The Ninth Crumb
Bates Corner
In 1972, the time for us to move had arrived again.
In fact, it could even be said that it was late on this occasion. For in
1970, the school at Eagle Rock closed because of no longer having enough
students to justify the expense of maintaining it any longer, and the 20-mile
bus ride to Cassville was a great strain on us all.
Furthermore, my mom had taken a job in the
sporting goods department of Johnston's Department Store in Cassville, and then
there were also all of the after-school activities (band, sports, etc.) Cub
Scouts, Boy Scouts and a host of other things that required travel to and from
Cassville. So, our move to a place near Bates Corner (around 5 miles east
of Cassville) was most prudent in regards to the saving of time and money.
Bates Corner is actually a landmark—not a
town. For the old Bates Corner Store is located at the eastern split of
Missouri Highway 76 (toward Shell Knob, via Missouri State Highway 39) and
Missouri State Highway 86 (toward Eagle Rock) and I think it is still standing.
Now, the site we moved to was an unimproved
strip of land on the south-side of Missouri State Highway 76 about a mile east
of Bates Corner, and this left for a lot of decisions to be made. For it
did not even have a driveway—let alone a house to live in, nor a water supply.
No, I do not remember just how long it actually
took, but I do remember that all of the big things (something to live in, water
well, driveways, and fencing) were completed in very short order. For my
dad was a master at getting things done, and I am quite sure that my mom played
an essential role in it all.
Perhaps it was her who suggested that they buy a
doublewide mobile home instead of building a house? For it would be,
after all, a lot faster, and a lot less expensive, as well.
Yes, a mobile home is not a house—not even if it
is a doublewide, but by the time they had it set up in the way they wanted it
to be, one would be hard-pressed to tell a difference. For they had the steel
frame attached to concrete footings that my dad had poured for this very
purpose, with the wheels, axles, and front hitches removed.
To give you some perspective on just how secure
our mobile home was, it was bolted to those concrete footings. Whereas, many houses that are built today are
nailed to their foundations, and some merely sit on concrete slabs without any
sort of attachment at all.
Furthermore, the structure itself was
wonderfully built by true craftsmen at the Ozark Homes facility in Neosho, MO
(about 35 miles west of Cassville). For the walls were framed with 2x4-inch
studs on 16-inch centers, and the floor and ceiling joists were 2x6s on 16-inch
centers.
Yes, the roof and siding were made of aluminum. For that was the only option available
at the time, but with painted, heavy-duty under-penning,
along with a full-length 12-foot wide covered front porch and a carport attached, many who visited our home had
trouble believing that it was indeed a double-wide mobile home—even after being
told that it was!
The truth about the well my parents had drilled
on our new place might be of interest to some. For they had it witched.
Now, the witching of a well is for the purpose
of locating where it should be, and it involves someone with the gift walking
around with a Y-shaped witching-rod pointed forward and held horizontally in
their hands with their thumbs pointed toward themselves. The witching-rod
is usually a willow, sassafras, or peach tree limb, but a piece of wire (like a
coat hanger) is known to be used by some.
When passing over a good source of water
underground, the witching-rod will point to the spot with a certain amount of
force. The more force, the closer the water supply. This principle
also applies to how much water is available, and in the case of our well, the
witching-rod jerked down quite violently. In fact, the well-witcher
almost lost his grip on it!
Yes, my parents were plumb serious about being
Christians, but not so unlike a very great many of their generation, they were
rather superstitious about certain things. This was especially true of my
mom, but neither one of them saw anything wrong with the practice of
well-witching.
Some would even go as far as to suggest that
well-witching was ordained by God. For Moses was instructed to tap his
staff upon a stone, and water would then pour out from it [Exodus17:1-7].
Besides, it certainly seemed to work. For
when the outfit my parents had contracted to actually drill the well set down
on the spot that had been marked by the well-witcher, they hit a good stream of
water at only 45 feet down. Whereas,
an unwitched well drilled across the road a few years later did not hit water until going over 600 feet down, and the
average depth of water wells in the area (whether witched or not) was around
400 feet.
I even tried my hand at witching once or twice,
and I was told that I did indeed have the gift for it by a few, who should have
known what they were talking about. I never put it into practice,
however.
After all of the big projects were completed,
the fun really started for me and Terry. For there had to have been at
least 20 million tons of rocks that needed to be removed before we could even
think about having a front yard with grass, and it was our job to haul off a
minimum of ten little red wagon loads before we could even think about doing
what we wanted to do.
No, I am not exaggerating as much as you
probably think. For there was less than an inch of topsoil on that ridge,
and underneath it was a layer of rocks (from as small as a grape to as big as a
human head) that we never came even close to finding the bottom of.
If I didn’t know better, I could swear that for
every rock we picked up, two more would take its place. Finally, our
parents had some mercy on my little brother and me
and had some dirt hauled in after we spent that summer removing 2-3 feet of the
rocks covering our 40x40 feet front yard.
Needless to say, I was very glad to see the
start of school that year, but this was not all that unusual. For I
generally enjoyed going to school, and I continued to excel academically.
Proof of that can be found in the fact that I
was chosen to be a member of the National Honor Society in my first year of
eligibility, and that is not all. For in the 1975 Edition of Who's Who of
American High School Students, you will find my name, along with a brief
profile.
There were a few hiccups, however. Some
worse than others, and receiving a D- in the fourth quarter of my sophomore
year in Algebra II was one of the worst. For it kept me from finishing in
the top ten of my graduating class.
Now, reading and (w)riting had always been a lot easier for me than (a)rithmetic, but the grade that cost me so dearly
had more to do with my attitude than with any sort of inability to master the
curriculum. For I just quit on the class because of how much I hated the
teacher, and I cannot even give you a reason for why I felt that way about her.
During the summer, my parents administered an
attitude adjustment on me, and that was the end of any grades below a B.
That is, at least for the rest of my time in high school.
Nonetheless, the damage had been already
done. For the grade average of the Class of 1976 was very high, and I
graduated 21st out of 114.
Thankfully, the damage was not scholastically
fatal. For I received letters of inquiry from dozens of schools that
wanted me to give them some consideration.
They may have felt differently if they had of
known how I treated one of those letters, however. For it came from
Harvard College in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and it was not until years later
before I realized that it had come from HARVARD!!!
Yeah, I can be really stupid at times for
someone who is supposed to be so smart. For I had it in my head that any
letter from HARVARD!!! would be from Harvard University—not College.
Therefore, I dismissed the letter as being from
just another small private school I certainly did not want to go to. For
I was of the opinion that if you are going to go to all of the time and expense
to seek a higher level of education, it would behoove you to earn a degree from
a school that is recognized as being one of the best. After all, if two
people apply for the same job, and one has a degree in chemical engineering
from M.I.T. (Massachusetts Institute of Technology) while the other has the same
degree from Podunk City Community College, who do you think they are going to
hire?
No, HARVARD!!! did not offer me a scholarship
outright. For the letter only invited me to pay them a visit and they
would see what could be done, but I still found the letter quite
flattering. A little late, of course.
Come the beginning of the fall semester, I found
myself enrolled in the University of Missouri at Columbia (around 200 miles
north-northeast of Cassville) which is where the main campus of the University
of Missouri system is located. For they had offered me enough
scholarships and grants to avoid having to take out any student loans.
A job in their work-study program was also
included in my financial-aid package at Mizzou, which gave me a little spending
money while school was in session, and that was where I had my first experience
with computers. For my job involved feeding computer cards into a
keypunch machine, along with sorting them after they had been processed.
Yes, it was certainly a different world back then.
It was the result of a combination of things
that I still received so many offers to go to so many different schools after I
failed to even be in the top ten of my high school graduating class
(naturally-speaking, of course). Not the least of these was undoubtedly
being an Eagle Scout. For that sort of thing was highly respected in
those days.
Also being a member of the bands at Cassville
High School surely didn’t hurt, I would think. For both the concert and
stage bands were perennial state
champions in both the Class 2 and overall categories, and the marching band
received an invitation to compete in an international competition being held
somewhere in Europe.
No, we did not get to go to Europe. For
the cost was just too prohibitive.
Nonetheless, we did have our moments to shine
rather brightly. For providing the half-time entertainment for an
Arkansas Razorbacks football game in Fayetteville, Arkansas (around 75 miles
southwest of Cassville) once a year was certainly an honor—not to mention a
great thrill.
There were, however, some moments that were not
so thrilling. For I came to despise having to march in Cassville's annual
Christmas Parade, and I did not feel much better about performing at all of
those high school football games, neither.
On the other hand, it was a different story with
being in the concert band. For we performed classics like Rossini's
William Tell Overture (The Lone Ranger television show theme) and Tchaikovsky's
1812 Overture, and we performed them well.
In fact, it could be said that we performed them
very well. For one would be hard-pressed to distinguish between our 1973
recording of the William Tell Overture and some made by full (strings and all)
professional orchestras.
The same can be said of being in the stage
band. For we performed arrangements of both contemporary hits and
classical jazz by musical greats like Maynard Ferguson, Stan Kenton, and Buddy
Rich.
Another one of those things that helped catch
the attention of so many schools had to have been being a member of the debate
team in my senior year of high school. For Russell Brock and I made it
all the way to the state finals before losing in the first-round to St. Louis
Parkway East and St. Louis Parkway West, which were both over ten times larger
than Cassville.
Sports participation was probably not a
factor. For I did letter in golf
for three years, but I never did place very high in any tournaments.
Nonetheless, I did show some talent. For I
averaged 9.7 putts per 9 holes in my senior year.
On the other hand, getting to where I could take
my putter out of the bag was often a problem. For it does not matter if
you can putt with your eyes closed if you cannot see where your ball went along
the fairway more times than not.
No, it was not only on the greens of a golf
course where I displayed some potential. For in the first semester of my
freshman year (1972), I could run a 4.6 (seconds) 40 (yards), and the head
football coach asked my dad to let me play ball for him.
Oh how I wanted to be on the field with pads and a
helmet instead of blowing my horn during half-time, and I believe I would have
been very good at it. For aside from being really fast for a white-boy in
that day and age, I could leg-press at least 440 pounds, which was as high as
the weight machine went, but in the end, none of that mattered. For my
parents were afraid of me being seriously hurt (rheumatic-feveritis, no doubt), and the subject was not
open for discussion.
I could have played basketball, but that was not
a viable option for me. For I was just plain not good enough.
Despite the bitter disappointment of not being
allowed to play football, my high school days were most enjoyable for the most
part, and this was especially true of my senior year. For I averaged
being in class for only three days a week because of all of the school
activities I was in.
Yes, one would think that being so busy would
lead to some logistical nightmares, and one weekend in April of 1976, it
did. For I had a concert and stage band competition, a golf match, the
Missouri State FBLA (Future Business Leaders of America) Convention, and the
Missouri State Forensics (Speech and Debate) Finals to participate in.
Needless to say, I upset a lot of people.
For I had not figured out how to be in more than one place at a time yet.
I finally settled on going to the state debate
finals in Kirkwood, Missouri (a suburb of St. Louis around 275 miles northeast
of Cassville). For that was where I was the most needed.
The debate finals was not where I most wanted to be, however. For that was in
the presence of my girl, and who could blame me? For she was the fairest
lass in all of the land.
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