Legendary Bare Foot Pass, for the ages

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

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

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

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.

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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

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

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

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