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The
Rape of The Hills….
by Ann Crabtree
Mornings
come slowly in the Ozarks, as the cock is crowing
the night away, and the sun is slowly, ever so
gradually rising as if it were a stalking cat, so
slowly that you have to blink to be sure that it
ever really moved at all, rising over these old
Ozark Mountains to shine its golden finger - rays
of light upon the dew kissed fields that lay below.
In the distance you can hear a whippoorwill calling
to its mate to greet the morning together, in a
nearby tree. To watch in a field, a momma deer
leading her young to water frolicking and playing
along the way, but yet constantly sweeping with
watchful eye for any danger that might lie close at
hand. Then suddenly a screeching owl might sweep
through the crisp morning air, grabbing a mouse to
feast upon and lighting in a neighboring wood.
Trees, mountains and knobs become individuals, as
you watch never really knowing just when the deep
night shades of black and gray, became the bright
green reality shades of the new day. Then sometimes
there is a misty fog in the hollow and the dawn
ever so slowly slips underneath it and eases the
fog to the hilltops where it hovers, fading gently
and finally loosing it's grasp fading away through
the tree tops giving way to the birds singing, all
of mother natures creatures awakening and another
new day in the Ozarks.
Metaphorically
speaking it is now about or near mid morning here
in the Ozarks, and we have now read much of the
signs and there are lots more of them here yet to
be read, they seek much understanding and
awareness. I ask myself what will this day bring?
Just more pollution or even over development? Or
perhaps, hopefully just another bright new
promising day.
Now,
I watch out my window as these things I see, my
morning chores completed and as the mid morning
coffee is brewing, my mind drifts ever so gently to
a time long gone by, a time when I would travel
with my Dad (as he sold his wares) through these
Ozarks to call upon folks like Chick Allen, at his
Wash Gibbs Museum over in nearby Branson just past
The Shepherd of the Hills on 76 highway. Ah yes! I
can see clearly, Chick and my Dad standing there as
if it were only yesterday, Chick tall and lanky
built, in his checked flannel shirt and bibed
overalls and my Dad in blue jeans, western shirt
and boots each with a leg hiked upon the tailgate
of the ol' pickup truck, both men with a big chaw
of tobacco in his mouth, haggling over a fair price
for Dad's wares, when the product Dad had for sale
wasn't something Chick had ordered but items Dad
had purchased with Chick in mind as a customer. One
man would spit, then the other, finally coming to a
gentleman's agreement and unloading the entire load
inside his rambley establishment, where the board
floors were patched with board over board often
uneven, but sturdy just the same where Chick's
favorite rocking chair sat next to a wood counter
with a new "manoleum "(linoleum) top that was just
added on this days visit. And outside you could see
the "scene of the last lynching in Stone county" as
hand-lettered sign proclaimed beneath a headless
stuffed dummy hanging from a noose in a tree in the
driveway of Chick's establishment. From past
experience you knew inside Chick always had a cold
"sodie"(soda pop) awaiting, on a hot summer day or
his wife Grace would invite you to join them for a
bowl of fresh cooked ham, beans and corn bread on a
cold fall afternoon, up at the house where you were
treated just like one of the family.
[article
continued below photo]
"Chick" Allen,
Owner of the Wash Gibbs Museum and gift
shop.
One time member of the Baldknobbers Band,
early Silver Dollar City performer, and
appeared in an episode of the
Beverly Hillbillies filmed at SDC in
1969.
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Right
across 76 from Wash Gibbs' Museum was a charming
white house, hardly visible for the shrubs and
cedars that shielded its occupants from the road
and Chick's business. It was the home of Mary
Hershend. The Lady with a dream of how to transform
her Silver Dollar City into an Ozarks version of
Colonial Williamsburg, a place that held true to
Ozarks crafts and culture.
Going
west on 76 from there, traveling along the then
narrow highway through a heavily wooded country
side, up a hill and around a long winding curve,
there sat nestled on the right hand side of the
road The Shepherd of the Hills book store, a
quaint, but very unique book store and gift shop
owned and operated by Dr. O. Myking Mehus and his
wife Jewell.
Then
76 went west through Notch and joined the
Wilderness Trail/Highway 13 where there was a
little rise in the road and Akers' crossroads store
and gas station stood, nothing more. No there were
no signal lights, no signs, no Wal-mart super
centers, and shopping malls. No there was nothing,
nothing more.
Well,
now all these great folks are gone now, like many
of these places that I have spoke about, Chicks
Wash Gibbs museum torn down bulldozed away, the
hang'n tree still stands, although it is just a
echo from the past, a memory that lies only in the
minds and hearts of a few. A Corporate learning
center now occupies the home of Mary Hershend, The
Mehu's Shepherd of the Hills book store is gone,
bulldozed away (see
August 2001 issue of The
Message Tree for story) the "NEW" Highway cut the
old road into, and that part of the "old" 76
highway abandoned. Fragments only remain, in
testimony to a time that was true to only the
natives of these old Ozark Hills. Akers' crossroads
store and gas station gone, bulldozed, replaced
with a "NEW" intersection, stop lights, signs,
billboards, progress?
There
are "big box" stores, Wal-Mart Super Centers,
Sonic, McDonalds, K.F.C. Motels, Motels, and even
more Motels not to mention condominiums and the
shows that have nothing at all to do with the
heritage of the Ozarks. The architecture of these
new buildings never ceases to amaze me! What in the
world do the people seem to think, that some of
these new structures have to do with Branson, and
the Ozarks heritage? These buildings could be
anywhere, anywhere at all. Why not commission the
architects to create designs that reflect Ozarks
heritage and culture, not designs that resemble a
Salvadore Dali impressionistic painting?
"It
is only progress." that's what they say. To this
progress I see Mom and Pop stores falling all over
the Ozarks. I've watched it now for several years,
one and then another. People who once came just to
visit on vacation, returning to find a better place
to live, a better way of life, not only for
themselves but also for their families a place,
where there were trees, wide open spaces, fresh
air, clear, cold, and clean flowing water, leaving
behind them the big cities, smog, pollution, noise
and the big city neon lights, finally arriving here
and wanting to shut the door behind them. Yep! I've
watched them come in here by the droves. Then, I've
watched the developers rip out the hearts of the
natives, as they tear down these hills destroying
the natural surroundings, bulldozing and paving
over this country. Putting one nail after another
in the coffin of the heritage of the Ozarks. The
very same wonderful attributes and natural
amenities of the region that some came here
searching for, destroyed, forever denied to
newcomers and natives alike, all in the name of
progress.
Well,
now I guess I have to admit that the region is a
tourist attraction and tourist attractions are
obviously operating from a self-serving standpoint.
Real estate agents make their living by selling the
Ozarks, bulldozer operators by ravaging it, and
bankers by loaning the monies to do both. Perhaps,
one should beware of the 3 B's . Brokers,
Bulldozers and Bankers and choose each carefully.
One thing I certainly want to point out to you is
that I am not against progress, correctly done
progress is a good thing. But what I am saying is
if we need a retail store, restaurant, super-center
or what ever it may, do we necessarily need to tear
down something culturally, historically or
otherwise significant? Why rape the forests,
pollute, and generally corrupt what was here. But
why not choose the proper location for construction
and architectural designs that are relative to the
area. For instance wouldn't it be better to
incorporate the trees into the design rather than
to cut them down. Wouldn't it be better to use an
existing building rather than build a new one, just
for the sake of building? I don't believe we have
to destroy our natural surroundings to make a
living? If the present trend continues, if we
persist in sacrificing trees and brooks just to
gratify the 3 Bs tell me just how the region will
differ from Anywhere, USA? There are Pizza Huts,
Sonics, K.F.C.s, and McDonalds
everywhere.
Yes,
I believe that in the final analysis, the clean
air, wide-open spaces, trees and streams (the
nature) are tourist attractions already. They will
become more so as they become rarer. If you would
ask me, I would tell you that I would really have
liked to go on enjoying a glimpse of the past, to
forever cradle that glimpse on the back roads in my
memory, forever gentle on my mind. I must continue
to cling to the hope that common sense will prevail
and that we can reach a compromise with progress,
before it decimates what the tourists come to see
and what the retirees came to enjoy during their
remaining years.
Well,
hopefully you can appreciate just why I feel so
protective of these old ancient Ozark Hills since I
am a second-generation crafter and my maternal
Grandmother is still alive and has been living on
the same Ozarks farm for 70 years! Just how many
folks these days can say that? This too I believe
is why I feel a need to raise my voice in the
defense of our beloved hills. This calling to no
longer remain silent urges me to remind you of the
last chapter of The Shepherd of the Hills, Harold
Bell Wright's famous novel about the region and its
people. I believe that this novelist's grasp of
some basic truths still ring true.
"These hills belong to
me only as they belong to all who have the grace
to love them," Dad Howitt tells the young
visiting artist. "They will give you great
treasure, that you may give again to others, who
have not your good strength to escape from the
things that men make and do in the restless
world over there… Your brothers need truths
that you will read here, unless the world has
greatly changed."
A
century has nearly elapsed since Wright's fictional
character Howitt, gave that charge and even though
I too am an artist, that mandate resonates in my
heart. Perhaps that is why I am here and just why I
must write of the treasures and of the truths in
these hills.
Just
like all those years ago Wright had Howitt
prophesize the changes that were to lie
ahead.
Then rising to his feet
and pointing to Roark valley, he said, "before
many years a railroad will find its way yonder.
Then many will come, and the beautiful hills
that have been my strength and peace will become
the haunt of careless idlers and a place of
revelry. When the outside world comes, men will
turn the pages, and you may lose this
place"
Well, my friends the railroads did come and the
outside world has indeed come along with it. I see
the pages turning much more rapidly these days.
However, I think I take great comfort, in that for
all that has changed, I can still find a quite
place for heart felt introspection, and I can still
watch for hours upon hours the clouds that caress
these hills of great strength and peace, even as
often I bend down to pick up waste that careless
idlers have discarded. For I believe that the truth
is, many who have come here have the need to share
in the need and conviction, to help protect what is
currently left, helping to insure that we do not
lose this great place. Some truly do understand how
precious and ever increasingly rare our hills and
culture are, and just how vitally necessary this
special place is. My excitement is not from the
flash of neon illuminating the night sky, but
rather it is the Sun rising on a typical Ozarks
morning, the brilliance of a cold, yet majestic
winter sunset, the blue and purple hills
silhouetted below. The lonesome cry of the
whippoorwill, or a deer playing and nurturing her
offspring, a babbling brook, birds singing, the
peeping sounds of the frogs in the spring time as
the day turns to night, and most of all, a familiar
sense of belonging, of peace in my heart, just
knowing that these Ozark Mountains are my
home.
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Stone
Creek Crossing
