Story Five: The Big Fish

There's a place not far from Ottawa, Kansas called Redmon Reservoir. My family and I spent many a weekend fishing and camping there. My recollection is that the crappie fishing was better than good--it was outstanding! And, it was an oddity when we left without a limit. We would drive up there from Kansas City and camp in my Dad's old cab-over camper. The fishing was good, the fellowship was better, and we would often meet other friends there. Linda and I had been married a few years and were living in Salina, KS when this event took place.

Linda and I had just arrived. It was getting toward evening and we all went down to the spillway and had our usual good luck catching large crappie. My Dad cleaned them--nobody else could do it correctly--put most of them on ice and saved a few that he cooked in the back of the camper on the stove. My Father was very good at this. In fact, his particular skill was being able to cook on this stove while Mom drove down the highway at high rates of speed!. But, in this case, we were stationary--all of us--and enjoyed a dinner of fried crappie, fried potatoes, and whatever else Dad wanted to fix. After supper, Dad decided he wanted to fish some more before dark. Technicalities like daily limits and creel limits were a bit fuzzy to my Father. Well, darkness came and we all retired to the close quarters of an eight-foot cab-over camper. Dad decided to leave a couple of poles baited in the water overnight. The legality of this technique is also questionable. And then we retired for the evening.

That night some storms rolled through and if you've never experienced a real Kansas thunder storm in a rocking cab-over camper with five people and perhaps two dogs in it, you really have led a sheltered life. The thunder rolled, the lightening flashed all around us and the wind blew. I really think the only person who slept much was my Father who I'm convinced could have slept through the Normandy Invasion. In fact, I think he may have. . .but I digress. We woke up early the next morning, had breakfast, and Dad went down to check his fishing poles that he'd left out. That is to say, he employed a technique that he'd perfected through the years. He said, "Ruth, while I'm fixing breakfast, why don't you go down and check on those poles I left out last night."

Mother took me along with her. I should say that I would be of no assistance whatever under any circumstances. I was then, and am now, perhaps the world's worst fisherman. When we got down to the spillway, there were three other men who'd been fishing all night. We asked them if they'd had any luck and they said no, mumbling something about a low pressure system moving in. Mother pulled the first pole out of the water and reeled in the line and there was nothing on it. Then she picked up the second rod and reel and said, "You know, Butch, I think I'm hung on a rock." My advice was simple and succinct: I said, "Pull harder and reel." She did and we quickly realized that we had a very large fish on the line. She sent me to get my Dad, realizing that this was no job for amateurs. I guess at this point I should tell you to that in order to land this fish, we had to pull it up over the spillway wall which was approximately 10 to 15 feet high. Here we were Mom reeling and pulling, Dad giving instructions, and me standing there with a net on the end of a rope. It really must have been a humorous side show.

Mom got the fish to the spillway wall. I dropped the net down on the rope into the water, scooped up the fish, and we dragged it up over the spillway wall. It was the largest Channel Cat I'd ever seen! Now, the three fellows who were fishing legally at the end of the spillway saw, and probably heard, all the commotion. They came to look at the fish as well. Mother was standing there with the pole in her hand, the net and the fish at her feet as the men walked up. Assuming that my Mother had come down there, made one cast, and caught this giant catfish, they began putting their equipment away and muttering. We heard one of them say to the others as they walked to their car disgustedly, "We've been fishing here all night and didn't catch a thing, and this woman comes down here in the morning, makes one cast and catches a huge catfish. Let's go home, boys." Well, nobody in our little group wanted to burst their bubble by long winded and truthful explanations, so we just waved and told them, "Better luck next time!" Fishing is a wonderful experience. Fish stories are even better! Have a good day.

Story Four: Winter Ice Storm

Some of my favorite memories as a child were going to visit my grandparents down in Shell Knob, Missouri. They had a big house on a huge plot of land (okay, it all seemed huge as a kid) within walking distance of Table Rock Lake. We would spend weeks down there in the summer, chasing rabbits, picking wild blackberries, trying to catch minnows in the lake. The lake house was also a wonderful destination for Christmas. We spent several memorable Christmases at Grandma and Grandpa's house. The kids all slept sprawled out on mattresses in the basement next to the old wood stove which kept heat in the house. The adults piled in upstairs, filling the bedrooms and the living room. Food was plentiful and laughter abundant. Grandma and Grandpa always let us kids have the run of the place, except for Grandma's "lost room". A large storage space, Grandma kept us out of it by telling us we would get lost and be stuck there forever if we ventured in. Gullible kids, we kept out!

One of the Christmases that stands out most in my mind during this time, other than the one where Grandpa almost smoked us out forgetting to open the flu, was the Christmas we drove through an ice storm to get to Grandma and Grandpa's. It was Christmas Eve and we were on our way, making the four hour trip from Clinton to Shell Knob. We had two cars; a station wagon and my Grandpa William's white Buick. Both cars were piled high with suitcases, pillows, sleeping bags, snacks and black trash bags filled with Christmas gifts and wrapping supplies. The weather didn't start to get bad until we reached Southern Missouri. We were on highway 39, a winding, hilly, two-lane stretch of road with no real shoulder to pull off on. In hindsight, I have no idea why we drove through an ice storm. I can only say that it was over twenty years ago, and maybe the meteorologists weren't quite as dead-on as they are now--ha, ha! Regardless, night had fallen, ice was falling, and it was slick going.

My dad and sister were driving ahead of my mom, Grandpa William and I. I was snuggled up next to a trash bag full of gifts, thinking about my Annie book I would be opening in the morning, when I suddenly felt that tingling sensation that comes from spinning on a merry-go-round. Before I knew it, we were stuck. My mom pushed on the gas, the tires squealed, but to no avail. Looking out the front window, I couldn't even see the tail lights that were my dad and my sister. Not only were we stuck, we were stranded! Being Christmas Eve, and the fact that ice was dropping from the sky, there wasn't a lot of traffic on the road. In fact, we were the only traffic on the road.

I can't remember how long we sat there, pondering what to do. This was the pre-cell phone era. But I know that the darkness was eventually lifted by a pair of headlights coming up behind us. A young police officer from the Billings police department slid up to my Mom's window and asked if he could help. Before long, our car was out of the ditch and pointed back in the right direction. In the morning, everything was coated in crystal. I remember thinking that the ice covered trees sparkling in the sun were some of the most beautiful pieces of art I had ever seen. After opening our gifts, we piled back into the car with two plates filled full of Christmas dinner and headed over to the police station in Billings to thank the young officer who rescued the stranded travelers that icy Christmas Eve.

Sara

Story Three: Putting Up Sheet Rock

I am afraid that I was an eternal embarrassment to my Father. He could do anything. He was a really good fisherman, he could play poker as well as anyone I've ever known, and he was good with his hands. By that I mean that he could build and fix things. He and my Mother finished their house in Shell Knob, Missouri all by themselves. I'm talking about electrical and plumbing. Dad just knew how to do stuff.

Once, I was visiting on a weekend when Dad asked if I could help him hang some sheet rock. I had never done this before, so I said sure. I should tell you that I knew nothing about hanging sheet rock. If I had, I would have found a reason to head home immediately. My job was to take a T shaped board and hold up the sheet rock while my Father stood on a ladder with a drill and put in the screws. I can't describe how badly my arms and shoulders hurt after the first hour or so. As the pain got worse, I began to let the pieces sag a bit. This would not do. My father and I began to have words as to whose job was not being done properly. Finally, I threw the hated stick down and said: " OK, If I'm not doing this to suit you, you can get someone else to do it !!" Then I stomped out of the room.

An hour or so passed as I pouted and fumed. Dad had gone to bed. I went downstairs and asked Mom if she thought Dad would mind me coming up to see him. I said I figured he was probably still mad at me. Mom smiled and reminded me that Dad was not the one who got mad. She said that of course I could go see him. I walked into his room and woke him (not easy to do since he couldn't hear very well). I said, "Dad, I'm sorry I got mad tonight. I''m just not very good at building." He didn't say anything and I started to walk away. Then he rolled over and said, "We'll get a good early start tomorrow. You'll do better." He then turned over and went back to sleep.

That was my Dad. Sleep well.

Story Two: Camping at Shadow Rock

Some of the greatest memories of my childhood were gathered at Shadow Rock park in Forsyth, Missouri. We would go there to camp every summer. The group would usually consist of my Grandparents, my Mom and Dad, my Brother and my Sister. We had a large tent and 2 station wagons. The boys, my brother Charley and I, would sleep on air mattresses in the back of the station wagon. This was really the best of the accommodations available. If the weather was good, we could leave the tailgate open and get a good breeze. If it rained, we had the only real shelter available. The women slept in the relative sanctity of the tent. It leaked badly,and was hot and stuffy if it didn't rain. So, Charley and I shared the penthouse every night. My Father and Grandpa slept on the covered picnic tables. This may all sound primitive to some, but to an 8 year old it was a mighty adventure. I should mention that we slept mostly with our heads on the tailgate. This logistic information is to let the reader know that, if we wanted to, and we usually did, we had an unobstructed view of the entire night sky. It was a beautiful thing, probably lost on an 8-year-old boy.

Mornings came early at Shadow Rock Park. There was much stirring in the campground as people were getting ready to go fishing or boating or whatever adventures awaited them. The sun was usually up by 7:00 or so. By this time, my Grandma Polly had been up for hours! She had built a fire and begun cooking breakfast over the open fire. (My Father had bought Grandma at least one new Coleman cook stove which, to my knowledge, was never taken out of the box. She was simply unable to cook on one of those newfangled devices.) I'll describe that feast for you: she would cook eggs to order, that's if you liked them scrambled, usually sprinkling in some wild onions that she'd picked. The menu usually included thick slices of fried bacon and panfried potatoes cooked in the bacon grease. Grandpa would have made his famous fluffy biscuits which had to be eaten warm with Grandma's fresh churned butter and homemade preserves. My favorite was the strawberry but there were others. Coffee was available cooked in an enamel coffeepot and boiled for hours. It was strong but a liberal amount of cream and sugar made it drinkable. Now I really can't describe to you the aromas that filled the air around our campsite, but to this day the scent of bacon frying in a cast iron skillet is one of the real pleasures of life.

Most of the time our little group of seven would swell in number around breakfast time. Grandma would complain but she'd continue to cook. We had people like park rangers, sheriffs, people who took the camping fees--all seemed to show up about breakfast time. There would be much conversation and laughter and the planning of the day just seemed to be a natural kind of process. It was a simple time with people enjoying simple pleasures. Shadow Rock Park is still there. It's different now. There are motels and hotels close by. Branson is just down the road and Table Rock Lake is a very short drive away. But, for me, Shadow Rock Park will always be frozen in time. I can still hear Granny saying, "Come on, boys. If you don't hurry, you're not going to get any breakfast." As if we really needed to be encouraged!

Story One: Hallelujah! Happy Easter!!

One of the many jobs my father had as a young man was working for the Little Sisters of the Poor in Kansas City. The sisters ran a Catholic nursing home and charity, and my father had a number of tasks ranging from the menial daily chores of cleaning and laundry to the more adventuresome tasks of taking the sisters on a road trip and picking up a charitable donation from a well-known mafia boss.

Yet perhaps my father's most memorable moment at Little Sisters of the Poor came on an early Easter morning in April. My father had laundry duty which began before the sun came up. Now, I need to note that my father is not a morning person. In fact, he's the farthest thing from it. My mother's morning mantra around my father's grumpiness was, "Well, it's morning." So here was my father, not a morning person, walking through a darkened parking lot toward the nursing home, shoulders hunched against the cold of an early morning, grousing about work and early and Easter morning. Out of nowhere, the silence of the pre-dawn is broken by a voice from above calling out, "Hallelujah! Happy Easter!"

My father stopped in his tracks and looked around. Although he wasn't quite awake yet, he didn't think he was delusional. And, he couldn't imagine a divine messenger braving a cold Sunday morning to send a message for him. Just as he was about to shake it off and move on, he was suddenly knocked off his feet by something big and plumpy. Lying on top of him on the concrete, was a big, cotton laundry bag filled with sheets ready for the day's wash. My father pushed himself off the ground and looked up for the source. There, above him, her black robes billowing around her, was Sister Isabella, the austere matron of the Little Sisters of the Poor. Hands on her hips she called down to my father in her "I mean business" voice--"I said, Hallelujah! Happy Easter!!"

Needless to say, my father quickly dove into action. "Hallelujah, Happy Easter!" he called up to Sister Isabella, at the same time swinging the twenty pound laundry bag over his shoulder and scampering in the back door.

Although I never met Sister Isabella, I see her every Easter morning calling out from that rooftop. And that's what a good story can do. :-)

Sara

The Story

My name is Sara. I grew up in a small town with two loving parents and a wonderful little sister. We had a small, but tight knit family growing up. My father (who you'll meet later) was a high school English/History/Speech/Drama teacher and my mother was a middle school librarian. It's no wonder that I grew up with a fondness for stories. They were all around me. Books before bed each night, my favorite tales memorized before I could even begin to read. But perhaps my favorite stories came from the memories of my grandpa and my dad.

My grandpa had, and my dad still has the ability to bring the past to life in their tales of family adventure, love, intrigue, hardship, faith and perseverance. So much of who I have become, what I have learned to value, the faith that has blossomed through the years came sitting at the feet of these two men hanging on every word.

Stories change us. Stories inspire us. Stories teach us. Stories hurt us. And stories can heal us, especially those stories of people with whom we share common genes. It is in these family tales that we discover who we are, and maybe come to a better understanding of who we were meant to be.

I've begun this blog as a place to record these stories, so that my children and their children will know the people who helped to bring them into this world. My Dad is Grandpa Stu, the story-teller. These are his stories, and mine, and yours, if they mean something to you. It is a space for my dad and I to share what we both so greatly love.

So without further ado, here is the first in Grandpa Stu's Tall Tales and Legends...