Summer reading: The Shepherd of the Hills

In the hills of life there are two trails. One lies along the higher sunlit fields where those who journey see afar, and the light lingers even when the sun is down; and one leads to the lower ground, where those who travel, as they go, look always over their shoulders with eyes of dread, and gloomy shadows gather long before the day is done.

This, my story, is the story of a man who took the trail that leads to the lower ground, and of a woman, and how she found her way to the higher sunlit fields.

Traipsing the woods and hills of Missouri this past week and revisiting the depredations of the “bushwhacker” era on my ancestors, put me in mind of a book that has long been read for generations in my family, “The Shepherd of the Hills.” It is a stirring tale of romance, action and dark, even violent, secrets that weaves some important character lessons without being sanctimonious (well, maybe a couple of times). Set in the nearby Ozarks it was one of the first best-sellers in modern American literature and helped make its author, Harold Bell Wright, one of the most popular (if critically dismissed) writers of the first half of the 20th century. It also happens that this book was first released to the public on this day in 1907, 99 years ago.

It is a great book for all ages, but especially for young teens. I read it aloud to both my daughters when they reached a certain age and they loved it and were captivated by the story, but it will also appeal to boys and there’s plenty to think about for adults as well. Reportedly based on a true story (my grandfather had a copy of the book autographed by one of the minor characters in the tale) there’s a romance, but also plenty of action, and a deft and engrossing illumination of good vs. evil. Or, as the book itself says, “The story, so very old, is still in the telling.”

It is also the book that first put Branson, Missouri on the map as a tourist destination — long before anyone ever thought to plug an amp into a guitar or glue a sequin onto a coat.

Wright was a minister before turning to writing novels and the book has a profound but not obtrusive spirituality that sometimes borders on the worship of Creation over the Creator but offers an interesting insight into the timelessness of the story. At one point the main character, in one of the few “speeches” in the story, offers the following for those who might judge the quality of another character’s life:

“Here and there among men, there are those who pause in the hurried rush to listen to the call of a life that is more real. How often have we seen them jostled and ridiculed by their fellows, pushed aside and forgotten, as incompetent or unworthy. He who sees and hears too much is cursed for a dreamer, a fanatic, or a fool, by the mad mob, who, having eyes, see not, ears and hear not, and refuse to understand.

“We build temples and churches, but will not worship in them; we hire spiritual advisers, but refuse to heed them; we buy bibles, but will not read them; believing in God, we do not fear Him; acknowledging Christ, we neither follow nor obey Him. Only when we can no longer strive in the battle for earthly honors or material wealth, do we turn to the unseen but more enduring things of life; and, with ears deafened by the din of selfish war and cruel violence, and eyes blinded by the glare of passing pomp and folly, we strive to hear and see the things we hve so long refused to consider.

(He)knew a world unseen by us, and we, therefore, fancied ourselves wiser than he.”

Look the book up and you and your children will be glad you did. You can read it through to yourself in a few hours, or aloud in six or so. (Don’t settle for the movie version, though. I saw it and only the title and some of the names of the characters were familiar to me; the charm of the story was gutted.)

The hidden and unnoticed past: a “brush” with my ancestors

Near as anyone can remember, the last person buried at the Ficke Cemetery was carried in there in 1958, the year I was born. I don’t know how many cars, if any, may have been in the procession then but today we take two vehicles out to where my great-great-grandfather, George Marion West (see previous post) lies. My parents lead the way, and my wife and daughters are riding with me.

In many ways it’s a trip back into the past: memories my parents have of coming to this place, memories I myself have of similar trips to other grounds with my grandfather. Fittingly, we start our trip by driving on the old Route 66 before turning off on a succession of county highways named after letters of the alphabet. We pass through small communities such as Japan (pronounced “Jay-pan”) and Strain, before turning onto a smaller road named for what once was the Red Oak community. Red Oak leads to a gravel road, which itself merely covers the original Indian trail that made its way down to the Bourbeuse River. A centuries-old oak tree, deliberately bent so that it grew into a 90-degree trail marker, still points the way.

At a certain point past the marker tree we stop the cars and get out to apply liberal amounts of Deep Woods Off before embarking by foot along a path pressed into the tall grass of a wooded field by a tractor and hay-wagon. Along the way we see through a gap in the trees an almost surrealistic sight of white cattle standing in a flourescent-green pond. “I think this is it,” my father finally says, stepping down into a ditch and then up the bank to lift a single strand of barbed wire.

The woods beyond the wire at this point don’t look noticeably different from everything else that’s around, but we line up single-file to duck under the wire and proceed into the leafy darkness as if on safari. There is no path, and our eyes constantly switch from looking at the person in front, to looking down for a place to put our feet, to looking up again to make sure a branch isn’t snapping back into our faces. There’s supposed to be a cemetery here?

Sure enough, within a few minutes my parents have found a tall, columned monument rising high enough out of the sumac and other weeds and saplings to where it can be more easily seen. Even at that it takes a few moments for its outline to become clear; using the monument as a reference point we begin to see other, smaller shapes emerging from the shadows, brambles and tall grass around us.


Stepping carefully, holding back or pressing down saplings, we all move slowly, sometimes almost losing sight of each other in the foliage. My parents know the general direction to find the stone over great-great-grandpa George and two of his wives. His first wife was a Ficke, which was what brought him back to this place. Her name was Henrietta and she bore him two children before dying from complications from the birth of the second, who turned out to be my great-grandfather, William. She would never know her son, but I would eventually meet him a couple of times (so I’m told) when he was much, much older. George and his second wife, Martha, would have 11 children, but I have to admit to some favoritism for Henrietta, who died young, for bringing William into the world and, hence, my grandfather, my mother, and me.

The single stone for George, Henrietta and Martha is large and relatively easy to spot; other markers are smaller and harder to see. Most difficult to see, and to look at, are tiny headstones for infants and children. We’re here on July 3, and my wife finds a small stone for a child who lived from July 4 to August 3, 1892. Regardless of size, all the stones we come across face to the east, in the direction from which their saviour will return.

It’s a bright, sunny day and very hot, but there’s an eerie quiet and stillness in this place, far away from everything else and virtually untended for who knows how long. There’re probably more than 100 people people buried here. You think about the ghosts that might be lingering, and then you don’t have to just think: you can see them.


Two faces stare out from the white circle, mute witnesses to time passing by.

Looking again at the large monument we first came across we can just make out the faded faces of a husband and wife etched into the upper part of the granite, fading from sight and probably from memory.

Something else is missing. When we find the main gate of the cemetery my mother is certain that there once were large stone columns and an arch marking the entrance. A rusty, metal gate among the briars is all that is there today. Her memory is probably correct, though, and the arch may stand on someone else’s farm or resort today, or rests at Restoration Hardware.

Earlier, on the ride out here, my wife had wondered how many cemeteries there might be in rural Missouri that had disappeared from the memories of those alive today. There’s no answer to that, but I told her that, except for this trip today, the memory of the Ficke Cemetery in my family would have passed with the generation in the car ahead of us. Now, two more generations know of it and have walked (unsteadily) on its grounds. I don’t know what that is worth, or what it will mean, but I think I will be back at least once more.

My father is talking about coming out here again in the fall, after the frost and the cold have made it easier to see the ground. He knows a couple of men with connections to the people buried here and thinks that with light chainsaws and some people to drag the brush away the site can be cleared enough to make it visitable for a few years. I offer to come down early on Thanksgiving week and he thinks that might be a good time to do it. I suppose to some people such a project might appear as useless as leaving a perfectly good stone arch hidden in the woods where no one could appreciate it. Certainly the dead don’t need a fancy portal to their burying grounds, or care if the brush is cut back over them. That doesn’t mean that there isn’t some need or appreciation for these things from the living, however. Something inside me, anyway, says this is just the right thing to do. Moreover, it’s not a chore but something I want to do. Though I have never met anyone buried here, if they hadn’t lived, and met, I wouldn’t be here.

I know only the sketchiest details about the lives of my ancestors and have nothing but my own imagination to picture the lives of the others here, but there’s still a kinship. When we’ve cleared the grounds this fall I’m sure I’ll pause at the end of the day beside a newly visible headstone and, like them, turn my face to the east and think about eternity.

Update:

My earlier musings on Memorial Day and rural Missouri cemeteries can be found here.

4th of July: Forefathers

We’re visiting my folks for the holiday, and right now we’re about to go out in the country to Red Oak to try and find the cemetery on what was the old Ficke farm and to check on some ancestors. My great-great-grandfather, George Marion West, married Henrietta Ficke in 1878, but she died of complications after giving birth to my great-grandfather in 1881. George would outlive two more wives (the second, Martha Brown, bore him 11 children) and is buried beside Henrietta and Martha at Ficke. I have a picture of him that I’ll scan and post in the next day or two.

George died 18 years before I was born, but my grandfather would tell stories about him. One of the things my grandfather often talked about was how his grandfather George could remember being five years old and his father, John, waking him up to say good-bye because he had enlisted in the Union army to fight in the Civil War. Great-great-great-grandfather John West died of pneumonia at Vicksburg, and George never saw his father again.

In his later years, my grandfather (another John West) would write a brief memoir of his grandfather. In thinking back over the hard times and trials that have made this country, it seemed like a good day to share a slice of a long ago life and death.

George Marion West
by John West

Grandpa George was nearing the age of sixty when I was born. From memory he was a large, robust man. Circumstances played a role in my getting to know him in his later years. The last days of his life were spent in our home.

On rare occasions he would engage in conversation about his boyhood life. It was seldom that he discussed events that pertained to himself and never in a boastful manner. He was a congenial “man’s man”, however children were not drawn to him for reasons that cannot be explained. He never showed anything but kindness toward children. His father left home to enlist in the army when he was about five years old and he never returned. Grandpa George never forgot the experience of his father’s leaving their home on the Bourbeuse River to go away to war. He spoke with sadness of the memory even in his last years. He had memories of the war as it affected the home life of the people in the community where he lived. There was conflict between neighbors and frequent raids by Bushwhacker elements resulting in the loss of livestock and anything of value in the homes. There were frequent skirmishes that resulted in loss of life.

In the early years of his life most every family experienced hardships in everyday living. Grandpa George perhaps suffered more than a fair share of such experiences. He grew up fatherless in a period of extreme poverty that was made worse by the long-suffering that was brought on by the war. In his words, he was “kicked from pillar to post,” living and working hard wherever food and shelter were available. He worked during all seasons clearing land and planting crops on the Bourbeuse River. His rewards were food and shelter.

In the year 1941 through coincidence I met a gentleman in Owensville, Missouri who grew up from childhood with Grandpa George. The gentleman’s name was Homer Michel. Mr. Michel was in his late 80s and very alert. He and Grandpa George were near the same age. They were from the Bourbeuse River communities of Walbert, Strain and Champion City. Mr. Michel described Grandpa George as being a rough and crude young man in his teen years. He was large and robust with extraordinary strength. Typical of the times, many disagreements were settled by fist-fights and Grandpa George always accounted himself well in such fracases. He could be a mean man physically when circumstances warranted it and the “bullies” of the community were content to let him be. At the same time he was respected throughout the community for his kindness and honesty.

In a rare exchange with Grandpa George I recall asking him if he had ever had a fist-fight and, if so, had he ever been whipped. He told me that everyone had fist-fights when he was a lad. He seemed proud to admit that he had been whipped once. The story, as he related it, was that he had got the better end of fights with two grown men in separate fights. He was no more than 18 or 20 years old at the time. The two of them together teamed up on him at night and beat up on him. he did not think they fought fair. They used “lap” rings for knucks and managed to pull his shirt up over his head and one of them held him while the other poured it on. He carried and wore with pride several scars on the back of his head that he used to remind himself that fighting was poor business.

Unusual circumstances prompted Grandpa George to move his family and home from Franklin County to Crawford County. Legend has it (Grandpa George never related the story to me), that a farm trade was made between Grandpa George and a friend wherein the exchange was made on an even-up basis with no money or other consideration involved. The reason behind the exchange was that the friend who owned and occupied the farm in Crawford County was involved in a serious feud with his neighbor on an adjoining farm and the problem had become so acute that lives were in jeopardy. The feuding neighbors were more than just neighbors, they were also brothers and each was a friend of Grandpa George. The exchange of farms solved the problem. Grandpa George was rewarded by acquiring a farm that was considered much more valuable than the one he exchanged for it.

Lengthy conversations were not a habit and were always to the point, using a minimum of words. He appreciated humor in moderation when circumstances were better served by it. He was not an emotional being. Happiness or sorrow were seldom expressed outwardly beyond a stoic acceptance of the situation at hand. He was an orderly individual. His home, farm equipment and farm animals were well cared for. Neatness was a virtue.

In spite of being handicapped due to a lack of formal education, Grandpa George progressed from poverty to prosperity during his active years. His compassion for ungrateful members of his family reduced him to poverty again before his death. His last years were spent in declining health and, against his independent nature, he was forced to depend on others for daily care. During this period of illness he never complained and displayed quiet dignity. He died January 12, 1940 and is buried in the Ficke Cemetary at Walbert, Missouri.

Next: the hidden and unnoticed past.

Bumper stuck

Our family drove to Missouri for the holiday today. On the highway we overtook a car with a bumper sticker that said:

Men are idiots. And I married their king.

“I bet she’s real easy to live with,” my wife said. “Not like me. Then again, I’m not married to the King of Idiots.”

“Well, no,” I said, “but I am 27th in the line of succession.”

“Well that’s really something,” she said, brightly. “I bet some of those guys ahead of you have got to be pretty old, so you could be moving up if they die, say from natural causes.”

“Or if their wives throttle them,” I said.

“Sounds pretty natural to me,” she said.

Things that go “Huh?” in the Night

Bogus Doug is traveling with his family, including sharing a hotel room with his kids. Having just completed a long trip that included many nights where my wife and I shared a room with our kids, I have learned some interesting things. Such as:

1. Tiger Lilly growls in her sleep. (Really! It was “Grrrrrr” – breathe – “Grrrr” – breathe – “Grrrr”; kind of scary actually, especially since a remake of “The Omen” is out now).

2. The Mall Diva talks in her sleep. And I mean really talks: fully formed sentences, each word clearly enunciated. The statements are completely off the wall, of course, but I guess it’s harmless as long as she doesn’t start using her cell phone in her sleep as well.

Actually, we’ve known about this Diva trait for some time, ever since she was about five years old and got to sleep in the big bed with my wife once while I was out of town. Everything was fine until about 4:00 in the morning when my little one suddenly said, very matter-of-factly, “I need $9,000.”

Needless to say, my wife did NOT go back to sleep after that one.

Best not to ask what was in the breakfast cereal

The news of new MOB Deputy Mayor Fluffenstuff reminded me of the time a couple of years ago when the Mall Diva and I were doing some late night channel surfing. An episode of the Krofft Brothers HR Pufnstuff show suddenly appeared.

“Oh, wow,” I said. “I remember watching this when I was a kid! It was kind of weird, but fun and pretty popular.” We stopped surfing and let the show play out a bit. After 10 minutes MD turned to me in all seriousness.

“Drugs were a real problem back in the 70s, weren’t they?”

I told her I couldn’t remember.

This was not a hallucination.

Hmmm, I do recall, however, that HR Pufnstuff was the mayor of an alternative reality island. Whoa, and Doug is mayor of the MOB, an island of reality in an alternative universe. Heavy, man, heavy; hey, don’t bogart the magic flute!

Btw, there is a HR Pufnstuf blog.

Mall Diva, the early years: making a little girl cry

More snow during the morning rush hour today, but I’ve got my laptop and everything I need to work at home so I’m not going to bother with the commute. I’m working away on our new ad campaign (now I get the big bucks not for writing the ads but ripping apart someone else’s work) when it occurs to me that the Mall Diva is scheduled to work today at the mall — and hates to drive in snowstorms. I ask if she wants me to drive, like we attempted to do Monday, and I get one of those “Oh, Daddy, my hero” responses. When the time comes we set off, but now Tiger Lilly has realized this is a great opportunity to get that second set of ear piercings her mother said she could have when she was 12, so she came along.

This piercing was uneventful (at least from my perspective; Tiger Lilly might have her own take on it here later). A lot of what I’ve posted this week has come about because I’ve been reminded of things, but maybe that’s what starts to happen when you get to be my age. Today’s piercing reminded me of when the Diva’s big request for her 4th birthday was to get her ears pierced like all of her friends. I thought I’d previously scared her out of it, but she had rallied and her mom (who doesn’t have pierced ears) and I figured it was no big deal, so off we went.

Face to interface

It’s a quiet evening around the Night cabin. The Mall Diva is out, which explains part of it, but I’ve just recognized another phenomenon.

I am blogging from my laptop in our living room. My wife has a Macintosh set up in the dining room and is working on a freelance design project. Downstairs Tiger Lilly is kicking animated butt on the PC. We’ve never had three computers in the house before, let alone three operating at the same time. Little House on the Prairie, it is not.

Ahh, but wafting from the kitchen is the smell of home-made bread baking, and I’ve finished the milking of this post.

Red hair and blue eyes

Nearly four years after our first miraculous birth (and here), my wife and I decided to have a second child. We brought the topic up with our eldest at dinner one evening.

“Mall Diva,” (she wasn’t the Diva yet, of course), “we’ve decided to ask God for another baby.”
“Oh good, a little sister!”
“Well, no, we might ask for a little brother.”
“Too late.”
“Too late?”
“Yeah, I already asked Him for a little sister.”
“Oh, what did He say?”
“Fine!”

Well, rather than have a crisis of faith at such an early age, we decided that we would agree with her for a sister. We did have some other specifications in mind, however, so we made our list and took it God. We asked for a little girl with a sweet disposition and many of the same characteristics we’d been blessed with (without asking) in her sister. Almost as an afterthought my wife threw in, “Oh, and God, red hair and blue eyes would be really cute. Amen!” My wife then went off of the Pill and we awaited developments, which weren’t long in coming.

Over the ensuing months people would ask us if we knew what we were going to have. Our response was always, “We asked God for a girl.” Usually we’d get a response such as, “Uhhhh-huh. So, what do you think about what’s going on in the Middle East?” Suffice it to say that we seldom went on to say, “Oh yeah? Well she’s going to have red hair and blue eyes, too!”

Came the day twelve years ago (actually, nearly two weeks past her due date) our little special order was induced to appear. Sure enough, a little girl and, oh my, not just a dusting of maybe reddish-colored hair but long, thick (for a baby) carrot-bright hair! I told my wife, but she couldn’t see for herself because the nurses wrapped our daughter right up and pulled one of those little stocking caps over her head. It was a couple of hours later when things had settled down a bit and my wife had some quiet time to nurse that she decided to pull the stocking cap off and gasped. Misty-city, as a friend of mine used to say.

Have you ever felt as if God was winking at you? That was what I felt like. I “knew” in my mind that He answers prayer because of what we’d already experienced in our marriage, but this was an extra little touch at once exhilarating and humbling. The day that we had her dedicated at church I told the congregation that God had now sent me two confirmations to bolster my faith that I’d never be able to forget. I compared it to God leading the Israelites through the wilderness with a cloud by day and a fire by night – and left it to them to decide which of my daughters was which.


My cookie! My cookie! Geez, this guy’s been nothing but trouble.

Which one was the pumpkin?

And, of course, He is a God of abundance. We not only got everything we asked for in spirit and temperment (and hair and, yes, blue eyes), but even more than we could have hoped. Despite her blogging persona, Tiger Lilly has the most amazing and compassionate heart, quick to obey and eager to serve others without even thinking about it. She was strong enough to hold her head unsupported the day she was born, and stood up and started walking without fanfare – or warning to her parents – when she was ten and half months old. She’s always been curious about everything and adventurous and ready to try just about anything (except where food is concerned).

We couldn’t have asked for more. We couldn’t be more proud. Happy 12th birthday, Tiger Lilly!

It’s winter time: Do you know what your daughters are doing?

The Mall Diva and I did a little sports-watching bonding Saturday night. Nope, it wasn’t football, basketball, figure-skating or her new-found favorite, hockey. It wasn’t even lacrosse (sports with sticks that you can hit people with usually get her attention). We were watching the Women’s Snowboard SuperPipe competition at the Winter X-games.

Truth be told, she was already watching the event when I arrived in the basement hoping to check out what was on the movie channels. We have just one television in the house and really only one rule on what to watch – he (or she) who gets there first, rules. Since she was unmoved by my puppy eyes and salesmanship, the SuperPipe it was.

Actually, it was pretty interesting. I’ve not followed the so-called “X” sports that much since I’m of the generation that prefers coffee to cola as a morning eye-opener and gravity and I have long-since settled on the terms of my surrender. SuperPipe is a long, wide tube with the top cut off and the sides and bowl packed with snow. Contestants snowboard back and forth across the “pipe”, riding up and over the sides high into the air while doing twists, flips and other stunts, mixed in with the occasional face-plant. Hey – women in danger; now that’s good TV!

Besides appreciating the skills and “did you see that!” moments of this particular event I was amazed at how much my daughter knew about the sport and the contestants. While I can go three-deep on the NFL’s team by team skill position rosters, the snowboarding stars, jargon and arcania section of my memory capacity is as fresh and unmarked as a slope of new powder. According to my daughter, someone called – what was it, the Raging Tomato, Flaming Tomato, Flying Tomato? – had already won the men’s competition and the leader in the women’s event was Kelly Clark, the American girl favored to win gold at next month’s Olympics and someone who has the name “Jesus” painted in large pink script on the bottom of her board. A shredder for Our Savior? I can dig it.

This is definitely a different kind of event, and one that hasn’t caught the eye of network advertisers yet since we saw the same two commercials over and over (“what do you think your beard is doing all day, taking a nap?”) but it has more than just attitude to set it apart from more traditional women’s winter sports. The competitors wear baggy, kind of punk, “uniforms’ instead of the skintight suits of skiers or the foofaraw of figure-skating outfits, and when the ladies are interviewed at the end of their runs they inevitably have hat hair, creases on their face from goggles and flaming red noses. No, this definitely isn’t figure skating. The girls have, however, mastered the big-time trick of keeping their sponsors’ names (including Jesus) prominently displayed for the cameras.

I think I can get to like this.