My senses cleared somewhat and I found I lay near the burning lantern and for whatever rationality that comforted me. The entire situation was surreal, but soon reality slapped me in the face. I discovered my legs were a bit numb and also realized I had either broken or bruised a rib or two. I called out to Gene that I was alright, but needed to rest a bit. The beam of his flashlight glanced off the walls around me and helped considerably to clear my mind.
After about an hour or so I was told I crawled up the slope to another large stone and sat down. The numbness in my legs had significantly sunsided, but each movement I made brought considerable pain and I could hardly take a deep breath. I realized at the time getting back up to where Gene stood would be extremely difficult.
I decided it was time to try and get out of the hole and pushed the rope further up under my arms and gave the word to Gene to start pulling me up. I stood up and leaned forward and Gene pulled slowly on the rope. I staggered toward a small ledge and managed to get a handhold and held on. Pain slashed through me each time he pulled and I kept my protests as quiet as possible. About midway up I crawled upon a wide ledge and shouted for him to stop and let me rest. I was sweating profusely and my breathing was agonizingly painful. A few minutes later I motioned for him to continue and quickly found hand and foot holds that eased the burden on Gene. Finally after several minutes of near unbearable pain I slid over the rim of the chasm and lay wallowing in the red mud.
The descent to the main floor of the cave was a slow tortuous event and when at last we stood looking out of the cave entrance, found the sun nearing the horizon and evening shadows lurking along the river. I had thrown caution to the wind and paid the price with bruised ribs and abrasions. I have never returned to the second level in the cave, but I still wonder at times what I might have discovered if I hadn’t fallen into the hole.
The man that now owns the property where the cave is located has banned people from going there and that is a good thing. Perhaps the old cave will begin healing from all the abuse it has endured over the years, however some of the damage is irreparable and I also believe more cave-ins will occur, for erosion has been constant and will eventually change much of the interior. Man’s presence in this once pristine cave has destroyed its history, but as time passes its history will resume, for another culture will leave its mark. Adios

From Heidi and Me, Thank you

2010-06-03T10:30:00.000-07:00

Thank you for your kindness

I really mean what I say

Thank you everyone for your kindess and comments on Heidi during her continuing journey with me. Each day she surprise me with delightful antics. Adios.

Heidi, Then And Now

2010-06-01T08:47:00.000-07:00

Heidi nearly a year ago

Heidi at present day

Yesterday while looking for a lost item I came across a photo of Heidie. She was still in the control of the facility where I found her. I could hardly bear the sight of her for in those sad eyes only a soul with little hope remained. Now some may say that man is the only creature with a soul, but I strongly disagree. Heidi lay there looking at me with a fear beyong anything I could comprehend. During the last several months I have posted photos of her with updates on her continuing journey with me. Look closely and compare the first Heidi with the present Heidi. During that time she has grown more beautiful, more trusting and life burns bright in those almond eyes. Two nights ago a very intense thunderstorm arrived. I could hear it approaching, sweeping across an old cedar forest northwest of the house. Lighting was fierce and thunder crashed like a thousand canons. I hurried outside and found Heidi standing outside her door and urged her to go in of which she did not hesitate. I closed the door and hurried inside to get her a favorite treat and joined her in the little cabin. She was very glad that I was going to stay with her for awhile. She and I sat in her bed, side by side and watched the storm around us and after awhile, she laid down and nibbled at her chicken jerky. She had bravely weathered the storm, unlike the creature I had first seen many months before. She and I are at ease now with each other. I can't imagine any human who dislikes animals for in them is a great gift of mortal life on this Earth. Adios

Heidi

2010-05-29T09:13:00.000-07:00

A beautiful Heidi Jade

A princess

A camera you say?

Squinting at a squirrel

A secret place

Two large screened windows provide cool breezes for Heidi and a cricket she shares the house with.

Heidis wading pool, much larger than shows in photo

Heidi continues to blossom more beautiful than ever. She is very formal and polite. I asked her the other day while sitting with her on the lawn why she didn't show affection when out in public and she looked at me as if she understood the question and gave me a very sutle lick on the face. I then ask her what would be wrong with shaking hands when out side and she lifted her right paw for me to shake. I am convinced she understands much of what I say to her, but she does have her principals. She is very leery of strangers and is quick to bark. She is extremely fearful of people, almost everyone who gets too close and does not like sudden movements. But for the most part she is content and is at ease in the yard and her house is very important to her and wants to be inside the building at night. Storms frighten her and I make sure she is inside her home when one occurs and I often stay with her for awhile. She has her squirrels and birds to watch, and many well chewed toys but has chased all the moles away. She crys when I leave and that makes me sad. She follows my every move when I am outside and does not like it when I am using the riding mower. Heidi is indeed a princess. I am so thankful that my wife and I rescued her from the place that was very soon going to to put her down. I believe many of the memories she brought with her are becoming dimmer by the day. Heidi is proud and a loyal friend. If only everyone could or would understand and respect all living creatures. Adios.

The orphan

2010-05-28T11:55:00.000-07:00

From out of the darkness came Annie

Poor Annie

Annie is waiting

As some people may have noticed, I have been away for awhile. There was a yard sale to set up, an Alumni to prepare for and lots of grass to mow, not to mention many other spring chores. It is possible no one missed me, that has happened before. During the preperation for the yard sale I found Annie as I will call her, lost among years of clutter, bits and pieces of by gone days. It was a dusty, lonely place I am certain, but now Annie is back and cleaned up. I have no idea where she came fom or who she is. She still has a haunted look even though she is just a doll. But I felt sorry for her and decided not to sell her and let her remain here at least for awhile. We may even buy her a new dress. Adios

Ronnie's Library

2010-05-03T10:56:00.000-07:00

Front Cover of South Through Barefoot Pass

(but in black and white)

Tiddleson, Son of Tiddle

Tiddleson's Ship on front cover

A Stranger in London Smoke

Life Along the Dousinberry

I decided this morning, a beautiful day in the Ozarks to reflect again on my published books. I have sent many out to those who have requested them, one as far away as Ireland. All of my books are limited editions a total of 1400 copies of which more than half are gone. One day there will be none left and I will have succeded in my dream of a published author. I am but a speck on a horizon of authors who have gained world fame, nevertheless I have fulfilled what I set out to do. Each published book was designed by me as was the illustrations. Morris Publishing printed them and the books are of enduring quality and beauty. One reader said to me that each of my books are like a box of chocolates, each chapter a different flavor and texture. I am deeply appreciative of this statement. Another reader said, anyone finishing Tiddleson, Son of Tiddle can only believe he exists. To anyone who is interested in more

information please go to rdpowell@hotmail.com. Adios

South Through Barefoot Pass is 122 pages sixteen chapters and is a illustrated limited first editid. Short stories of fact, fiction and folktales and is a journey across the Ozarks and beyond. Three essays reveal the authors deep appreciation of the land, its people and remnants of Americana. Adventures lies ahead along the crooked road that leads to Barefoot Pass.
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Tiddleson, Son of Tiddle, is a delightfully, warm and moving fantasy/adventure novel. It is 303 pages, twelve chapters, illustrated and numbered first edition. It is the story of the Amicus people who stand no taller than a dandelion stem. The story begins at Wicklow Mountain in Ireland then journeys across an unforgiving sea to Wilderness America where on a high knoll deep within the Missouri Ozarks the clan of little people find safe haven inside an ancient limestone faintly marked with ancient Indian hieroglyphics. To survive the Amicus move with caution along paths so narrow a rabbit can hardly walk and travel looking over their shoulders, staring frightfully into the shadows. They often fight to the death to ensure the clan will survive one more day. Yet for all their hardships these remarkable humans retain their faith and independence.
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A Stranger in London Smoke is 224 pages, six chapters, illustrated limited and numbered first edition.
A Stranger in London Smoke is the story of one man’s courage against the lawless during the late 1800’s. The story begins in London Smoke, Missouri, as Keith Bradshaw, a teacher sets out to right some of the wrongs of his father a former Baldnobber. Bradshaw’s journey ultimately changes the lives of six people and destroys the lives of seven others. A Stranger in London Smoke is a love story entwined in love and hate, to reveal the haunting secret of this gentle but unwavering man.
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Life Along the Dousinberry is a saga of a Missouri Ozark boy’s journey through the troubling years of the 1940’s. It is 294 pages, sixteen chapters, illustrated limited and numbered first edition. Nestled beneath ancient oak trees on the North face of Brushy Ridge the Shannon house has stood for over a century and home of Ronnie Shannon, his parents and two brothers. To be certain Ronnie and his sidekick Jimmie thrived in the clandestine world of their adventures which often tests the boys’ courage and stamina. There are humorous situations and diabolical schemes when love is tender, but easily forgotten. It is time of a beginning transformation into the reality and uncertainty of adolescence.

Heidi and an Orange Volkswagon

2010-05-01T11:22:00.000-07:00

To all who commented on Heidi, thank you

A great find

Yesterday I went with a friend to a flea market mall and lo and behold I found a Volkswagon, a rare find these days. It is orange in color and another plus, for I have not this color in my collection. So the little car will take its place among the many other Volkswagons. Adios

Ambush At Jones Crossing

2010-04-24T11:35:00.000-07:00

North bank of Jones crossing

Saddle reportedly belonged to one of the assassins

A Time to Remember
Ambush at Jones Crossing
By Ronnie Powell
The following story is true, but is my interpretation of the event, based on eye witness accounts some of which in my opinion were not duly noted and are inconsistent with an article published in a newspaper in 1882. I have changed the names of the characters in this infamous tale rendering it fiction, adding additional points of view not found in the old newspaper clipping.
In the early evening of May 25, 1882 two men were brutally slain in the North-East portion of Dallas County, near Windyville, Missouri. Two other men were wounded. The crime took place along a road near Jones Crossing, between the Harvey and Williams farms about two hundred yards from the Harvey and a half a mile from the Williams farm. Matt Williams one of the wounded in the fracas resided on the Williams place.
The ambush site a brush thicket near the road was carefully prepared. Holes were cut in the brush upstream for a commanding view of the crossing. At least two of the assassins were armed with shotguns and lay waiting for the arrival of their victims. A third man stood picket behind a tree several feet away to alert the other men hiding in the brush and then would quickly join them.
In the meantime Gerald Matson, twenty six and C.R. Matson eighteen, (brothers) one riding a mule and the other a horse were heading home and stopped to pick up two boys, (some say forced them to ride along). John Shantz seventeen and Matt Williams sixteen were about a half a mile from the river crossing where the shooting would allegedly take place.
The arrival of the four victims was detected at about fifty yards from the river crossing in the dusky light of mid-evening with each of the murderers laying in wait. The shooting commenced at a very short range, killing C.R. Matson instantly, wounding Gerald Matson and Matt Williams along with John Shantz. The horse and mule were also killed. Gerald Matson attempted to flee back up the road, but was shot dead by another blast from a shotgun and the shooting stopped abruptly.
Only one of the shooters was observed running from the scene. According to Matt Williams, a man of approximately five feet eight of ordinary build wearing a ragged coat of drab color fled into the brush. The young man stated he did not know the fellow.

Gerald Matson’s wounds consisted of thirty buckshot wounds in his back and left side above the hip. Twenty seven buckshot wounds were found in the left side of C.R Matson one cutting the left common carotid artery and three shots penetrating the heart severing an artery.
Matt Williams received five flesh wounds, three in the thigh and two in the arm. John Shantz received two flesh wounds, one in the leg and one in the arm. Neither boy’s wounds were life threatening and both recovered.
Under oath both boys recounted the events leading up to and during the ambush. Their testimony revealed that Matt Williams met up with John Shantz with intentions to fish in the river. They came upon the two Matson’s and Melvin Harris, Jim Frank and two women and two children near the river. Gerald sat astride a horse and C.R. a mule. Gerald was quarreling with Jim Frank, threatening to forcibly take money owed him from the group.
The Matson’s, Harris, and Frank left along with the women and children. Matt and John remained near the river and began digging for worms and upon the return of the Matson’s; they asked told to ride with them. Matt climbed up behind C.R. and John behind Gerald. Gerald and C.R. were drinking. They rode down into a hollow along the county road and again approached the crossing and were fired upon from buckeye brush. Smoke and the crack of a gun could be seen and heard coming from the brush. Gerald and John were the first to arrive and were the first hit. About a minute later Matt and C.R. were also shot.
The Justice of Peace and acting coroner impaneled a jury and after viewing the bodies and hearing the evidence, submitted a verdict that the deceased Gerald and C.R. Matson died by gunshot wounds inflicted by parties unknown.
Many of the local people believed there were at least seven men involved in the killing of the Matson’s in retribution of not unlawful acts by the young Matson’s prior to the shooting, but rather by unjustified personal retaliation. On February 9th Jim Frank and three other men were charged and held for a preliminary hearing in the assassination of Gerald and C.R Matson. The hearing lasted two days with many witnesses coming forward and a verdict was in favor of the State. A trial date was set for the next term of circuit court. The defendants bonds were set at one thousand dollars each and were released. Jim Frank alone was ultimately charged with being an accessory to the killings. There are no records stating that any of the men were ever actually convicted.

Matt Williams sometime later fell into a hog pen and was attacked by hogs. The wounds resulted in his death. One account of the shooting at the river states that Gerald returned fire with a shotgun he carried. Nearly a hundred years later at an estate auction a saddle allegedly belonging to one of the assassins sold for fifty dollars and is at present in my possession. The river crossing where the shooting supposedly took place is now part of an old abandoned county road where even at the present the vintage road snakes down through a hollow to the ford where buckeye brush still flourishes affording a commanding view of the ambush site where the shooters lay in waiting. Adios.

What Error To Gain A Biscuit?

2010-04-18T07:39:00.000-07:00

This story is in its original notation, but is in story form in the book, Life Along The Dousinberry
What Error to Gain a Biscuit?
By Ronnie Powell
On an especially warm day in late spring of 1947, my twin brother Donnie and I stood waiting for Dad to finish hitching our team of horses to a cultivator. The sun was barely over the horizon and we were facing a rather long day in the cornfield replanting corn, a kernel at a time. Our overall pockets bulged with these precious kernels. The process would take us down each row to stop and drop a kernel where needed, cover it with a hoe and then move on. The sun would be hot, the horseflies and sweat bees were most aggravating. I did not relish the thought of being in the field with nothing to eat, for noon lay beyond my comprehension. I glanced at Dad appearing totally absorbed in the hitching and handed my hoe to Donnie and sprinted away toward the house.
I estimated the journey to the house and taking possession of several left over breakfast biscuits to take no more than a couple of minutes and was certain Dad would be unaware of my absents. How very wrong I would be.
I rounded a rear corner of the house, glimpsed Mother at the well drawing wash water and headed for the backs steps. Never breaking stride I took the first step up stumbled and fell striking my neck across one of the rough oak planks and the journey ended abruptly and with dire consequences. I struggled to breath, slipping close to the brink of unconsciousness. I rolled off the steps gasping and croaking like a frog. I continued thrashing about on the ground vaguely aware of Mother’s hysterical screams. It would be several hours later before I regained consciousness.
Doctor Plummer was the first face I saw, a kind old man in a rumpled suit who had helped bring me into this world. I was struck by the grimness of his face, flinching at the probing hand on my neck. I attempted to smile, but could not and then tried to speak, but failed to do so and once again moved quietly into blissful oblivion.
The good doctor of Buffalo, Missouri informed my parents I had received a crushing blow to my larynx, but couldn’t be certain of the extent of damage. Doctor Plummer informed them I would probably be unable to make a sound for awhile if ever and advised the distraught couple I should be placed in a hospital for further examination, fully aware they had no money for such a stay.
I awakened early the next morning on the davenport in the parlor. I caught the dawning sun glinting from Mother’s prized cut glass vase sitting on a table near the front window. I then recalled the day before and sat up, feeling remarkably fit except for a deep soreness in my throat. I took notice that I was clothed in one of Mother’s old flannel night gowns and became quite angry. I looked about the room for my clothing and saw the shirt and overalls lying in a heap near the door. Intent on getting out of the gown I tried standing but too weak slid to the floor and began crawling toward the garments. I could barely hold my head up, saliva drooled from my mouth making the floor slippery. The pain was near unbearable, but I continued on to the clothing. I quickly shed the gown, got into the shirt and overalls and crawled back to the couch hissing like a snake. I had at least restored my dignity.
A little later that morning the entire family entered the room. Both of my brothers stood at the door. Dad, Mother and Grandma Carrie came to the couch. Not one to mince words, Dad quietly informed me I had severely injured my voice box, as he called it and would be a spell before I could talk aloud again and perhaps never. Mother stood looking down at me weeping. Grandma also wept, holding a steaming bowl of her chicken noodle soup.
I did not take well to the disturbing news, but nodded, peeking under the covers to see if Mother had again put the gown on me, but she had not. Grandma coaxed me into eating the soup and I did so without too much difficulty and later was accompanied to the outhouse, where I set for a time idly looking through the pages of a Sears, Roebuck catalog reflecting on my dilemma.
Resilience is the definition of youth and in a couple of days I was again back on my feet resuming my chores. I could not imagine ever speaking aloud again. The thought of being a mute haunted me and in the following days, weeks and months I began realizing what I was up against. My brothers of course teased me and a few adults treated me shamefully as if I did not have good sense. One of the local ministers came by one day to see me and began shouting as if I were deaf. He then asked Dad if I was mentally challenged. The man was told to leave.
Grandma Carrie encouraged me to write on paper as clearly as I could to answer any questions presented to me and to try and communicate with people. I took advantage of every idle moment slipping off alone in the woods to try and make a sound, but September came and school. It did take long to discover that my peers including the teacher were understanding and did their best to put me at ease. It was not the children, but the few adults I came in contact with that depressed me the most with their I suppose good intentions and thoughtless behaviors. Yet during the long silent months I never lost faith that I would speak aloud again.
In early spring of the following year while walking along the old Brushy Ridge road, trying in earnest to make a sound, I uttered a guttural word or two, yet they were music to my ears. From that day on I began to speak aloud again, at first a raspy whisper and gradually a more normal vocalization. There are times even today my voice fades but for the most part has served me well. I came away from that dreadful experience a bit too independent I suppose and a deep appreciation for folks who have been handicapped. Life comes in many flavors and colors and to survive one must not judge people by a bad taste or gray reflection that does not represent the soul of a fellow human. Adios

A Time For Beautiful Heidi

2010-04-15T10:01:00.000-07:00

Beautiful Heidi

Time for a treat

Heidi finds a cricket

Heidi on point

At this writing Heidi is well and more beautiful than ever. She and I are close companions and we have endured the long winter months, where every evening she and I would sit for a time in her cabin with the door closed. Often the wind blew wet and cold outside and after sharing little peanut butter sandwiches with me she would snuggle down beside me and sleep. One of my old winter shirts after being warmed by the stove inside my house covered her. There she would remain until she sat up as if to say it is time for me to leave. Of course she knew I had a treat to give her. She likes to shake hands with me and often licks my face or hand. She is very protective, perhaps a little too much. Heidi welcomes the time when I arrive to go in her cabin and seems relieved to be locked inside for the night. There are still signs of her experience of being mistreated. She does not trust very many people and often reverts back to cowering, even from me. But time is slowly dimming those memories. She loves to play ball, but as yet will not bring it to me. She cries when I leave and sits and watches when I am in sight of her. She trusts my wife and comes to her most of the time. Sadly she will not enter her cabin during a storm unless I tell her to and will and has remained outside drenched to the skin. But I am patient and know that I will see the day when she is completely at ease with her world and mine. Adios

Beware Wild Beauties

2010-04-12T09:52:00.000-07:00

At last they have arrived to share the summer with me

I have returned once again to Barefoot Pass. My new book demanded my attention and I have been very busy mailing them out and hosting those faithful readers who came to take possession of Life Along The Dousinberry. The book is selling well and I am deeply appreciative of the response. They have and are traveling far and wide to people to read. All my books except the first one, South Through Barefoot Pass is numbered, but all are signed and dated. My new book has been compared to the writings of Booth Tarkington, author of Penrod and Sam and many others. I am flattered by such a comparison. Life Along The Dousinberry is the story of an Ozark boy growing up in the troubling years of the 1940's. All my books are without profanity and other lurid aspects. For more info go to rdpowell@hotmail.com.

Beware Wild Beauties
Soon now as spring gains the upper hand the lawns of most homes will flourish. The majority will be carefully groomed and will be void of wild flowers, (Weeds) representing the intended perfection of the owners. Chemical warfare will be in full force, eliminating anything that threatens to trespass these sacred grounds. For some there is no tolerance and anything of nature’s wild beauties will perish. This sounds ominous, but it is the right of the owners to display their taste in groomed lawns. The lowly Dandelion has been the victim of mass extermination for many years, systematically destroyed as if it is a plague, but in truth it is one of the most beautiful, delicate and enduring creation on this Earth. It is also edible containing healthy nutrients in salads and tea and wine. To eliminate all Dandelions from the face of this planet would be a tragedy, nothing less. Never again would a child pluck one that has gone to seed and make a wish before blowing the seeds into the wind. To never stand at the edge of a field and see the Dandelion in bloom and watch the bees buzzing around is an awful thing to comprehend. It is doubtful and more of a certainty I believe the dandelion will never perish, for it has a way of slipping in among the hierarchy of grass, snuggling down and then rises to shine like the sun as it was meant to be. When at last the first Dandelion appears on my lawn I will welcome this delicate bloom for it has a place on my lawn, but it must hunker down on mowing day. If indeed the Dandelion is a weed, than I am kin. Adios.

A Question

2010-03-27T08:14:00.000-07:00

Was it a breeze that touched my face, tugged at my sleeve and then was gone?
It was a fleeting thing, leaving the Black Eyed Susan’s nodding in the dawn.
Was it a breeze that caused the cedars to whisper to the Whippoorwill?
A gentle passing stirring the oaks high on a barren hill.
Was it a breeze, or perhaps an old friend that passed by and touched my face, I wonder? Adios

A Long Road Home

2010-03-26T08:59:00.000-07:00

A Long Road Home
By Ronnie Powell

Destiny, as is fate are colorful words, romantic I suppose and used to spice up a story, statement or article. I cannot say I believe them to be the controlling factor in my life, but of course I could be wrong. Prevailing circumstances should not be overlooked that may bring about a course change in ones life and could possibly have been avoided if not for tunnel vision. To step off a curb into traffic and hit by a car some would say was fate or destiny, but on the other hand failure to look to the left and right before stepping onto the street is as far as I am concerned could be a prevailing factor. I do believe, however, to avert all negative situations would be near to impossible.
This story (true) began unwittingly with a phone call one evening on October 18, 1991. The caller was my wife’s oldest sister Belva. She needed help in moving from Texarkana. She had sold her home and was coming back to Missouri to live her remaining years. She was in tears, frustrated, sad and unable to cope with her decision. She was leaving behind many friends and a lifetime of memories. She had not thought far enough ahead to where she would live upon reaching the Ozarks. She would have a truck load of possessions that would eventually arrive. It was understandably a very traumatic time in her life and she turned to family for help.
The phone call from Belva prompted my wife and me to help her and resulted in offering her a space for a Mobil home of which we went in search of. It took time to complete all of this, but the day finally arrived when the home was set up and the water and sewer connected. The Mobil home was beautiful, very spacious and cozy and at last ready for Belva. All that was left was for me to board a bus for Texarkana and help her drive back, via Little Rock, Arkansas. It was a simple plan, to be gone about three days and then a leisurely drive home across a beautiful country.
I boarded a bus in Lebanon, Missouri near sundown and found it completely full, every seat taken and I was forced to sit on the landing by the door. The aisle between the seats was cluttered with an assortment of cardboard boxes and bulging paper sacks. The travelers were a diverse lot, men, women and children crammed together, many appeared weary, especially the women. I was told by the driver my first chance to gain a seat would be at Fort Smith, Arkansas, a hundred miles or more further ahead. I placed my small duffel back at my feet, tugged my Stetson hat down over my eyes and leaned back against a rail, resigned to a long uncomfortable ride.
The bus arrived into Fort Smith very early the next morning along a shadowy, ill kept street and came to a halt before a rather shabby building that was only dimly lit on the outside. At the ticket counter I was told I would have about an hour layover. Several hours had passed since I had eaten and I decided to go to a small restaurant inside the terminal and found it crowded with impatient people trying to get a meal before leaving. There was a lot of noise and I took a seat at the counter where two weary waitresses tried to keep up with the barrage of demands. After about a half hour I was bluntly asked what I wanted and quickly gave my order for coffee, eggs and bacon. The time for my departure was approaching and I began to wonder if I would be able to stay. The food and coffee came at last about twenty minutes before my bus scheduled departure and placed before me. I was hungry, but a part of me cringed at the food, lying on a chipped old platter swimming in grease. I quickly consumed the food and even had enough time for a second cup of the thick black coffee and off I went on my second leg of the journey to Texarkana. I hurried outside, found the bus and stepped inside. To my relief I discovered it to be only about half full and quickly took a seat near the front by a window. From there to Texarkana, the population of the bus steadily declined and by the time upon reaching my destination I was the only passenger left.
As the bus slowly came to a halt I saw Belva and a friend standing in front of the building waiting for me. I wasted no time in leaving the bus, very tired and feeling slightly nauseas and attributed it to the long night. Belva was glad to see me and introduced me to the woman standing next to her. Belva led the way across a parking lot to an old Toyota, four door sedan. I politely entered the back and sat down, even wearier now and not feeling well, but I said nothing about my condition and tried to enjoy a tour of Texarkana as we made our way to Belva’s home. I was astounded by the condition of the downtown area and could see it had once been a very beautiful and stylish place. Whole sections of it stood idle, boarded up and or in near ruins. A mall we passed looked as if it had been abandoned. I was told much of the town had moved away from the center. It was to say the least a very sad plight the old section had suffered. A lot of history lay in shambles; eventually I suppose to be lost forever.
The trip to Belva’s house didn’t take long and it too was located in an old section of town and it also had suffered greatly. A wide, tree lined Front Street once graced the lawns of well kept elegant homes but now cluttered with abandoned automobiles. Most of the homes were shabby and ill kept. Belva told me later she was afraid to live there any longer. She had even been mugged once as she was going to her garage and several times someone had attempted to break into her house. All of this put me ill at ease, along with a queasy stomach and a general feeling of a worsening physical condition.
I found her house in a state of disorder with packed boxes and empties waiting to be filled. We did little that first day and later she took me out to eat. I had no appetite, but forced the food down and she took notice and I revealed my discomfort. I told her I had eaten breakfast at the bus terminal in Fort Smith and almost immediately began feeling bad.
“You should not have eaten there, Ronnie,” she stated. “I’ll stop on the way home and get you something that will make you feel better.”
That was an understatement for in the next two days, I consumed little food, almost no water and it did not matter what she gave me my condition grew worse. I could tell she was worried about me and decided put on a face of feeling better and helped her finish the packing for the moving truck fellows to load. At first I vomited, and then diarrhea set in. It was very difficult for me to keep all of that a secret from Belva. But on the third day it was time to leave. The moving van came and I assured her they would safely pack everything and bring it to her new home in Missouri. Belva wept, for the reality of leaving her home of many years and all her friends was weighing heavy on the stooped shoulders. She I went across the street to an old friend of hers and said goodbye and the lady gave Belva a sweet potato pie for us to eat along the way.
Earlier that third day we had filled the cranky little Toyota with gasoline, packed with her clothes and other personal possession that completely filled the back of the sedan. I was informed I would drive. We started out along what must have been familiar streets to Belva to a broad four lane Highway. I noticed from time to time a small puff of black smoke coming from the exhaust and asked Belva if she had serviced the car for the trip. She said she had and the fellow assured her everything was alright, even though the old car had many miles on it. I relaxed then, determined to get home before nightfall. The Toyota had a good sound as we cruised along that wide highway toward Little Rock. I don’t think I had ever felt as bad as I did that day, but relieved to be heading home I forced a good face to keep Belva at ease.
About mid afternoon we were approximately fifty miles from Little Rock and making good time and I estimated we would cross the Arkansas line into Missouri in about two hours. The traffic had picked up considerably, but most of it buzzed on around us. We began a long descent down a hill when the inkling of trouble came. An ominous shadow of black smoke suddenly appeared behind the Toyota, wagging mischievously, but then disappeared. Whether it was my condition or apprehension I felt a cold chill run up my back. A few moments later a terrible cracking noise reverberated through the car. Black smoke gushed out from under the hood and the engine clattered and belts screamed shrilly. Again a sharp cracking noise sounded, followed by a loud thud and then more smoke engulfed us trailing behind the car like a plane going down. The smoke became so dense I could see nothing but the swirling dark cloud in the rear view mirror. Cars began passing us swinging wide, blowing their horns. Quite unnerved momentarily by all the shouting and horn blowing, I hunkered down in the seat until all the traffic had passed the tortured Toyota.
Belva screamed and shouted for me to stop the car, but I refused for there was nothing out there but highway. I pushed the accelerator to the floor, and the car barely responded, but enough to gain some speed. I wanted to find an overpass road and possibly a business for us to take refuge. Soon the radiator began to blow antifreeze and water onto the windshield and still more choking smoke. I peered ahead and could make out a road leading up to an overpass and grasped the steering wheel tighter. The engine clattered horribly and then died, but our momentum carried us half way up the road and the Toyota shuttered to a halt completely engulfed in smoke. Belva immediately left the car, screaming for me to get out before I was burned alive. I did exit the car, but not as quickly as she had, for I had not the strength. The Toyota did not burn, but sat there emitting a steady but declining amount of smoke.
Belva and I slowly made our way up the hill to a service station and informed a man of our plight. He immediately got into a tow truck and pulled the Toyota up the hill to a small lot. It was during this time we decided to go on to Little Rock and take a bus home, but in order to do that we needed help. The man in charge said he would take us to the bus terminal in Little Rock for fifty dollars and the Toyota. He said he would provide us with enough plastic bags to pack her belongings in.
We arrived at the bus station in less than an hour and the man pulled his Cadillac to the curb, opened the trunk and removed all of the bags containing Belva’s things, dropped them on the sidewalk and got into the Cadillac and then drove away.
I quickly informed Belva that I should go inside the terminal to inquire about when the next bus would arrive for Springfield, Missouri.
She was understandably very distraught, standing there next to her possessions and said to me. “No I won’t stay out here alone.”
“But, I replied, “Someone may steal everything.”
It was at this moment a tall, young black man stepped forward and said. “I’ll watch your belongings Lady.”
I looked up at the man and into his steady gaze and saw there an honest man. Belva quietly observed him and nodded. “Thank you young man,” she replied.
Belva and I hurried inside and learned that a bus bound for Springfield was due at anytime and would not stay long before it continued on. We bought tickets and hurried back out side to see the bus pulling along side the curb.
The young man smiled and said. “I’ll help you load everything.
The bus driver came to where we were standing and informed us that all Belva’s things would have to in the compartment under the bus and within moments we were ready to board the vehicle. Belva wearily climbed the steps into the bus, but I turned toward the young man and offered to pay him for staying with Belva’s belongings.
“No Sir,” he calmly replied. “I just wanted to help you folks. I ain’t taking no money.”
Approximately ten minutes later the bus pulled away from the curb and to our dismay learned it would not take a northern route toward Springfield, but was heading to Fort Smith, a long way around. My nightmare intensified.
Belva sat next to me by a window and began to cry, sobbing quietly and this lasted for several moments and then it was over. The diarrhea returned to me with a vengeance and I was forced to use the onboard restroom many times during that night. The rest room was located in the rear of the bus and swayed with the motion of the vehicle and sitting on the contraption was an ordeal in itself. I grew weaker by the hour and wondered a time or two if I should inform Belva of my worsening condition and even considered asking her to have the bus driver call an ambulance, but I didn’t for she seemed to be content at last.
There were several short stops along the way and at each one Belva would go inside, buy a cup of coffee and a chicken breast. She was enjoying herself. I did have the presence of mind to drink as much Seven-Up soda as I could, to stave off dehydration, but the diarrhea persisted and then came a low grade fever.
I am not sure how long it took us to reach Fort Smith, but it was nearing dawn when the bus pulled in next to the familiar terminal. Her belongings were unloaded and I managed to take it all inside and then more or less collapsed on a bench. Belva went to the counter and she was informed we were to have a four hour layover, devastating news to her. It really didn’t matter to me any longer, I just wanted to rest.
If not for a young woman who befriended Belva I don’t think she could have survived the on going ordeal. I don’t think Belva was too fond of her, for the young woman was very out spoken and began showing Belva an album of photos that represented her life. The girl finally took notice of me and became concerned for my well being and tried in her own way to comfort me, by offering me a pillow and water to drink. It was during and nearing the long wait, I began to realize I was feeling better and was able to call my wife to tell her she would have to meet us in Springfield and gave her an approximate arrival time.
When at last our bus arrived and we went out to board it, we were told by the driver that only one seat was available and two of us would have to stay behind. The young woman stepped up and the oratory she presented to the bus driver was quite plain and colorful. She said in part,” Mister you have no idea how much these folks have suffered. The lady’s car broke down at Little Rock, the man has got food poisoning and as for me I am very pregnant. You let the lady have the seat and Ronnie and me will sit in the aisle on my box of stuff.” (Cuss words have been omitted) The driver nodded and loaded Belva’s belongs and we boarded the bus.
“Ronnie, the girl said, “you sit with your back against me and we’ll be alright.”
Sometime midmorning we arrived in Springfield and as the bus came to a halt I could see my wife standing there waiting. A most welcome sight to say the least. When I stepped down off the bus, I smiled at her, but she did not know me for a moment or so. She said later I looked terrible as did Belva. I have never been so glad to be back at home as I was that day and slept for several hours and when I awakened I felt much better. The Long Road Home tested my mettle, an ordeal I don’t wish to be subjected to again. It was an adventure I will not easily forget. Adios

A Poem From The Heart of Joyce

2010-03-25T09:58:00.001-07:00

In Memory of Sunrise Surprise

Born 200 years from the birth of the U. S. A.

Sunrise was a surprise

Born at sunrise 1976, June 25

Little wobbly legs and a big blaze face

A natural fox trotter

Chestnut and pretty as could be

He came to live in Windyville

At the age of two

Gentle and a one man horse

Oh how he could buck

When someone else sit astride

His master was all that could ride

Many a trails we rode with him in the lead

Commanche and Lady followed at their speed

The beautiful Sunrise Surprise

He took sick one eve at five

A long rainy night of pain he survived

The vet came and sadly said

"Sunrise is very sick."

So at 8 a.m. he left this old hill

Riding in the heavens on high

He's free from the pain and hurt

He endured in his life on Earth

Commanche, his old pal of 29 years is so sad today

As we are all that he had to go away

On December 4, 1999

Forever on Windyville hill, his memory will stay

But the beautiful Sunny will have to leave today

Joyce

A treasured poem. Adios

Guns of the Old West

2010-03-21T09:55:00.000-07:00

Butcher With His Tennesse Rifle

This Thirty One Colt Belonged To Bluejay In A Stranger In London Smoke

As Deadly as A Black Widow

Watchout! Scorpion

Adios

2010-03-20T08:03:00.000-07:00

My fourth book, Life Along The Dousinberry, has arrived And I am very pleased with it. It is beautiful. The quality of the book material is excellent, as always and I must give credit to Morris Publishing for their work and patience. Life Along The Dousinberry, although fiction is based on the upbringing of a Missouri Ozark boy. The tale is set in a unique locale along the Dousinberry creek, A tributary of the legendary Niangua river.It is a story of hardships, fascinations, greed and tragedies of this native son during the troubling years of the 1940's. The saga is often hilarious, sad and a time when love was tender but easily forgotton. To be certain, Ronnie Shannon and his sidekick Jimmie, thrive in the clandestine world of their adventures, a period of transformation into the reality of an uncertain adolescence. The book is a 295 page lmited, signed and numbered edition. The front cover features a painting of mine of a Dousinberry scene. For more information e-mail rdpowell@hotmail.com Adios

A Time to Remember

2010-03-17T10:46:00.000-07:00

Some of my first woodcarving of the early 1970's. A few went to England.

The tractor of the present. It is over fifty years old

My first tractor in 1972. It steered with a long bar.

Old photos are great to look back on. They are frozen in time and bring back old memories. Adios

To MrMe

2010-03-17T10:16:00.000-07:00

Thank you MrMe for your comment. I appreciate your response. Cyber cowards are not good people and yes they should be hunted down. Adios

A Hole in the Wall

2010-03-15T09:02:00.000-07:00

The intruder did not enter though a window or a door, but busted through a wall. It happened quickly or so it seemed and suddenly my computer was overwelmed by an alien. I cannot comprehend what makes up a person who sits at a desk and sends out infectious cyber elments to deliberatly destroy other peoples computers. The mentality of these individuals are undoubtedly defectived to say the least. I have to wonder what kind of a miserable life they live to have nothing better to do with thier talents than to reach out and destroy. I pity them. But again I am back and will begin answering all my neglected e-mails and continue writing on my blog. Adios

Children of Spring

2010-03-07T08:34:00.000-08:00

Whitetail Doe

Box Turtle

Wild Rabbit

A Reflection of the Past

2010-03-04T09:00:00.000-08:00

Time has a way of reminding us of our beginning, whether or not we approve. Our genetic history is a foundation that cannot be ignored. Our characteristics are distinquishing traits not unque to us but are mirrors into the past of other people. Each day we see many aspects of what they left behind, but often ignore. I recieved an old photo from a cousin of mine that is of one of my Great, Great Grandfather's. Over One hundred and fifty years seperate us and yet the resemblence is still distinctive, the bloodline secure. I must say I am honored to favor this very important man in Arkansas History. Adios

Beyond My Realm

2010-03-02T09:57:00.001-08:00

The horizen is further than I shall ever go and truly I am glad, for if I should reach its farthrest edge I would no longer dream. Adios

Two Shadows Cross One Trail

2010-02-28T08:48:00.000-08:00

Young Butcher Redoak

Photo From Book, "A Stranger in London Smoke."

Butcher Redoak in Later Years

A Time to Remember
Butcher Redoak
By Ronnie Powell
Butcher and I met many years ago at a crossroads in my life. I was very young at the time, wounded somewhat, disillusioned and disappointed by folks around me. I had suffered a devastating fall resulting in losing my voice. I could only communicate with clarity by writing on a piece of paper about what I had to say or answer. Most folks were kind and understanding, but there were those who of course poked fun at me or said I was mentally challenged. I retreated as best I could to get away from this nightmare. I had lost my voice that had been good enough to sing in a quartet and played a Martin guitar Grandmother Carrie had bought for me and in my thinking I gave up playing it. I turned instead to rambling up and down Dousinberry creek and became interested in Prehistory Indians. This past time led me further away from my ordeal, but was also fascinating and for many years afterwards I continued my journey into Prehistory. Whether it was self pity or just a way to survive helped to shape me as I am today, intolerant of those who mistreat disadvantage people and left me perhaps a bit too independent.
Time finally healed the wound after about a year and again I could speak, but not with the voice I had been born with. But it has served me well, with the exception at times when it fades to within a whisper. Singing is out of the question, or rarely so and when I slipped away from home at sixteen to go to Texas, I fell into hard times and had to pawn the guitar for $2.25.
After returning home and while in Springfield one day with some friends and my twin brother I was confronted by to burley men who did not favor the way I was dressed, a western hat, shirt, jeans and boots. They proceeded to cut the buttons from my shirt and stomped my hat and then challenged me to meet them in the rear of the building we were in. It was at this point of time I truly met Butcher although he had been at my side for a long time, but I had yet to discover his name. I accepted the challenge with reasonable certainty that with the help of my friends, my brother and Butcher we could handle the pair. But the closer we got to the rear of the building, the further behind my friends and brother became. Only Butcher walked beside me. And to make a long story short one of the men among four now facing me whipped me soundly and I fell to the ground. I could hear Butcher’s voice urging me to get up and so I did and again faced the man. He laughed and swung and I ducked and I swung with all my one hundred ten pounds and hit the man in his left eye. The eye popped out and after that I don’t remember much, for the remaining three men beat me to the ground and kicked me under a car.
A couple of years later I saw that man I had injured at a skating rink. He was a good distance away from me, but recognized him without a doubt. He was wearing a black patch over his left eye.
Butcher and I became close, for we shared the same dreams, fought the same battles and shared the same friends.
During the next several years I never turned my back on Butcher. The name Butcher was given him by an old friend of mine. Butcher loved to carve wood and so the name stuck, Butcher of wood, but the name or part of it would change.
There was another side to Butcher. At a very young age he discovered he was fast with a gun and over the years twenty five men and one stagecoach driver, a woman challenged his gun and lost.
One evening, I believe in the spring of 1970, I received a call from a professor friend of mine in Columbia, Missouri, requesting that I guide a small group of college students through a part of McKee Cave, situated high on a bluff of the Niangua River. I agreed and a date was set for their arrival.
The students, accompanied by the professor were late and by the time we arrived at the site overlooking the cave, darkness was fast closing in. I led the way down the treacherous slope and soon came to a ledge where I stopped and waited for the party to catch up.
“It is imperative that I take your hand and help you down to the next level, otherwise you could fall to your death on the rocks below,” said I.
One by one they stepped up and were safely deposited in front of the massive cave entrance, well, all by one, a young Indian woman, fiercely independent who said. “No, I can take care of myself.”
The woman turned to step down, lost her footing and would probably have perished if not for Butcher who reached out. He grasped a handful of her flowing black hair and pulled her to safety. Later she quietly apologized for her carelessness. The matter was forgotten or so we thought.
Approximately two months later, a man, appearing to be of Indian heritage arrived at Bennett Spring Trout Hatchery inquiring about Butcher where he and I were employed. He was a short man about five feet eight inches tall, stoutly built, with distinctive Indian features, high cheekbones and rather dark eyes and hair. The man extended no hand in greeting when arriving on the scene where Butcher and I stood, but remained aloof, not necessarily an unfriendly stance, but rather as man unaccustomed to presenting himself to strangers.
“I am a Searcher and I have come with a gift,” he said to Butcher. “It is not something you can hold in your hand or wear, but will become a part of you. It is not given lightly, but comes deep from the soul of another. This gift belongs to no other and will remain so. Redoak is your name, as in stout of limb and courage as the roots of the great tree embedded in Mother Earth.”
“I don’t understand,” Butcher replied. “Whom is the gift from?”
I could detect only a slight reaction in the man’s face when he answered. “I am the father of the woman you pulled to safety at the Cave of McKee. Your bold and unselfish gift to her must be returned with a gift of equal worth.”
The man said nothing more, turned and walked away.
In the months and years following the strange appearance of the Searcher, Butcher Redoak began casting a distinctive shadow, that of his own that rival mine, a man with often reckless abandon, more so than in previous years. The gun battles continued and he walked away as the victor. He became a Captain in the 8th The Missouri Cavalry, and often pitched a tent with mountain men, buck skinners and stood with the best of them on the firing line. He acquired a lead part in a movie titled, Arkansas Yankees, became marshal of Buffalo Head and fought in the Battle of Womack Mill and met up with a man called Ike.
The town of Buffalo Head, sat huddled on Fifteen Mile Prairie, a lawless place, where rendezvoused the Indians, Wild Bill Hickok, mountain men and a troupe of players of whom performed a nightly melodrama. The Rusty Bucket Saloon and Old Theater were the main attractions. There were preaching men, the melancholy sounds of balladeers, Mountain Banjos and dance halls girls. Prairie Days was a time to remember.
On one particular hot August noon, two men strode onto the wide front street of Buffalo Head, one being Marshal Redoak and the outlaw Ike. Along each side of the street people stood waiting and watching in silence as the two men closed the distance between them. A child whimpered and clutched her mother’s skirt.
Both men stopped, stood for a time and then the flash of a revolver in each of their hands hurled black smoke and fire. Butcher Redoak, stumbled shot down that day.
In reality Butcher did not perish on that hot dusty street as some may believe, for in reality he was and is a part of me, an alter ego I suppose that helped guide me away from a demoralizing wound and became another aspect of my being and a good friend of whom I will not abandon easily. It has been and hopefully will continue being a colorful and interesting experience sharing life with Butcher Redoak. Adios

Foods Fit For A King

2010-02-26T10:21:00.000-08:00

Foods Fit For a King
Caviar is alright I suppose among all the other so called delights that stirs the appetites of the elite. I also consider myself elite, but I am not among the wealthy bunch or of royalty and my taste is much different. I never did like to gob everything together like I have seen on the plates of the other elite and given a name that is supposedly French, German, Italian or perhaps mixtures of all of them. I imagine folks of my caliber in those counties have simple names for their foods as we do here in the States. I have a spoon, a fork and knife to eat with and I don’t understand why you cut with one knife, move it around with a special fork and then lay it aside and then cut it again with a different knife and pick up the food with yet another fork and if you drop it on your plate, you select a particular spoon to move it to its original place and then begin again all over. A spoon is a good all around tool, especially a large one. You can eat mash potatoes, peas, beans and many other delights in one fell swoop. Fried chicken or a pork chop need no tools, for the fingers are well adapted to lift the morsel to your mouth and while you are there you can lick them clean. “Finger licking good,” I say.
I came away from my childhood with many favorite foods, such as molasses cake, head cheese, fried apple pie, limburger cheese, pickled pig feet, pickled jalapeño peppers hot enough to send the average person running for the water bucket. Paw Paws are good as are dried persimmons. Home grown hen eggs, fried over easy and I mean treated gentle and then sopped up with a slice of home made bread is indeed food for king. A fried, over easy real gentle duck egg is out of this world. I could go on and on about the other foods I was raised with, delicious fare that you don’t see around much these days. A bowl of hot oatmeal, laced with molasses, a handful of walnuts and a strawberry and a pinch of cayenne pepper is a staple that no other food can match. It is true that sardines were not a homegrown food back then, but once in awhile my father and I indulged. At the time a can of sardines came in a large can, unlike the cans of the present. A slice of limburger, a glass of spring cooled buttermilk and sardines were food fit for a king. Of course every one left the room, except Father and me. Sardines were always in my pack when I went out a wandering on the river. My class of the elite does not dab at our face with a napkin after each bite, but wait until the meal is finished. Food was fuel to get you through the day and that doesn’t mean we didn’t have a deep appreciation of our fare .It was serous business for the women folk who took great pride in what they put on the table. Adios

Snake In A Box

2010-02-22T08:38:00.000-08:00

A Time to Remember
Snake in a Box
By Ronnie Powell
Minnie Pitts Powell was of Irish, English parents and in most respects a fearless woman who would have if necessary taken on a grizzly bear single handed to protect her children. A petite woman with red hair, blue eyes, a bit of a temper, quite innovative in all aspects of farm life and a wife, my mother and confidant.
A fox in the hen house was no match to Mother’s protective instinct, flailing it with a broom as well as an opossum, stray dog or any other critter that trespassed. She stood her ground with the bullish of bulls, marauding ganders or roosters and sent an old drunk fleeing one night when Father was away. Yet for all the bravado in that mite of a woman she feared snakes with a passion.
My first inclination of her fear of snakes, any snake for that matter from the largest King to the smallest garden variety came about one day while cleaning the upstairs rooms. I had been drafted to help with the cleaning and did not appreciate the chore. Mother and I began in a curtained off area where lay accumulated boxes of a scrape cloth to be used in quilting, several empty Mason jars and other items to numerous to mention. Wanting only to finish the job I obediently followed her instructions removing the boxes and bundles out for her to examine.
One particular box caught my attention, laden with an assortment of belts. A black patent leather belt lay tightly coiled on top and especially interested me. I envisioned it as a hat band. Picking it up and turning toward mother the belt inadvertently uncoiled, snapping quite loudly when it reached the end of its length. Mother screamed, stumbled and fell over a box in a dead faint. The incident if nothing else removed all doubts I may have had about her fear of snakes.
A month or two later on a warm spring morning Mother announced that it was wash day and said to me the dreaded words. “Ronnie it’s your turn to help me. Before you draw water for the kettles get out of those overalls. You’ll find clean ones on a chair in the kitchen.”
“But Mother not out here someone might see me naked!” I protested.
“Do as you’re told young man,” she replied sternly. “You won’t be naked and beside ain’t nobody gonna see you.”
I knew better than to argue and shed the overalls, tossing them on a heap of other clothing. I ran up the steps into the kitchen, pulled the clean overalls on and was about to snap a gallous in place when I remembered I had left an aspirin tin in a pocket of the overalls lying outside and it contained a very small garter snake. I dashed out the door to the landing, but that was as far as I got.
Mother stood with the aspirin tin in her hand and in the process of opening it. I shrank back against the banister, too late to retrieve the little box. It was perhaps a couple of seconds later when the lid burst open and Mother screamed, again and again tossing the box containing the snake high into the air.
Strangely all I could think of was to try and retrieve the little snake and ran down the steps trying to keep up with the box now tumbling end over end. I had previously rescued the snake in the chicken yard as it was about to be gobbled up by a hen. Mother’s screams distracted me and the tin fell near the back fence and the snake fled into a clump of iris.
Upon hearing the frantic screams, Father raced around a corner of the house to find Mother down on a pile of dirty clothes recovering from a faint.
“Herschel, take Ronnie to the field with you!” She exclaimed. “Donnie can help me with the wash.”
I wasted no time running around to the front of the house and sat down on the steps to await my fate. Father arrived shortly and sat down beside me, but not before he gently whacked me on the head.
“Son, you’re lucky,” he said. “If she’d been standing you would have got a whupping for sure.” Adios

An Ozark Mountain Man

2010-02-20T09:49:00.000-08:00

Marion in 1990

(First Published in Country Folk Magazine
A condensed version)
In Rembrance of an Ozark Mountain Man
A Time to Remember
By Ronnie Powell
Some time during the early hours of December 14, 1917 a blizzard hit Wichita, Kansas and swept North across into the town of Burns. Included in the path of the storm was a small farm owned by Roy and Olive Maggard. It was during these early hours, before the dawn, Olive Maggard became aware her pregnancy was about to end in the birth of her second child. Olive awakened Roy and informed that he should hasten to Burns to get Doc McIntosh to assist her in the birth of their child. Roy wasted no time and went to the barn hitched a team of horses to a wagon.
Out side the wind was howling, but undaunted he climbed onto the high seat and set out for Burns. The snow was already drifting across the road. The wind nearly took his breath away. Fortunately he made the trip to town and back within two hours with the doctor. Not long afterwards Marion a thirteen pound baby was born, second son of Roy and Olive.
The weeks and months passed and spring at last came to the prairie. Marion had grown strong adapting well to the harsh life of a Kansas farm.
“I never did learn to crawl,” he said, “just up and started walking one day.
In his twenty first year, Marion left his parents farm and headed for Soda Springs, Idaho. He quickly found a job on a cattle ranch. “Those were my cowboying days.” He recalled with great fondness. Marion was issued a high stepping, young gelding and began riding fence around a fourteen hundred plus acres.
In December of 1942, Marion Joined the Navy See Bee’s, for World War two was looming darkly on the horizon. After boot camp Marion was sent to the South pacific. He participated in the battle of Boganville and from there went to New Guinea, a build up point after it was liberated from the Japanese. While stationed on an island in the Philippines, a Japanese plane carrying a bomb came in low and turn in toward the island.
“We had been told,” He said, “that you couldn’t out run a bomb when it is heading for you.” He smiled, and then replied. “But they were wrong; we did out run it and dove under a huge crane. The only injuries we received were cuts and bruises from bumping into each other.
Marion was discharged in October of 1945 and married and bought a farm in Missouri near the Dallas and Webster county line. Marion was not a farmer and sold the land and began his life’s profession as an iron worker, and raised two daughters. In 1975 Marion retired at the age of fifty nine and in 1985 he heled to organize the Dallas County Ozark Ridge Runners, a muzzle loader enthusiast group. This group of men and women became involved in living history, sponsoring reenactments of fur traders, mountain men and civil war aspects. It was during this time, Prairie Days; a festival sponsored by the Dallas County Historical Society took roots The Ozark Ridge Runners became an important part of the festival.
Prairie days, a three day annual event was time for the Indians to gather there, representing five tribes. The mountain man, fur traders and Civil War enthusiasts were there, and the gunfighters, saloon girls along with a fast shooting sheriff. There many craft booths, shooting contests, melodramas, country music and old time preaching in brush arbor. Prairie days lasted for nine years and drew people from far and wide. Marion was there doing his part to make the show spectacular.
Prairie Days is gone but not the spirit of it, for every spring and autumn many of the people including Marion gathered in Granny Hollow to relive the past. Tee pees, Baker tents and a host of other primitive shelters were set up for a three day shoot and social gathering.
Not long before Marion passed on he said. “The best part of a Rendezvous is when the sun goes down and the tantalizing aroma of camp coffee, fresh baked biscuits and stew fill the air. It is a time when friends get together to share the past and most important the present.”
Marion has not been forgotten. “Farewell Old Friend.” Adios

To Journaling Woman

2010-02-15T09:11:00.000-08:00

That beautiful princess of the season is close by and I am certain she is listing. She has touched the lilac and encouraged the birth of baby squirrels and rabbits and the Robins are arriving. So keep calling out to her, for I'm sure she is pleased to hear those anxious voices. Adios

A Cane With Soul

2010-02-12T09:47:00.000-08:00

"I'll Be Here When You Need Me."

A Good Solid Cane of Red Cedar

Many years ago I began carving wood and later when I became an adult and after I was married I began carving again. First it was country people, teachers, farmers, lawmen and a host of others. One day while walking through an old cedar forest I found a stand of young trees that had died from been too thick. I pulled one of the cedars from the ground and discovered the roots were attached. Several trees later I carried them home. The roots were different shapes and quite colorful. From them I carved staffs and canes. I sold many of them. One day a particular cane, the handle was the face of an old man. I decided to keep it and brought to the house and leaned it up against the wall behind the heating stove. The old man caught my eye now and then and I wondered why until one day he seemed to say, “I’m waiting and will be here when you’re ready for a cane”.
He has been there now several years, gathering dust, (I clean him once in awhile) but I keep telling him I not ready yet. I really do appreciate his patient and it comforts me knowing if I need him, he will be there. Adios

A Reminder of Winter

2010-02-11T09:43:00.000-08:00

Deer were moving slowly along the South Slope of the Glade this morning

Two days ago, a cold snow covered cedar glade

Winter's days are numbered, for I can see subtle stirrings of Spring, but until Spring makes its arrival there will probably be other winter scenes like the above photos.

Welcome to the Ozarks Lori and a Remarkable Heritage

Coming Soon, a Journey to Liga Cave and beyond into a Prehistory Wilderness. Adios