THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW DUMP ROAD
by James F. “Jim” Barrett

On Joe Bald Road, by the shores of Table Rock Lake, in the Ozark Mountains of Missouri, there was a dump. Just an ordinary dump, not a big public landfill type dump, but an everyday, this-is-the-place-where-we-get-rid-of-our-junk, dump. Some thirty years ago, in less frenetic, more personal days, folks all respected dumps. They didn’t throw kitchen garbage, contaminated oils, radioactive waste, germ infected hospital materials, and out-of-favor-Mafia-characters into their dumps. Dumps were for things like the bicycle you meant to fix for the last ten years. It was for worn out things, detested gifts, fruitcakes kept from Christmas three years ago, and all such obsolete and no longer loved paraphernalia. Dumps, in those innocent days, also received potentially recyclable trash such as old or unwanted furniture. more…

By James F. (Jim) Barrett  

Dad always wanted a boat. One of my earliest childhood memories is of me standing in an old wood frame boat house on the banks of the Republican River in Concordia, Kansas. I was there with Red, a prisoner trustee. Dad was Sheriff of Cloud County at the time. Dad had acquired his first boat and we were going to go fishing. I went to the hole in the wall that served as a window and leaned out to get a better view of Dad, his boat and the river below. The next thing I knew I was standing in a dense cloud of viciously angry yellow-jackets – being stung literally to death. more…

By James F. (Jim) Barrett

MAIDEN VOYAGE
Dad and Brother arrived at Table Rock Lake with little problem other than one close call when someone at the service station where they had gassed-up happened to ask Brother what the hell that big green planter was doing on his trailer. Later, Dad convinced him to ignore as well the family of little kids at a restaurant. Some of their remarks were actually quite amusing – if one didn’t have a substantial investment of time and money in the green sabot. more…

By James F. (Jim ) Barrett
Folly Me
©2001

The green-sabot, Dutch-shoe, planter-boat roared across Table Rock Lake, its giant (and gaunt) engine blasting through its abbreviated muffling system, oily water and blue exhaust streaming in its practically non-existent wake. The bottom of the boat’s plywood hull was so flat that it skimmed over the water like a skipped stone. It also had, as Dad and Brother soon discovered, very odd steering capabilities and caprices. more…