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HISTORY
OF HERE
P a r t
167
History,
Before There Was History
BY JAMES F. BARRETT
Well, one of my readers, who
usually tells me head-swelling things about my
articles said she kept losing her place in my last
one. A polite way of saying she kept dozing off.
Shucks, I thought it was pretty good, but maybe a
little preachy. Huh! So, a few nights ago I was
sitting on the edge of my bed looking out the
window, at three o'clock in the morning, trying to
think up something new and interesting to write
about. You have to realize that I've been doing
this for nearly forty years now. I've about milked
the Ozarks dry of historical facts and figures.
Since no one seems to want to come forward and tell
me "their" particular exciting historical family
story - I have to find and write my own, don't I?
Oh, we could go back and see what the Bald Knobbers
are doing. Or rehash the nightmares the Bush
Whackers brought down upon our 1800's citizens. Or
try to come up with another "Coming of Table Rock
Lake" story. But I really wanted to do something
different for you dear readers, something less
preachy, less journalistic, less facts and figures,
maybe a bit more fun.
Then I thought about one of my
favorite writers of pretty factual historical
semi-fiction - Mr. Mitchner. I sat there on my bed
staring blankly out into the night and tried to see
what he would do with my Ozarks. Well, I suddenly
decided - why not? Why not do our history in
timeline style, factual of course, but
semi-fictionalized with a story line, lots of
color, human interest, gory details, maybe a sort
of love story thrown in - why not? Mitchner sells
millions of books doing just that, maybe my readers
would like it, have fun with it, look forward from
issue to issue - maybe… So I asked my most
potent local authority, my wife Vicki. She mulled
it over and said the same thing I had been thinking
- why not? Then I tried some of my most critical
readers and they said, why not try it? So, at
last, I went to Editor Ed to seek his authority.
You see, I'm supposed to be a journalist for the
THE MESSAGE TREE, not a storybook
writer.
But, after some conversation
and a lot of thought, Editor Ed said, "Why not -
give it a shot?" So, I decided - why not?
Mitchner always selects a state, or a city, or a
particular area upon which to base his story. He
then tells of events and the whirl of history as
seen from this state, city or particular area.
Sooner or later he begins to bring in the settlers,
Germans, Russians, Chinese, Britons and so on. He
picks out families and individuals who represent
the "guts" of that area, from the very beginning to
modern times. Then he tells the history of that
state, city or area as seen from the viewpoint of
the many varied peoples, as well as his own,
omniscient reader/self. Well, I'm no Mitchner, but
I'm a pretty fair journalist, and I've been told
that I'm more than a passing fair story teller - so
here goes:
For an area I've chosen what
was once a place called Radical. Why? Why not
Akers Corners/Lakeview/Branson West, or maybe Blue
Eye, Notch or Reeds Spring? Because Radical set
directly on the Wilderness Road, which was the
distillation of the most popular game and Indian
trails of the Mid-Ozarks Region. Everything and
everybody who has come to our Middle Ozarks has
come and gone up and down the Wilderness Road, or
its tributary sister roads. Radical also set
almost upon the banks of the White River, very near
all of the historical river crossings; the low
water ford, the Maybry Ferry, the Kimberling Ferry,
the first 1922 Kimberling Bridge, the Corps Ferry,
the second and award winning 1958 Kimberling
Bridge. All of these important spots were within a
few hundred yards of old Radical, as was the
foundation of Kimberling City, the coming of the
fabulous John Q. Hammons, his first Holiday Inn,
and on and on and on.
The stories I am about to
share with you could, for the most part, have been
sited at Blue Eye, at Branson West, on the river at
Branson, maybe even up at Highlandville. Because
all the people involved, and all the incidents
involved had their counterparts and similarities in
most locations in the Mid Ozarks. Many of the
incidents could have been on any of our fresh water
streams, or on the James instead of the White. But
I had to locate somewhere, and I thought Radical,
or the place that became Radical, would suit all my
dear readers just fine. And I certainly hope
that's true, because as I said a bit earlier, here
we go:
The squarely and powerfully
built man stood as silent and motionless as the
great old oak behind which he was concealed. He
had stood in this exact same spot countless times.
The oak was rooted at the very edge of a high bluff
overlooking the river below. The tree and the
surrounding weeds and brush gave the man secure
concealment while he slowly and carefully observed
every bit of the extensive flat river land below
him.
Other than the rare short
faced bear, dire wolves, mountain lions and the
occasional belligerent outsiders passing through,
the man had no serious enemies. But it was
instinctive for him to be very cautious and as
certain of his safety as possible. In his world,
one careless move, one mistake could cause instant
death at the hand of an enemy, man or animal.
Nearly thirty snowy seasons had come and gone since
his birth in the ancient tribal cave, in the cliff
face, just below where he now stood watching. That
he had now lived to early old age and had neither
healed major wounds, nor poorly mended broken bones
was due to his patient watching and eternal
caution. The members of his clan sometimes grew
impatient and restless waiting amid other deep
concealment up on the plateau behind him. But that
clan and their descendants had survived, and would
survive, multiplying pleasantly and well. They all
sensed the success of the group was due in large
part to the leader's endless care and
caution.
The man took note of a number
of small and medium sized animals within the range
of his scan. Some moved steadily, browsing and
drinking from the silver flashing, running water of
the river. The smaller animals skittered from
cover to cover, ever watchful for predators,
particularly the circling monstrous hawks that were
almost always nearby waiting for a flaw in the
caution of a tasty young Taper or Peccary. Far up
the river a small heard of Bison fed and watered,
the heard bull constantly swiveling his horned
head, nose high, nostrils flaring, as he sought
scent, sight or sound of danger.
Perhaps one smaller Bison
might wander close enough to be hunted down to feed
his clan, the man visualized in abstract terms.
Vog had no formal language, and therefore, thought
strictly in pictures - views of the present, memory
scenes of the recent past. He was not
sophisticated enough to visualize much more of the
future than this one day and the coming night. But
that was enough for the needs of this primitive,
rugged man. Feeding his tribe, watching for
danger, keeping them sheltered when necessary,
leading the defense when a dire wolf, mountain lion
or rogue human predators approached occupied his
entire waking life.
Suddenly, a mental picture
popped into his scroll of visualization. It was of
other activities with his females, and it brought a
grunt of cheerful satisfaction from his broad, dark
brown face. At last he was satisfied with the
scene below and he slipped from behind the oak and
quickly moved through the trees and brush to where
his clan waited in hiding. Once there he looked
them over carefully, noting each member's condition
and appearance, all but the very oldest in good
health. Vog was only practicing instinctive herd
appraisal, born of thousands of years of a leader's
calculating for survival. Thirty females,
seventeen other mature males and twenty young.
Though Vog could not count and had no concept of
numbers, he understood the size and content of
groups such as his. His clan was one of the
largest and most successful that lived between the
great river beneath the high summer sun, where they
spent the warmer times, and here on this river,
beneath the lower cold weather sun, where they
spent the snowy times.
With a commanding gesture and
a series of grunts and growls, which everyone
understood exactly, Vog made them to rise up and
form into the moving order he had worked out over
the years. They were going to go down the well
worn game trail to the river plain where they would
camp and hunt until colder weather came and they
would have to live in the tribal cave. Then, when
the warmth returned, they could once again move to
the other great river beneath the high sun. As
they prepared to move, Vog pictured the camp by the
river and his mate Ooma's last belly filling
feeding before the sun went behind the hills. The
mental picture of her and the food made him nod
with contentment.
Well, dear reader friends,
we've started our pre-history study and story. I
hope you bear with me and enjoy the trip from then
until now. While the names may be somewhat
imaginary, Vog and Ooma and their offspring were
very real people, and as legitimate early Ozark
pioneers as anyone, which you'll see in future
articles. See you in two weeks for a bit more of
the pre-history of our Ozarks, which is also the
"History of Here."
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Stone
Creek Crossing
