Well, as my wife would say, “As usual, you’re wrong again, Jim.” I thought we’d get back to the conclusion of our dissertation on the Shepherd of the Hills Farm and Theater in this article, after “doing” the old Ozark Playground Association map last time. But I failed to get things done so we could do so. By the way, no one has come forward with definitive information regarding that organization. I’d love to know how, when and by whom it became organized. I meant to call the original owners of SoH and interview them for the conclusion of the tale. But the holidays and all that stuff has interfered and I haven’t gotten it done. So, maybe in our next chat we’ll get around to it.

Did you enjoy that map? There were tons of information on it we didn’t discuss. Such as their definition of what to look for in any particular place, such as “apples” or “tomato growing” and so on. Also, they chose lots of spots along the roads where you should stop, get out of the car and take a look at the scenery. Today, you’d get arrested for loitering by one of our “ticket cash” cops, or your car would get plowed or blown off the shoulder by a passing eighteen wheeler. Sigh!

Speaking of growing things, did you know that (once upon a time) the central Ozarks was known nation-wide as a major apple producing place? At one time there were lots and lots of orchards here. And of course, we were also once the tomato growing capital of the nation – a status that lasted up until the Second World War. Then much flatter states took over, such as California and Florida and Texas. But, in the 20′s and 30′s, this was the place shipping canned and fresh tomatoes to the nation. You’ll have to come to our dinner theater sometime when we’re redoing our version of “The Grapes of Wrath.” We call the show, “The Tomatoes of Wrath.”

Well, dear reader friends, much of the same Great Depression situations applied in the Ozarks as applied in the grape growing region of California. Little or no income, tons of people without work, labor intensive crops and people with the means to make the best of the situation. Entire families came here from all over the Ozarks, lived in or beneath their wagons for the entire summer, worked from first light to last seven days a week, to plant, harvest, pick and can tomatoes. They did that in order to save enough money to exist through the coming winter once again. If they made it they could look forward to doing the same thing over and over again each summer. And you think you’ve got it tough, ha! How about having a clutch of kids, living under a wagon all summer, with no electricity for their Nintendo game or DVD player, wow! Now that would be rugged. vThen, over between Melva and Mincy, you’ll note “tobacco.” Yep, tobacco was once a valuable cash crop here in the Ozarks. One had to have a special government license to grow it. I know of only one family who has preserved their old original license to grow tobacco, the Hollars, over in Lampe. I believe I recall that they were growing tobacco when Vicki and I first met, nearly twenty-five years ago.

Also, on that interesting map, you’ll note a lot of “camps.” In those days, seventy or eighty years ago, “camps” were where you stayed if you came to spend some time in the Ozarks. There were no motels, practically no hotels and very few bed and breakfast situations. Motels hadn’t been thought up yet, and the only hotels were in established towns. There were one or two in Branson, one in Hollister and one simple wooden two story one in Reeds Spring, by the railroad. It catered mostly to “drummers,” traveling salesmen who intended to ply their trade up and down The Wilderness Road, traveling on the ever-passing wagon trains going from northwest Arkansas to and from the freight yards in Springfield.

Many of these camps have most interesting histories. Look at the map (you DID keep your copy of the map, didn’t you?) and you’ll see Camp Perfecto, Isaac Walton, Thomas, Creller, Taylor, Lea, and Camp Ideal, among many others. These were all “motor” camps where one could park the car or truck, pitch a tent and spend the vacation enjoying the flies, mosquitoes, dust and lack of sanitary facilities. Things in the Ozarks of those days were so undeveloped and primitive that the presence of a general store, outside of a larger town, was specifically noted on the map. You’ll see one shown above Rockaway Beach on 76.

Oh, incidentally, the fishing “camps” down along the White River in Hollister were mostly built up on top of ten foot high poles! Yep, believe it or don’t! As most of you know, the White flooded frequently and without warning. Any cabin or tent sitting on the ground often became a temporary “ark” drifting away down Lake Taneycomo, with people and pets staring from the windows in smitten awe. People came to regard the tiny pole top cabins as good fun, sort of “tree-house” living, like little kids. Somewhere I’ve got pictures of people in Hollister going up and down to their tree house cabins. In those days Kirbyville must have been a real jumping town. Look at the map (the one I hope you clipped out of the paper and kept) and you’ll see “hotels, resort, fishing, tennis, golf, dancing, mineral waters and a bird haven” noted for the town. Pretty classy in those days. Mineral waters were very big at the turn of the century, very big! It’s what founded Eureka Springs and Hot Springs in Arkansas, and Ponce De Leon and other such towns in Missouri. People ardently believed in the healing power of mineral waters and came to the Ozarks in droves to bathe, drink and enjoy the many mineral rich springs flowing from the mountains.

Camp St. Louis has a most interesting history. A group of businessmen from that town actually bought the huge log building which the state of Main put up at the 1903 World’s Fair in St. Louis. They had it dismantled and shipped to Lake Taneycomo where it was reassembled and elegantly furnished to suit the tastes and needs of rich business folk. It was the center of a fenced, stocked and well maintained hunting preserve. And, dear reader friends, it was no small log cabin either! If you’d like to see what it looked like, drive over to the College of the Ozarks and look at the new building they are putting up just to the north of the main entry. Talk about your log cabins, wow! It’s well worth the drive just to see this edifice, man, is it big and beautiful!

I could go on and on telling you about the details of this old map and what they meant to the traveling public. Just remember – you, the traveling public – had no air conditioning, no radio, no TV, no maid service, no McDonalds (in case you were bored with cooking over an open fire), no Wal-Mart (in case you forgot to bring something). In fact, there was no electricity at most camps, a toilet that was a hole in a board, very few service stations, practically no helpful policemen, and on and on and on. But, still they came, the traveling folk, by the thousands, to see the Ozarks, take the waters, fish the beautiful clear rivers and lie on their cots beneath the amazingly brilliant stars each night.

I wonder what those travelers would think of our Ozarks today? Eight or more million visitors each year, lines of traffic at every intersection, a service station and a quick-stop on nearly every corner, anything you can imagine available within a mile, more theater seats than Broadway, rivers all turned to huge lakes, camps with every sort of amenity including inside toilets that aren’t boards, and on and on and on.

Well, dear reader friends, perhaps I’ll get a moment to interview the original owners of Shepherd of the Hills before our next chat. I’ll sure make an effort to do so. I’d like to tell you how the old Farm became the longest running outdoor theater in the nation and all about the people who made it all happen. It’s a great, good fun story. I’ll see what I can do. Incidentally, speaking of theaters, our Wilderness Road Historical Dinner Theater will re-open at RT’s Family Restaurant, January the 8th, at a new time, 7PM. We felt that eight was too late in the winter for the show. We’ll be opening with a musical evening. Hope to see you then – or on a following Thursday night throughout the winter. Joyous holidays and much love and appreciation to you readers, one and all.

Before we conclude our chat concerning The Shepherd of the Hills Farm and Theater I’d like to interview the remaining members of the theater’s founding folks, the Mark Trimble family. I also intend to interview some of the people who have made the Shepherd of the Hills play so famous and popular for many years. Bear with me then, friends, until I can get that wonderful, personal information for you to complete the Farm and Theater story. In the meantime, we’ll look at a closely allied situation. I know how you friends love good old maps. So, let’s look at one that was very important and popular about the time that little Lizzy McDaniel was selling her valuable interests up in Springfield and buying the Ross property on Inspiration Point. As you’ll recall, she made that purchase in 1926, and then moved into the cabin where she lived for ten years.

This one is courtesy of the Powers Museum, Carthage, Missouri. At one time, friends, there was a very powerful tourist oriented organization that spread from the Joplin area through our area, down towards Little Rock and up towards the Lake of the Ozarks. It was called The Ozark Playgrounds Association. Someday I’ll find a history book, or set of documents, or something which will tell me the story of the OPA. I’d like to know who founded it, the premise and so on. I only know I keep stumbling over its ghostly remains often as I research the Mid-Ozarks Region. I even found a place where they had a bulletin out that gave travel instructions involving my beloved Wilderness Road. But that’s for another time. Now let’s take a look at this map of theirs and see what it can tell us and what fun we can have reviewing it.

Click Here To See A Copy Of OPA Map.

This somewhat condensed OPA map reaches only from Galena south nearly to the Arkansas line. But it contains a lot of very interesting information. As always, on maps such as this, the controlling points are the highways and the rivers. From these, people can orient themselves in relation to what they know of THEIR position in time and place. So, let’s look at the rivers and the roads. The White River, running from left to right about the middle of the map, is easily spotted. The James River, the next largest river on the map, is a little harder to trace from Galena down to where it joins the White. But, taking a bit of time and carefully following the path, we can see where it runs and what it passes by. Each and every one of these points is historically important, folks.

Starting at Galena, let’s follow the James south. Gentry Cave, Arnold Lodge, then around the unmarked McCord’s Bend, then south to Taylor Camp, Carr Ford, Jenkins Ford and finally to a note “1 day Float from Galena.” So, what does all of that mean? I’m not familiar with Gentry Cave and I wonder if it still exists? Nor do I know the history of Arnold Lodge. But the river fords are very much still there, wide rock ledges where the James runs shallow and fast when the lake is low and the river heavy with recent rains. And the last note, about the Float? As we go on down the James, and then the White, looking at notes and comments we will soon see that the OPA marked out a typical fishing or recreational float trip from Galena to the Branson/Hollister area. Float fishing was very popular in those days, as were float trips strictly for sight seeing, relaxing and scenery appreciation.

Then we go by Bear Den, Virgin Bluff, Miller Springs, Long Bend Bluff, Cole’s Ford, Buttermilk Springs and end up at Jackson Hollow where a note tells us this is the end of a 2 day float from Galena and a 1 day float from Bear’s Dean. The springs and fords here are now all covered by Table Rock Lake, but the bluffs and the locations are very much there and well known today. Much of what the floaters and fisher folk of 1925 would have seen and enjoyed is now far beneath the waters of our shining Table Rock Lake. But – BUT! I have discovered a gentleman who often floated the James with his father and recalls the trips in great detail. I also know a personal friend who was a hostler on such trips, not a guide but a grunt, who worked to see that the trips went well, folks were fed, bedded down in camp and that the boats were clean and properly operated.

Perhaps, one evening, at our Wilderness Road Historical Dinner Theater at RT’s Family Restaurant, we’ll get these two gentlemen together to tell us stories of the float trips and the fishing trips on the James and White Rivers fifty or more years ago. Wouldn’t that be fun and interesting? Well, we’ll see if I can make it happen for you dear reader friends.

The next thing along the trip of great interest is where the James flows into the White. But, just a bit before it does so, we can see an interesting mark and comment. You’ll have to look carefully, for the roads and the river are about the same marking size and equally crooked and black. Look to your right and you’ll see a heavy road-marking going from north to south. It’s labeled 43, for 43 Highway. This was the original, state built and maintained major road that used to run from Galena to 85 Highway down in Arkansas. MoDot was very proud of that highway, for it took a lot of money, time, persistence and dynamite to build it. Today it’s been replaced by 13 Highway, which has taken some new and better-traveled bits in its present route.

From old 43, just south of the note concerning Fairy Cave (now Talking Rocks), you’ll see a road heading southwest that hits our James River just before it merges with the White. That road is the James River Road of today. And I think you’ll see why it was called the James River Road, for you can see it crossing the James. And if you’ll look carefully you’ll see another note that shows an arrow pointing to the crossing labeled “bridge.” Yes, folks, at one time there was a bridge where the James River Road crossed the James River, and the road then crossed the old Joe Philibert and Perninah Yocum Philibert farm and ranch at this point. Then the road went up the steep hills to join the main road running from Bear Den south to Baxter. Pretty interesting stuff, huh?

If we stay with our floaters and drift on down the White River we soon come to the next points of interest, Camp Thomas and Kimberling Park, on the north and south side of the White, respectively. These were at the site of the old Kimberling Ferry crossing and the ford where the old Wilderness Road used to cross the White before the ferries were built. Also, at that point we’ll find the note, “End of 2 day float from Bear’s Den. End of 3 Day Float from Galena.” And here, just below where we’ll camp at one of the two camps, we can see the new iron Kimberling Bridge, an Ozark marvel of its day. Just up the slough (Fisher Creek), we see the little town of Radical. This was the site of the local general store and post office. You’ll have to dig out some of my earlier articles to learn how it got its name and who ran all the facilities there. But, much later in time, on the bluffs above Radical, John Q. Hammons saw fit to build another town, which we call Kimberling City.

Just on down the White we come to White Rock Bluff, still very much there and visible today. Then Log Way Bluff and Tibbets Ferry, neither of which appear in my research over the years. I assume the bluff is there, but the ferry, of course, is beneath Table Rock Lake. Up on the peninsula we see Marmaros. This is where the town moved to after the original Marmaros of Marble Cave (Marvel Cave) ran out of bat guano and gave up the ghost there.

A bit further down the White on our trip, look closely and you’ll see the note, “The Last Night’s Camp.” This is the end of the fourth day from Galena and the third from Bear’s Den. The next day we float down the White and put up at Branson or Hollister, to be picked up in Model T trucks, loaded and quickly driven back up 3 and 43 Highways to our waiting vehicles parked at Galena. So you see, it’s taken us five leisurely, lovely days to float from Galena to Branson. Just as it had taken folks for many years previously and for many years to follow – until Table Rock Dam and Lake ended it all.

Well, we’ve run out of time and space once more, reader friends. I hope and trust that you will take a lot of time to study the enclosed 1925 Ozark Playgrounds Association map. You’ll find tons of fun and interesting notes, comments, instructions and so on – all over the place. See you folks next time here in The Message Tree. And I’ll see you in our Historical Dinner Theater when we reopen the evening of the 8th of January.

Anybody who grew up on a farm can tell you about the car’s they have owned. Anybody who grew up on a farm will also tell you that when they have driven their last mile in that car, where it eventually ended up. Behind the Barn.

The problem with behind the barn is that there is only so much room. The old abandoned cars frequently have to be moved to make room for the new abandoned cars. Eventually, the whole darn farm is cluttered with abandoned cars of every generation and in various degrees of haggard dilapidation.

One such car I remember quite distinctly was the Grey 1954 Oldsmobile. With the flying V on the hood and the eye-like headlights above the sparkling rounded chrome bumper ends, it was a luxurious automobile that appeared to have a face with it’s tongue sticking out when viewed at an angle from a short distance. It was one of the first subjects of my attempts at mimicry. It looked even more distinctive sitting on the hillside behind the barn after being abandoned.

I recall as a child, riding to church in this monstrosity. The red leather seats so soft and comfortable, the bright chrome trim gleaming in the Sunday morning sunlight. Most of what was observable from my back seat vantage would be the leafless branches of trees careening past the window. I could lift myself and smear my face on the window glass, but that wasn’t advisable under most circumstances as the vehicle was kept spotless and evidence of my slobbering face found on the window would most certainly result in my posterior discomfort.

I would sit in the parked vehicle for hours pretending I could drive, luxuriating in the smell of the vehicles’ interior, generally ignoring everything else about me. My tiny hands must have been the only thing visible from the exterior of the car, twisting the steering wheel with exaggerated and frantic motion, left and then right as I made the pretending sounds of a high powered engine with my tiny mouth. The radio knobs were always interesting to play with.

I doubt that any adult that ever entered the car ever found the radio on the same station or at the same volume they had left it and would be greeted with a loud screeching and hiss the instant the ignition was turned to the on position. My little gift to the elders for allowing me the pleasure of playing in the mechanical wonder.

The real excitement to be had was riding along the narrow country roads. The car could travel the roads so full of dips and curves at such velocity and pleasure, I actually believed I was in a jet aircraft gliding softly through the clouds. Each dip in the road would raise me in my seat, each curve would cause me to glide from one side to the other. It was more exhilarating than riding a roller coaster, though most likely less safe.

As with all things, the end must eventually come. The car’s usefulness was finally at an end and it was unceremoniously taken behind the barn. It sat there for several years until the room was needed for a newer junk car. My grandfather hauled the rusting Grey beast with his tractor to the hillside behind the house. The hillside remained its final resting ground for the years that followed.

It sat there for an eternity or so it seemed to my brother and I, until one day. One day we decided that this gentle old friend could again be the source of entertainment. We had contemplated for some time, what to do with this poor retched hunk of metal. Perhaps we could shoot it full of holes with our 22 caliber rifles. No, other members of the family had already accomplished that. No need to tread on that ground. Perhaps we could paint it. There was plenty of leftover white paint stored in the barn and surely, nobody would mind. No, somebody might mind. Paint cost money and there was not allot of that to go around in those days. After days of lazy contemplation, we came to a mutual decision.

We decided to roll it down the hillside. The idea of seeing the massive rusted behemoth tumbling and rolling out of control to the hollow below was too much to resist. It was most certainly round enough and heavy enough to muster the required inertia for this feat. All we had to do was get it started. It would roll and roll until it crushed the trees and brush far below us on the hillside. This was perfect!

We gathered the required tools. A couple of jacks, rocks-big rocks for chocking as we jacked it up. Timber retrieved from the barn, needed to pry and level the vehicle to its launching position. Shovels, we must have shovels to dig out beneath the frame where we intended to place the jacks.

So we dug and we dug. We cleared away the debris field below the car so that it would have a good clean path on its initial roll. We placed the jacks in the holes and proceeded to start lifting the giant from its rusted and dirty perch. When the length of the jacks ran out, we placed piles of rocks underneath the car to hold it in place.

Inch by inch, the grand plan was taking place. Inch by inch, the great Grey hulk rose to an ever increasing angle. Hour by hour we grew closer to the completion of our mission. We tied the roof off with rope around the window frames where the glass had long since vanished from existence, the distant end wrapped firmly around the oak trees above us on the hill. This would keep it under control and provide the needed safety for our work on the downhill side.

We didn’t want the ungainly thing falling on us while we worked on the downhill side, that was certain, and we took every precaution we could to prevent it. Rocks were used to chock the forward base of the car’s body. Timber was pried between the front and rear fenders and the ground anytime we ventured to the downhill side. Finally, we reached the point. The final point of no return.

The car was on its side and secured in that position for the grand display to follow. The display of physics that could only be imagined by the most bored of country folk. The rolling of the car.

We announced to our family and friends with great enthusiasm, the ultimate intended final disposition of the once great source of family transportation. The ceremonious tipping of the car was to occur after breakfast the next day. My brother and I would usher everyone interested to the spot that we had prepared on the hill beneath the shady oak trees amongst the prickly blackberry bush’s. My brother and I would then proceeded with the show by making the final nudge, after which all would be treated to the tumultuous rolling of the car down the hill into the depths of the hollow. Everybody was excited beyond our wildest expectations. Neither my brother nor I slept the entire preceding evening in anticipation of the grandest of events ever perpetrated on the old farm.

Early the next morning shortly after sunrise, we ate our breakfast and gathered in the kitchen. Neighbors came from miles down the road. Some on horseback, others in new shiny automobiles, some even on wagons pulled by mules. In all, we succeeded in gathering some 30-40 souls beneath the shady trees behind the house on the hillside.

My brother and I waited patiently while the gathering mass huddled together in nervous anticipation. Carefully, we untied the ropes securing the car to the tree. My brother walked gingerly to the side of the car and kicked the rock away from the base. The car teetered, ready to start it’s uncontrolled tumble with each flinch we made. The crowd ooh’d as the mass of steel shivered with the breeze. The softest touch of ones finger could make the precariously perched mass wiggle.

We counted down…10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1…GO! My brother and I pushed, the car started its slow fall, picking up speed as it began its uncontrolled tumble. Further and further it went, finally it landed on it’s roof and started the remainder of it’s turn. Rolling, rolling it was happening, right before our eyes. But wait. Something was not right. The car started its roll as planned, it hit on its roof and continued, but somewhere, somehow, it started slowing. It continued moving but the movement was slowing, it was not going over again. It almost made it to its opposite side during its roll, but not quite. It creaked for a moment, then fell back on it’s roof, wobbling for a few more brief crumpling moments until, oscillating back and forth it stubbornly settled on it’s roof. It never made it over. It never made it down the hill.

The crowd groaned in disappointment. My brother and I were devastated. We pushed and pushed on the car but it would not budge. We lodged lumber beneath it for leverage, it wouldn’t budge. The best we could manage was to wobble the unhappy wreck back and forth, without further effect. The crowd drifted away, some issuing regrets and kind thoughts, others complaining of the wasted time and still others simply silent in their dejection, none more dejected than my brother and I.

If one travels to the old country today, along what was once called Taylor Ridge Road, they may spot a hillside behind an old country farm house, they may very well observe the old rusted hulk sitting on it’s roof along that very hillside. The only difference one may expect to find would be the amount of rust and of course, the color. It’s now a white rusted abandoned car sitting on it’s roof, along the side of a hill above the hollow below the shady oak trees amongst the prickly blackberry bush’s.

(Please see editor’s notes and acknowledgments below.)

Introduction

Best anyone can figure out, about 3,000 of Al Smith’s one-man circular rim saws were made from 1947 until the early 1950s. The first saws were made in Ava by Mr. Smith and his business partner, William I. Barker. During this period, the saws were appropriately labeled the “Ava Saw.” Then, in 1950, the business was moved to Springfield by its new owner, Noble A. Barker, after which the saw was labeled the “Barker Saw.” Several of these saws are still around, mostly as antiques; but reportedly, the saws are still being used up in Alaska.

Mr. Smith’s saws were the forerunner of today’s one-man chain saws. McCullough introduced the first of the one-man chain saws in the 1950s, and only then did Smith’s saw become obsolete and go out of production. This article provides a chronology of the saw’s commercial life as well as a look into the man who had the brilliant idea of this saw, Albert Smith. The information used for this article was provided by:

· Paul Barker, co-author of this article, and whose father, William I. Barker, teamed with Mr. Smith to bring the first saw into production;
· Clovis Smith, son of Albert Smith, the inventor;
· Noble G. Barker, whose father purchased Smith’s share of the Ava Saw Company in 1950, and moved the company to Springfield as the Barker Saw Company; and
· Elmo Hartley, who provided the sales end of the business from start to finish.
All of these individuals provided considerable insight into the saw and its inventor.

Albert Smith, the Inventor

 

Albert P. Smith (b. 8 Aug 1893 – d. 11 Jan 1974) only had a fourth grade education-but he was a mechanical genius. Always the inventor in the little shop up the hill from his house in Vanzant, Albert Smith. had numerous ideas for invention during his life. In the 1940s, he knew the need for a product that didn’t exist at that time anywhere a portable one-man power saw that could fell trees. Granted, there were two-man chain saws (manufactured by the Mall Bros.) at the time, but they were heavy and difficult to handle not to mention dangerous. So, Smith spent quite a bit of time working on a saw that was light and mobile enough to be handled by one person.

Besides the saw, Smith was particularly gifted making lathe accessories that would let a person lathe out a piece of wood into a shape such as something easy like a baseball bat or very difficult odd-shaped objects like an ax handle. According to Al’s son, Clovis, three or four of Smith’s handle machines were made, and “. . .a guy in West Plains used them for years down there.”

Like many inventors of his time, Al worked on the U.S. Government’s challenge for someone to invent a ‘perpetual motion machine.’ According to his son, Clovis, his dad gave that project a lot of thought and effort. In addition, Paul Barker recalls his dad, W.I. Barker, telling him in the late 1940′s, “Now son, Al is working on perpetual motion, and you have to be ready to drive to Washington, D.C. to the Patent Office. They’ve got so many patent applications (for perpetual motion) that they’ve said you have to bring them a working model!”

The Rim Circle Saw

The original rim circle saw manufactured by Smith and Barker had a 30-inch saw blade. The blade was fashioned out of a regular blade used in sawmills around the county. Smith’s saw blade was held in a cast aluminum frame with steel bearings. The bearings rotated when powered by a flexible shaft between the bearings and a 4-cycle engine like one might find on a lawn mower. The rotating bearings caused the blade to turn at a high rate of speed. The engine was set on the ground so that the saw operator only had to support the weight of the frame and blade when felling a tree. This made the saw manageable, something that hadn’t been possible before Al’s invention.

According to Clovis, his dad had the basic idea of the saw in his mind for quite a period of time. Then, one day he was over at Short’s garage that was located across from the current high school. He was playing with a piston ring and had it resting on three of his fingers all spread out. Suddenly, he envisioned that piston ring as a saw blade and he noticed how his three fingers were supporting the ring. Out loud, he said “Now I know how I’m going to make my saw!”

What he envisioned was a saw blade, hollowed out like the piston ring and mounted to a frame at three strategically selected places by bearings. Then he set out to make a working prototype with the assistance of his son, Ivil Smith, an excellent mechanic by his own right.

Production in 1946 – Sales in 1947

Sometime in 1945, Al had his prototype saw finished and operating. But like lots of inventors, Al needed help with creating a business organization to manufacture his saw. Generally, inventors are creators, not producers. He came into Ava and was talking to Willis Mitchell about his need to partner with someone. According to Al’s son, Clovis, Mitchell said to his dad, “I know exactly the person you need-it’s ‘Willie’ Barker. He’s honest and fair, and he can help you get the saw manufactured.” Well, Al went to W.I. Barker, showed him the saw, and they made a deal to form a 50-50 partnership with Al providing the idea and W.I. providing the capital.

Al and W.I. proceeded to get engineering done for the various components of the saw, and then get subcontractors who would produce each component. WI. ‘s son, Paul Barker, indicated that all engineering work was completed by Lee Cruse of Springfield. The major components that had to have engineering specifications and then outsourced to suppliers were the saw blade, a cast aluminum frame for the blade, a flexible drive shaft, and an engine.

The custom saw blade needed for Al’s saw was fashioned out of a regular sawmill blade by Doc Sallee in an Ava machine shop. The cast aluminum frames were made in a Springfield Foundry. According to Elmo Hartley, the engines were regular 4-cycle engines built by Clinton, Clipper, or Kohler (yes, the same company that currently produces bathroom fixture). No one is quite sure where the flexible shafts were manufactured.

Al Smith set up the equipment that Doc Sallee needed to make the saw blades like Al required. First the center part of a 30″ sawmill blade was cut out to within three inches of the edge of the blade. After that, the blade was still way too thick for Al’s purposes, so Doc Sallee had to hone out the thickness of the blade’s metal until it fit Al’s specifications. According to Paul Barker, Sallee’ s machine shop was a noisy and dusty place as he carried out this process.

With the contract-built components in hand, Al and W.I. set up their first assembly plant right in W.I. ’5 basement about three blocks straight south of the courthouse. According to Paul Barker, his dad and Al were already producing saws when Paul came home from the Navy in 1946. Reportedly, saws began selling in 1947. That was when W.I. tapped lifelong Douglas Countian, Elmo Hartley, to sell the saws.

According to Elmo, “Yeah, they wanted me to sell saws, and I said well I can’t sell saws-never sold anything in my life!” Well, that didn’t deter W.I. and Al; Elmo started selling saws-first to individuals in Douglas County and surrounding counties-then to distributorships mostly in Missouri and Arkansas. Once the distributorships were set up, Larkin Barnes became the distributor for the Douglas County area. (As will be described later, Elmo stayed with the Ava SawCo. and its predecessors until his retirement in 1973-a period of 27 years. Just about everyone who lived in Ava up until Elmo’ s retirement probably remembers his driving around town in his car with the Barker Saw decal on it).

Elmo’s Sale to the Man from Hartville

According to Elmo, the saw weighed about 70 pounds-30 pounds for the saw end and 40 pounds for the end with the engine. Here’s Elmo’ s story as he related it to Paul Barker:

“You know what Paul, I was never so tickled at a guy. He lived up north of here-toward Hartville. He wrote down here (to Ava) and said ‘Bring a saw up here to demonstrate it to me and I probably would buy it.’ So, one day I took a saw up there-I drove up to his house-he come out-was a good sized guy. And I got out and set the saw up and he looked it all over. He said ‘Are you ready?’ I said ‘where’s the timber you want me to saw?’ He took the lead and I followed him with the saw-had to go up one draw and then up another draw. You know that saw was kind of hard to carry through briars or little bushes-the shaft curved around and it would jerk the life out of you. I carried it over there and I got to the first tree and set it down, and I got down working on the engine-tried to catch my breath. Then I cranked up the saw and cut down a tree he wanted cut. Then he sawed off one or two limbs. I said ‘How do you like it?’ He said “Well, I’d like to buy it-let’s go back to the house.”

He started off ahead of me again-I grabbed the saw and made it to the gate of the house. He went in the house and wrote me a check-he never did pick it (the saw) up except the saw end. Then later, I was up in Springfield demonstrating and a pretty good crowd was around-he came walking through the crowd-he took a hold of my arms and shoulders-he said ‘I want to know what the heck you’re made out of.’ He said ‘I’ll never buy another thing without lifting it first!’

He said ‘I like the saw fine-but you know the first time I went to carry it over there-I went a little ways and had to set it down-I wouldn’t have believed that you carried that saw all the ways over there if I hadn’t seen it myself!”‘

None of four people interviewed had complete sales records to indicate the number of saws that Elmo helped sell each year and in total. A little Springfield weekly called Bias ran an article on the saw company in 1952. In it, the article states that the first saw came off the Ava production line on July 16. 1947. During the remainder of that year, 33 saws were sold. In 1948, 122 were sold, followed by 137 saws in 1949.

Tragedy Hits the Young Ava Saw Company

After returning from the Navy, Paul Barker helped his father with the insurance agency while W.I. spent more time on the Ava Saw Company affairs. But, on Labor Day, 1948, W.I. died of a heart attack at the untimely age of 63. But, with W.I. gone, 24-year old Paul Barker joined in with Al, his son, Ivil, and Elmo to keep the company going.

In November, 1949, the assembly line left the Barker basement and moved to a small tin building that was located just across Prairie Creek from the old Ozark Hotel on Washington Ave. At about that same time, Noble A. Barker, W.I.’ s cousin, took an interest in the company and offered Al Smith $20,000 for his 50% share of the company.

In 1950, the Ava Saw Company Becomes the Barker Saw Company and Moves to Springfield

After Noble A. Barker offered to buy his share, Al Smith went to his son, Clovis, to ask his advice. Well, Clovis was in favor of Al selling his share. Clovis said, “You know Dad, you’ve spent all these years inventing things and you’ve never really got any good money out of any of them-here’s your chance.”

So Noble A. Barker moved the Saw Company to Springfield in March 1950. As Paul Barker recalled, “George Olds got fired by the (Springfield) News-Leader, so he started up a little weekly called Bias.” In a 1952 Bias article about Noble’s then thriving Barker Saw Company, Paul is quoted as saying “My first cousin, once removed, Noble Barker, was an old saw miller. Any way, he lived in Springfield, and he bought out Al Smith and moved the saw company to Springfield.” Noble G. Barker recalls that his dad bought out Al Smith in February, 1950. Noble promptly moved the company to Springfield, and set up his assembly line in a small building on Washington Ave., just north of Commercial Street, with Everett Estes, first cousin of Noble A., as foreman.

The Barker Saw itself remained much like the Ava Saw but was made lighter as new materials and smaller engines were used. Also, Noble A. Barker introduced a saw with a 20-inch blade as well as the original 30-inch model. The two models sold for $215 and $295 respectively. According to the 1952 Bias article, 460 saws were sold during the 1950-51 fiscal year, and sales of 1,000 saws were anticipated for the 195 1-52 fiscal year.

In 1953, the Barker Saw Company started mounting a much lighter engine directly on the saw and eliminating the need for the cumbersome flexible shaft. At some time during the 1950s, Barker came up with a one-man chain saw to compete with the new McCullough chain saw that was making Al Smith’s rim circle saw obsolete.

Then, in 1954, W.I. Barker’s heirs (his widow, Anna, and their children, Paul, Delta, and David) sold out their share of the company to Noble A. Barker. At the same time, Paul ceased to work with the company, and after three years he began to work, in earnest, on an insurance career that led to his co-founding of the present-day Springfield insurance firm of Barker-Phillips-Jackson.

Not long after Paul’s departure from the Barker Saw Company, Noble G. Barker also left the company and started engineering school at the University of Missouri at Rolla. He followed up his education with a career with Caterpillar in Illinois. After Paul and Noble G., left, Noble A. sold the saw company to the Jackie Weiser family.

Elmo Hartley-from Beginning to End

As the company went through its many transitions, one aspect remained stable from beginning to end-its sales representative-Elmo Hartley. According to Elmo, he once had as many as 300 dealers in Missouri and Arkansas. As well, Elmo recalls that the Barker Saw Company was eventually acquired by a firm called American Lincoln. That company, in turn was acquired by Homelite, a brand that makes lawn and garden power tools to this day.

After all the company’s Ava owners were gone, Elmo stayed on all the way to his retirement in 1973. Elmo enjoyed reminiscing with the authors about the old Ava Saw from his living room recliner earlier this year. One can easily envision Elmo going through his Ava Saw and Barker Saw demonstrations at county fairs and other gatherings. Blessed with an Ozarker’s easy gift of gab, Elmo, no doubt, helped the fledgling company get its product to customers.

Have an Ava Saw or a Barker Saw?

While collecting information for this article, the authors heard from people who have one or more of the saws. Most of the saws, like the two housed in the Douglas County Museum, are the Springfield-made Barker Saw. If you have a saw, look on the cast aluminum frame to see if it says “Ava Saw Co.” or “Barker Saw Co.” This will tell you where it was made, Ava or Springfield. And of course, the Ava Saws were made first.

Look carefully below the name on the frame for a serial number that was hand-stamped into each frame. When the saws were first produced in Ava, Smith and Barker stamped the first saw with a number “1″, and sequentially thereafter. Once Noble A. Barker bought the company and moved it to Springfield, he started the numbering over at “1″.

No one knows how many of each saw (Ava or Barker) was made; but the best estimates are that less than 1,000 Ava Saws and at least 2,000 Barker Saws were made.

Conclusion

This story of Al Smith’s saw provides a vivid example of Ozarks ingenuity and resourcefulness. Al Smith didn’t have a degree in engineering, and William I. Barker didn’t have a background in manufacturing; but they collaborated to perfect and manufacture the nation’s first one-man portable saw that could fell a large tree in a short time and with a fraction of the human effort required by their ancestors.
Editor’s Notes;

The Message Tree would like to thank the Douglas County Historical and Genealogical Society for extending us the permission to reprint this article that originally appeared in the Winter 2002 issue of the Society’s official publication, the Journal.

The Journal is published biannually, (Winter and Summer) with contents based on the folks and historical events which have made Douglas County as we know it today.

 

For more information about the Society see their website;
http://www.getgoin.net/info/orgs/docomuseum/ or Kenneth Brown’s web site at; http://courses.smsu.edu/kwb237f/douglas/ or conatct the society at;

Douglas County Historical and Genealogical Society,
P.O. Box 986,

Ava, MO 65608

Editor Ed in the office

 roads, you never know where the trail will lead or what interesting place or story you will find around the next bend. A few evenings ago, I turned off the computer and decided to check out what the cable TV had to offer. Clicking through the channels, I happened to come across one of those television magazines that featured a presentation on incredible amazing unexplained paranormal mysteries, if you watch cable or satellite TV you are no doubt familiar with this type of program. Anyway this particular presentation featured short snippets of the usual paranormal fare, ghosts, UFOs, and such but it also had a short feature on the amazing legend of Jim The Wonder Dog.

It seems that in the Mid Missouri city of Marshall, during the thirties there was a dog with incredible abilities. The television program I mentioned above told of some of the canine’s “talents,” but I decided to check out the Internet to see if there were any web sites that could confirm what was presented in the TV program. Sure enough Google turned up dozens of web sites that told of the amazing Jim The Wonder Dog and as usual there were links to other related sites some of which I will tell you about after we discuss old Jim.

On one web site (click here) I found what appears to be an article from the Rural Missouri magazine by Henry N. Ferguson titled “Jim-The Wonder Dog.” In this article Mr. Ferguson tells of how Jim was born in Louisiana, and sold as a puppy to Sam Van Arsdale who intended to have Jim trained as a hunting dog. In his article Mr. Ferguson relates;

“Jim required little training. He seemed to know instinctively where the quail were and how to make a perfect point. When Jim was three, Van Arsdale moved to Sedalia where he bought a hotel. One warm fall day when the two were out in the fields hunting, Van Arsdale said, “Let’s sit in the shade of that hickory tree and rest.” Jim trotted over to a hickory tree and sat down. Bemused, Van Arsdale told Jim to show him an oak tree. Jim did. In quick succession then, at his master’s suggestion, he found a walnut tree, a cedar, an ordinary stump and even a hazel bush. It was the first real inkling that Jim was something special.”
Other web sites tell stories of how Jim could be asked by Van Arsdale to, for example, find a car with a certain out of state license plate and Jim would not only point out the correct car but if he was asked to pick out a certain number he would pick out the correct. Plate. Ferguson goes on in his article to tell of his own first encounter with Jim;

My introduction to Jim came one warm summer afternoon in the little west-central Missouri town of Warsaw, when I was just a lad. Noticing a crowd gathering around some sort of commotion on Main Street, I drifted over. The attention was focused on Sam and Jim. They had just driven up in Sam’s car and an audience had immediately begun to collect. During the next hour we were treated to a remarkable and completely puzzling exhibition of the dog’s extraordinary cleverness. “What would I do,” Sam asked, “if I had the stomach ache?” Jim wagged his tail, apparently in sympathy, then trotted over to where Dr. Savage, the town physician, was standing. He nudged the doctor gently. The crowd gasped its astonishment, for this was Jim’s first visit to our town, and he had no way of knowing one person from another – no visible way, that is.
Another website (click here) gives these reported facts about the amazing Jim The Wonder Dog;

Jim was taken before a Greek class and given several requests in Greek which he successfully answered.
Jim picked the winner in the 1936 World Series
He correctly predicted that Roosevelt would be re-elected in 1936
He also correctly picked the winner in the Kentucky Derby for seven years.
And most amazingly, he could predict accurately the sex of an unborn infant.
On the website created by AAA Traveler Magazine in an article titled It’s doggone unbelievable~~ Memory of Missouri’s famous Jim is preserved in Marshall park, we find stories of how skeptics tried to test Jim’s abilities to prove or disprove the stories surrounding the dog that was quickly gaining fame during that Great Depression era;

Jim’s most systematic testing came at the University of Missouri-Columbia in 1933 before a large gathering of veterinary students and doctors and, we’re told, for the newsreel cameras of Paramont Studio. The late Dr. A.J. Durant, one of UMC’s most highly and widely respected professors, said that after telling Jim to honor requests, VanArsdale stood, cigar in mouth, hands in pockets, to show that he was not directing the dog. Jim correctly interpreted questions given in several languages, none of which VanArsdale knew.
So check it out for yourself, turn on your computer and pull up your favorite search engine, type in the search window the phrase, “Jim The Wonder Dog” and see what you get in the way of returns on your search. Perhaps you will find the web site (click here) that tells of how the folks at Marshall created a memorial park dedicated to Jim or perhaps you will find links to other websites, like we did, that sparked our curiosity when we found references to a Senator from Missouri that is credited with coining the phrase that implies that dogs are “Mans Best Friend(s)”

In a court case that ended up in State Circuit Court at Warrensburg Missouri George Graham Vest delivered the following closing argument to a jury hearing the case of a man who had sued a neighbor for shooting his Fox Hound;

Gentlemen of the jury, the best friend a man has in this world may turn against him and become his enemy. His son or daughter whom he has reared with loving care may prove ungrateful. Those who are nearest and dearest to us-those whom we trust with our happiness and our good name-may become traitors to their faith. The money that a man has he may lose. It flies away from him, perhaps when he needs it most. A man’s reputation may be sacrificed in a moment of ill-considered action. The people who are prone to fall on their knees to do us honor when success is with us may be the first to throw the stone of malice when failure settles its cloud upon our heads. The one absolute, unselfish friend that man can have in this selfish world-the one that never deserts him, the one that never proves ungrateful or treacherous-is his dog.
Gentlemen of the jury, a man’s dog stands by him in prosperity and in poverty, in health and in sickness. He will sleep on the cold ground, where the wintry winds blow and the snow drives fiercely, if only he can be near his master’s side. He will kiss the hand that had no food to offer, he will lick the wounds and sores that come in encounter with the roughness of the world. He guards the sleep of his pauper master as if he were a prince. When all other friends desert, he remains. When riches take wings and reputation falls to pieces he is as constant in his love as the sun in its journey through the heavens. If fortune drives the master forth an outcast in the world, friendless and homeless, the faithful dog asks no higher privilege than that of accompanying him to guard against danger, to fight against his enemies. And when the last scene of all comes, and death takes the master in its embrace, and his body is laid away in the cold ground, no matter if all other friends pursue their way, there by his graveside will the noble dog be found, his head between his paws, his eyes sad but open in alert watchfulness, faithful and true even to death.

Due to Vest’s oratory, which reportedly ignored the evidence at hand and mentioned almost every known reference to the bond between mankind and dogs, the jury returned a verdict for the plaintiff for $500, far more than the sum of $150.00 sued for. The excess was remitted.

VEST, was born in Frankfort, Kentucky, 6 December 1830. He began his law practice in central Missouri, and was elected to the Missouri House of Representatives 1860. He was elected to the United States senate, taking his seat on 18 March 1879, and became prominent by his powers as a debater and orator.

Now when you do your search on the Internet for “Mans Best Friend” not only will you find references to the Gentleman from Missouri that coined the phrase, but you will find hundreds of websites that are dedicated to the memory of dogs that have been the companions of the authors of these websites. Many of us have sought to immortalize the canines that have brought us so much love and friendship, just as Sam Van Arsdale sought to have Jim the Wonder Dog who was as much a part of the Arsdale family as a human, interred in the local cemetery. The authorities found that the cemetery in Marshall was for humans only, no dogs allowed, so Arsdale had Jim buried just outside of the cemetery with a suitable marble marker. As fate would have it, the cemetery was forced to expand its boundaries over the years and Jim The Wonder dog’s final resting place, is now as Arsdale requested, inside the cemetery at Marshall. A fitting ending to the story of one of the most phenomenal, of man’s best friend.

Ingredients:

2 1/2 to 3 pound shoulder or sirloin tip roast
1 (16 ounce) can tomato sauce
1 medium onion, cut into thin strips
2 bay leaves
3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
salt and pepper to taste

Directions:

1 Spray slow cooker with non-stick cooking spray. Place meat in pot with fat side up. Pour tomato sauce over roast. Place onion rings over all. Toss in bay leaves. Cover and cook 1 hour on high. 2 After 1 hour reduce heat to low and cook 6 to 8 more hours. Carefully lift meat out of pot and remove to a warm platter. 3 Pour drippings through strainer into medium sized saucepan and discard material in strainer. Whisk in flour to liquid. Cook, stirring constantly over medium heat until thickened. Season to taste with salt and pepper, serve alongside roast.

Mother’s Cake

(Makes One 9-Inch Cake) Cake Ingredients:
1 1/2 cups Almonds; Skinned
6 oz. Semi-Sweet Chocolate; Chopped
3/4 cup Granulated Sugar
6 oz. Sweet Butter (Unsalted)
6 large Eggs; Yolks and Whites Separated
1 tsp. Fresh Lemon Juice
Icing Ingredients:
1/2 cup Heavy Cream
2 tsp. Instant Espresso or Coffee Powder
8 oz. Semi-Sweet Chocolate; Chopped

Toast almonds in a single layer on a cookie sheet in a 350-F degree oven for about 15-minutes or until the almonds are lightly colored and fragrant. Make sure to shake the pan occasionally to turn almonds while toasting.

Pre-heat oven to 375-F degrees. Spray the bottom of a 9-inch spring form pan with a non-stick cooking spray. Dust lightly with flour or very fine, dry bread crumbs. Shake out any excess and set prepared pan aside.

Warm chopped chocolate in the top of a small double boiler over warm water set at moderate heat. Cover until partially melted, then stir until smooth. Set aside to cool to room temperature. Reserve 1/2 cup sugar and place the remaining 1/4 cup sugar with the almonds in a food processor or blender and chop until nuts are fine and powdery. Set aside.

In a large mixing bowl beat the butter until soft. Add 1/4 cup of sugar and reserve the remaining 1/4 cup sugar for use later. Beat sugar and butter until thoroughly combined. Add the egg yolks, one at a time, and continue to beat until smooth. Add the melted chocolate and blend on low speed until combined. Add almonds and continue to beat mixture on a low speed setting.

In a clean bowl with clean beaters, beat the egg whites with salt and lemon juice. Start on low speed and gradually increase until the egg whites hold a soft shape. Reduce speed again and add remaining 1/4 cup sugar. Then on high speed, beat egg whites to soft peaks.

Gently fold the egg whites into the chocolate mixture about one-third at a time until blended. Pour the cake batter into the prepared spring form pan an quickly rotate to level the batter. Bake for 20-minutes at 375-F degrees, then reduce heat to 350-F degrees and continue to bake an additional 50-minutes. Remove cake from pan when cooled, after about 1-hour.

To prepare the icing, scald the heavy cream in a saucepan over medium heat until a thin skin forms on the top. Add the espresso or coffee powder and whisk to dissolve. Add the chocolate and whisk to dissolve, for about a minute or two. Remove from heat and continue to stir to finish melting the chocolate. Let icing cool for about 15-minutes, then pour over the top of the cake, starting at the center. Gently push the icing with a spatula over the sides to dribble down the cake. Top with shaved chocolate, or whipped cream just prior to serving. A fresh strawberry is an optional garnish

http://www.momscape.com

 

Like many moms, I suffer from selective amnesia. Mostly, it revolves around things like pregnancy, labor, childbirth, and the isolating early days with a newborn, which, with the first baby, culminated in the night I emptied the Diaper Genie and my battered soul by howling something unintelligible and swinging a roll of smelly nappies over my head.

Thank goodness for the sharp memory of my husband, who sometimes finds it wise to remind me about those things.

My baby is six-weeks old now, which means she has reached that magical age when the doctors okay her (and her mommy) to fully participate in life. But there are these struggles that keep popping up…struggles that I had somehow forgotten about in the two years between babies, and I have to rely on my husband’s remarkable memory once again to let me know that these were the same issues that popped up after the first baby. Then they buried themselves deep in some dark hole somewhere only to re-emerge now that we are settling in with daughter number two.

I have become familiar enough with these problems that they now have a name. They are The Monsters. The Monsters emerge from this dark hole to crawl around my brain when I can’t sleep at night, and they pop out of my mouth before I can stop them.

They say mean things about finances and the sharing of responsibilities. At bottom, they may just be a sign that I’m bored enough to want to pick a fight for the sheer drama of the experience. Because I now recall some of these struggles that you all report and I seem to have forgotten. It’s the tedium of playing with the playdough and vacuuming up the playdough and finding playdough in my bedsheets.

It’s the lack of control that pervades my days. It’s the attempt to get up four hours before the rest of my family because in this warped world of early motherhood, work time counts as “me time,” and hearing my toddler’s footsteps on the landing as she makes the long climb to my office. I’m glad she takes the steps one-foot-at-a-time because it affords me the time to sweep away my initial reaction, which may involve the words, “Can’t you give mommy a few moments of peace after all the sacrifices she makes…” and somehow dissolves into an empathetic smile, a long hug, and a tuck-in to the mattress I’ve moved into my office for this very scenario, which usually happens about half-past four.

It’s times like these when I struggle to recall how I finally reclaimed the power and the control over my life after my first child. After a little searching, I remember. After a long while, I snatched at all the control I could, and I let the rest go.

I surrendered to it after realizing that, no matter how hard I try, I can’t control when the little ones will wake or when they’ll want to eat or when they’ll poop, but I can control the way I deal with it. I can control my energy level by controlling what I eat and how much I exercise I get. I can even control a few things in my work life.

After the first baby, I reclaimed my power by joining a gym with good childcare and started a home business. This time, I kickbox during naptime and work – mostly for the sake of my own identity – during the wee hours.

Through it all, I repeat to myself (as though it were a mantra) that these choices are mine. I chose the nursing pads by insisting on breastfeeding. I chose the crazy work hours by insisting on staying home with my girls. And if I forget, my husband will remind me of that, too.

Happy Mother’s Day to you all. May you clutch what’s important this year and surrender what is not. And may God grant you the wisdom, as that familiar prayer pleads, to know the difference. About the author:

Susie Michelle Cortright is the author of More Energy for Moms – http://www.momscape.com/energy – and founder of the award-winning website Momscape.com, designed to help busy women find balance. Visit http://www.momscape.com today and get Susie’s free course-by-email “6 Days to Less Stress.”

History:

Cornhusk dolls are one of the oldest forms of dolls known in the Americas. The Iroquois have a legend about the “faceless doll.” It seems that the first cornhusk doll was made to be the companion for a little Indian girl.

The story tells us that the Iroquois people have what they call the three sisters, the “sustainers of life”. These sisters are called corn, beans, and squash. The corn Spirit was so thrilled at being one of the sustainers of life that she asked the Creator what more she could do for her people. The Creator said that a beautiful doll could be formed from the husks. The Creator set to work to form the doll. When finished he gave the doll a beautiful face, and sent it to the children of the Iroquois people to play with, and to make them happy.

The doll went from village to village playing with the children and doing whatever she could for the children. Everywhere she went everyone would tell her how beautiful she was, so after a while she became vain. The Creator spoke to her and explained that this was not the right kind of behavior, and she agreed not to be this way anymore. The Creator told her that if she continued with this behavior he would punish her, but he would not tell her how he would do it. She agreed not to act that way again, and things went on as before.

One afternoon she was walking by a creek and she glanced into the water. As she admired herself, she couldn’t help thinking how beautiful she was, because indeed she was beautiful. At this time the Creator sent a giant screech owl out of the sky and it snatched her reflection from the water. When she looked again, she had no reflection. This was the punishment the Creator put upon her.

When an Iroquois Mother makes a doll for her child, she tells them this legend which is to remind the child that it is wrong to think they are better then any one else, and they must know that the Creator has given a special gift to everyone.

Just as our Native American ancestors made corn husk dolls, you can too!

Directions for making your doll:

1.You will need the husks from one or two ears of corn for a 6″ doll. (Note:— or you can buy the husks from your local grocery store.) This should take you about 1 hour to make.

2. Soak cornhusks (that have been thoroughly dried beforehand) for 10 minutes in warm water.

 

Illustration #1

3. Bundle thin end of 6 leaves around ‘hair’,
slick side of leaves inward.
Tie tightly. (see Illustration #1)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Illustration #2

4a. Peal leaves around to form head.
Hair should sprout up in the middle.
(see Illustration #2)

 

 

4b.Tie neck area tightly.

 

 

Illustration #3

5. Braid 3 strips of a leaf into a
6 inch piece for the arms. (see Illustration #3)

 

 

 

 

Illustration #4

6. Braid 2 more lengths in the same way to use later forthe 2 legs. (see Illustration #4)

7. Put arms under neck. Insert rolled leaf to fill out and form body. Tie waist area.

8. Insert legs and secure by tying 2 leaves front to back, then trim excess below waist.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

9. Wrap and tie one or two strips around top of legs to form hips. (see Illustration #5)

 

Ilustration #5

 

 

In addition to their use for amusement, some cornhusk dolls are used in sacred healing ceremonies.

A type of Iroquois cornhusk doll was made in response to a dream. The doll was then discarded, put back to earth to carry away the evil of the dream.

Both boy and girl dolls are made using the corn silk tassel for hair. Feet and body are stuffed with leaves and tied while arms and legs are made from braided or rolled husks. Dolls measure anywhere between four and ten inches tall. Sometimes a face is drawn, or red dots are painted for cheeks; but more often than not the doll’s face is left blank.

The dolls are often dressed in cornhusks, animal hide or cloth but some are made without clothing. Personal equipment is produced for many dolls, and this helps children practice to prepare the things needed for everyday life. Girl dolls would be given cradleboards, hoes, sewing kits or other women’s things, while boys could be provided with bows and arrows, canoe paddles and warrior’s gear. Good Luck, and Happy Crafting!

When I was a teenager in the early 1970′s I used to tag along with my older brother to what was then called “moto-cross” races. We had a Dodge van that had a converted interior with all the trappings of the day; the paneled interior, shag carpet, bed, eight-track stereo, the works. The cherry paint job, the shiny chrome mag wheels and side pipes were guaranteed to attract attention. I think they were referred too as “sin-dens” back in those days. It was one groovy van.

We used this van on our trips to different parts of the region, attending moto-cross races for the most part. One of these trips was to the small town of Seymour, Indiana. Seymour was a nondescript town in Southern Indiana, a farming region for the most part. The main roads in and out of town were simple two lane highways that wandered across lightly rolling hills.

On this particular trip, my older brother, two of his friends and I were jammed into the van, the interior of which smelled pungent of gasoline and two stroke engine oil and was filled with assorted mud spattered leathers and biking gear. We were pulling a trailer of dirt bikes and we were lost. We had never been to this particular race track before and of course none of us thought to look at a map prior to leaving, so there we were in Southern Indiana, driving about the country side listening to Creedence Clearwater Revival on the eight-track tape player and lost as hell. After about 20 minutes of wandering the country roads near Seymour, we decided that perhaps we could find somebody or some place where we could stop and ask directions.

Our wish came true. About this time, we were emerging from a small gully in the road and proceeding up a hill. At the top of this hill, perhaps two hundred yards away, we spotted what appeared to be smoke coming from the vicinity of the road. Traveling further up the hill, we could tell, the smoke was definitely coming from the road. “A car crash perhaps?” That would be neat; guys love a good car crash. No, there were no vehicles to be seen. With each passing second, the picture was becoming clearer. There was a gathering of some sort in the road ahead of us, but the purpose was still unclear.

Finally, as we approached the source of the smoke, we noticed what appeared to be an automobile tire along the side of the road. This tire was on fire. Not a blazing fire, but more of a slow steady burn. Enough fire to create a long tall steady stream of black smoke into the air, noticeable from a significant distance. There were two people standing next to the burning tire at the side of the road and a dog too. A scruffy yellow hound dog that looked as if he actually caught the cars he chased and also looked as though it had rolled in dirt for six years.

My brother who was driving, rolled down the driver side window and decided that these people are the ones to ask for directions. Coasting the van to a crawl, we crept to the scene and took closer stock of the situation. Something was not right about this. It was not normal for people to be standing at the side of a road next to a burning tire. There must be more to it.

A woman. An older woman to be exact. She appeared to be 50 perhaps, it was hard to tell, her weathered face so full of wrinkles, her matted and snarled grey hair hanging from beneath a ragged old hat. She was grinning as we approached. It was a poignant grin, a toothy grin, or should I observe, a tooth grin as she only had 3 or 4 teeth total, most of which were obscured in the sides of her gaping mouth. At her feet stood the yellow hound dog, scarred and bedraggled, his tongue hanging loosely across his slobbering jowl. In her hand she held by it’s feet, a chicken. A dead chicken with half the feathers plucked out.

My brother and I must have simultaneously observed this amazing site as we turned to one another and dropped our jaws in amazement. With the van still creeping slowly toward the group, we also observed a man standing with the woman and dog. He was a grizzled old man wearing a grey jacket and baggy trousers. His hair was cut short and his face contained a week’s growth of knurly whiskers. My brother and I continued to gaze at this sight in amazement. Looking back and forth between ourselves and the couple along the roadside, we had no idea what we were observing.

“Keep going. They may eat us or something.” I told him, but in truth, I wanted to linger on scene as long as possible to take this in. The guys in the back of the van were starting to giggle.

“Shut up.” My brother barked with a whisper. ” What the hell’s going on?” I whispered.

My brother stopped the van and poked his head through the open window.

“We’re looking for a moto-cross track. Do you know where the moto-cross track is around here?” He asked.

The grizzled old codger stepped up to the van and held up his arm. At the end of this arm was…nothing. He didn’t have a hand. He had a stump. Not just a stump, but a stump covered with masking tape. Not fresh masking tape, but masking tape that looked as though it had been in place for several days. It was dirty and peeling, wrapped neatly around the stump on the end of his arm and protruding from the old grey jacket.

Time froze. What probably lasted only 30 seconds felt like an eternity as each of us gazed at the knurly stump armed man and his toothless wife and bedraggled yellow dog as they stood along side the road next to a burning tire, plucking a chicken.

“The track is over that-a way about 2 miles.” The old man said.

“Thanks allot.” My brother replied, and with that he stomped his foot on the accelerator and we sped away from the scene in the direction the old man had pointed.

True as not, the old man was right. The moto-cross track was exactly where he had pointed with his masking tape covered stumpy arm. We had a great day at the track that day. My brother won both the open and 250cc class races he entered. We joked about the scene from the roadside the whole day and found our way back to Kentucky with no effort afterwards.

To this day, my brother and I both tell this story, though seldom together. We live far apart now and have for many years so we do not get to see one another very often, but still, we have the same basic version of this story.

When ever I go to a Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant or to the grocery and see the roasted chickens, my mind will drift back to Southern Indiana and to the disheveled old couple standing by the roadside roasting a chicken over a burning tire and I wonder.

I wonder if those folks were homeless and that was the only food they had to eat.

I wonder if those folks were often found roaming the country roads of Southern Indiana.

I wonder if the people that lived around there knew of these folks strife and what if anything was ever done to help them.

I wonder each of these things, but more often than not, I wonder if that scruffy yellow dog got any of that chicken.

As we have pointed out so many times in articles here in THE MESSAGE TREE, there are many firsts that Missouri and the Ozarks can claim, things or even people that originated right here. In past issues we have discussed how the first “Wild West Style Gunfight” took place on the square in Springfield, the fact that George Washington Carver who brought so many wonderful inventions and developments (especially Peanut Butter) was a native of the Ozarks, and on and on, but did you know that the Ozarks even had its own horse?

When early settlers arrived in the Ozarks, emigrating from the neighboring states of Kentucky, Illinois, Tennessee and Arkansas, they brought with them breeds such as the American Saddle Horse, Standard bred, and Tennessee Walking Horse and crossed them with good hard trotting breeds such as the Morgan, Thoroughbred and Arabian horse breeds to develop a smooth riding sure footed mount that could safely carry its rider through the rugged and rocky terrain of the Ozarks. This process of breeding produced what we now know as The Missouri Fox Trotting Horse.

The Missouri Fox Trotting Horse is distinguished by its characteristic Fox trot gait, it walks with the front feet and trots with the hind feet. Unlike other high and hard stepping breeds such as the ones that the Fox Trotter was bred from, the rider of a Missouri Fox Trotter experiences little jarring action from the rhythmic gait and is quite comfortable in the saddle for long periods a time.

To understand the definition of a gaited horse, such as the Missouri Fox Trotter, you have to first understand how a horse moves. The most common gait other than a walk is a trot. The horse moves a front foot and the opposite rear foot at the same time so that the horse has two feet on the ground at a time, but is not supported one third of the time, which produces a jarring motion. A gaited horse has a “broken gait” in that there is one foot on the ground at all times so that a smoother ride is produced by the horse.

The sure footedness of the Fox Trotter and the smooth ride over the very rough terrain of the Ozarks made the breed the favorite of not only the farmer and cattleman but also others who depended on a horse to cary them through the Ozarks such as sheriffs, tax collectors, doctors, and just about anyone whose business or profession required them to traverse the hills. When the automobile and modern highways came to the hill country and made horses obsolete as the principal mode of transportation, the breed was kept alive by cattlemen of the Ozarks who needed the reliability of the breed to maintain their cattle herds.

In 1948 fifteen men concerned with the preservation of this unique breed, founded the Missouri Fox Trotting Horse Breed Association. After a number of animals were registered in the Douglas County area, an untimely fire destroyed the home of the Association’s secretary along with the stud book and records. As interest in this wonderful horse increased, the Association was reorganized in 1958 and today the association call a 67 acre tract of land just north of Ava on highway 5, its home.

With more than 8000 members and 80 thousand horses registered (i) its not hard to understand how this is America’s number one most popular trail horse. A mount that can easily keep up its gait for prolonged periods with creating rider fatigue.

While there are local and regional events sanctioned by the Association, there are events held several times each year at it headquarters in Ava. This influx of Fox Trotter fans from all over North America, means a tremendous amount of annual income for the Ava area, just as tourism is for other nearby destinations, a very important part of the Douglas county economy.

The Missouri Fox Trotter is so popular and unique to Missouri, that the state made it the “official state” horse. In 2002, House Bill 1141, made the breed the “Horse” of Missouri. (RSMO 10.140. The Missouri Fox Trotting Horse is hereby selected for, and shall be known as, the official state horse of the state of Missouri.)

So the next time you see a horse whose unusual gait produces the illusion of walking with its front and trotting with its rear feet, remember that this, the number most popular trail horse in America, has roots here in the hills of the Ozarks.

 

(i) The Missouri Fox Trotting Horse Breed Association, Inc. http://mfthba.com/