Playing With Dynamite

There is little to do in a small town in the summer if you are a boy in the depths of adolescence. And so, you invent something to do. One of our "inventions" was breaking a lock at a local rock quarry and playing with dynamite, literally.

First came blasting caps. Back then, there was a commercial on TV that warned viewers about picking up blasting caps. A graphic showed the range of an exploding cap and it appeared as if these tiny, metallic things (right) could kill an unwitting kid at ten miles around a corner. Thus, myself and three or four other idiots carefully set a cap on a boulder, then began chucking rocks at it. With each toss we would dive for cover. After a few minutes of nervous hurling one of us finally got lucky and indeed, the cap exploded. The report was about the same as a very small firecracker.

Like everything else in life, familiarity breeds contempt. TV commercials or no TV commercials, within hours we were handling blasting caps like other people handle popcorn, sometimes tossing whole boxes of 150 or more into the nearby Kaw River with water proof fuses attached. The resulting explosions were similar in sound and effect to depth charges seen on "Victory at Sea."

The next day we jacked it up considerably. We were building a dugout bunker up the river near the mouth of Coon Creek and since none of us were nuts about actually digging with a shovel, we all agreed to take the easy route. Placing a stick of dynamite in the sand, we lit the fuse and ran for cover. It was a dud. So, we brought out not one, but ten more sticks, packed them together, then lit the fuse....

Had the explosion been a nuclear detonation, it could not have startled us more. Amid a rising plume of smoke and a shower of sand and tree limbs, we all stared at one another in horror, our faces white as chalk. Like terrified quail, we scattered and went tearing wildly through the jungle, fully convinced that every adult within thirty miles was zeroing in on us.

For several days we culprits were afraid to even be seen with one another. Except for our pounding hearts, however, nothing came of the incident save that never more did we play with dynamite.

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Before You Let Some Genius Zit Your Body....






...better make sure he can spell first!

Current Events

For as long as I can remember, I have been fascinated by rivers. Rivers are both byways and barriers; to understand history, first understand rivers. For any college student majoring in history, I think they first should be forced to take six hours of riverine geography.

The Kansas, or "Kaw," River (above) is my river. I grew up on it; I grew up in it; to this day it runs through me as surely as my blood. Like the state, the Kansas is as heavy with history and culture as it is with silt and sand. John Fremont, Jedediah Smith, William Sublette, and other famed explorers used the broad Kansas Valley like some Nineteenth-Century super highway as they pushed west toward the mountains. Lewis and Clark camped at the mouth of the Kaw in 1804. The Pawnee, Shawnee, Delaware, Pottawatomie, Osage, and, of course, the tribe from whence the river and state draw its name, hunted and fished along the sandy stream and lived in its dark forests.

Later, white men fought for control of this river. Print type of opposing newspapers was dumped into the Kansas by mobs; pro-slavery settlers in Lecompton and free-soil settlers in Lawrence swam for their lives across the swirling brown current when their enemies approached.

Exciting as events were, the Kaw is as important for what did not happen along its banks as what did. Although there was significant early steamboat traffic, the vicissitudes of sailing on the often shallow stream soon became clear. Thus, with no sure route west save the grinding overland trails, most arrivals to early Kansas simply stopped and settled within a day or two of leaving the Missouri River. Much of the early history of the territory and state occurred in the right angle formed by the Missouri and Kaw. Sometimes this situation aided the state--during his 1864 invasion, Confederate General Sterling Price was forced to remain south of the river, thereby allowing the Union defenders to concentrate and repulse him at Kansas City--and sometimes the situation hindered the state, as when the river foiled federal pursuit of William Quantrill following the 1863 Lawrence Massacre. Whatever the case, the impact that this great river has had upon the state of Kansas is beyond calculation.

Along the tangled banks of the river are hundred-foot high cottonwoods and sycamores. Grapevines, thicker than a man's leg, make movement difficult, and sometimes impossible. Mountain lions, bobcats and wild turkey roam the bluffs. Under the river's murky surface, there are things lurking that I don't even want to think about.

And there is something more: Many a Kansas child living between Junction City, where the Kaw begins, and Kansas City, where it ends, became a hopeless dreamer and traveler after spending idle hours watching this broad, swift river slide silently away to the sea.

In sum, the Kansas is a mighty, historic river worthy of donning the name of a mighty, historic state. Wherever you're at, in whatever state or nation, before you study your history, study your rivers; much will then become clear.

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Debbie Daily

South Dakota--If Tom had read this before we headed for Deadwood, he would never have gone. According to news releases, the mountain lion population is increasing in the Black Hills and an educational session is being held tomorrow night (April 12) at the Adams Museum, downtown Deadwood. City Police Detective, Greg Nelson, will "cover some do's and don'ts about keeping mountain lions out of town" and "will also go over the posture of the cat and certain attack positions." He will discuss important facts and safety issues regarding contact with mountain lions. Last year, Nelson was involved in tracking a mountain lion near Deadwood, which is currently on display at the Adams Museum. Lawrence County Wildlife Officer, Mike Apland, also will be on hand to answer questions. My plan is to have Detective Nelson beside me IF we venture back into the Black Hills. New Mexico--Emma Bodie Begay died on Good Friday. She was 119 years old. Yes, that's one-hundred and nineteen. When Emma was born in a hogan near Mariano Lake, Grover Cleveland was president, and Sitting Bull, Geronimo, Wyatt Earp, Frank James, and Libbie Custer were alive and well. Only three of Emma's 12 children survive her, and she leaves nearly 300 grandchildren, more great-, and even more great-great, grandchildren. Her husband died in 1974. Her granddaughter, Rosita Smith, recalls Emma singing to her each morning when she awoke at 4 a.m. Her favorite song was "How Great Thou Art." To offer condolences or help with burial expenses, contact Smith at 505-287-0741 or send to P.O. Box 127, Prewitt, NM 81045.

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You Know You're a Hillbilly If....















....your dishes are worth more than your house.

Purge

Melville Stone stepped into the crowded hotel. The night was cool and misty and the nation’s capital seemed strangely silent. On this particular evening, that was understandable. After a week of wild celebration following the capture of Richmond and Robert E. Lee’s surrender, all the pent emotions of the past four years seemed finally expended. A reporter for the Associated Press, Stone must have felt relief. Like others in the hotel, in the city, and throughout the North, the week-long revel of parades, fireworks, speeches, toasts, and songs to conclude four years of bloody civil war left little energy in the journalist for much more than to rest, relax and contemplate the coming peace.

But then Stone and others in the hotel heard a commotion in the streets. There were shouts and the sound of people running. Finally, the hotel door burst open.

“Lincoln’s been murdered...shot at Ford‘s Theater!” a breathless man blurted out. “It’s true...it’s true! The president‘s been killed!”

Before those in the hotel could utter a word, the man was gone. Everyone stood stunned and silent. Disbelieving eyes searched other disbelieving eyes. Surely it was a joke? Surely the man was crazy? Surely he was drunk?


Suddenly, the silence was shattered.

“Good!” laughed a man loudly as he clapped his hands. “The old son of a bitch should have been killed four years ago!”

The sounds jolted a nearby federal officer. Without a word the soldier pulled his pistol, pointed it at the man’s head, then blew his brains all over the wall.

Tolling bells...echoing minute guns...a nation of tearful mourners...these are the images we carry from the day Lincoln died; a day so dark and dreary, a day so rainy and sad that many at the time felt “the very heavens were weeping.” For the most part, these images are correct. But, as the incident witnessed by Melville Stone illustrates, there was another side to this most singular of American events; a side far, far darker than anyone ever imagined and a side that, until now, has remained lost in the mythology surrounding our slain sixteenth president.

This Saturday, April 14, is the 142nd anniversary of Lincoln's assassination. The purge that swept America following his death has remained a dark secret until now. It lasted for weeks, it was felt by all...and you won’t find it in history books. You will find an account, however, in the current issue of Armchair General magazine. Pick up a copy of this big, fat, colorful journal at your local bookstore or newsstand. Better yet, click on the link below and subscribe right now:

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El Braino says....


If you love Hillbilly History, check out Deb's new blog at.....

Mason-Dixon Wild West

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Photo of the Day


With one final glance at his old home up in the rocks, "Billy Cactusseed" set off on his life-long quest to plant cactus wherever he trod...and kill anyone who tried to stop him.

Stunt Monkeys

We live in an age of extreme extremism. There is no moderation; no sanity; simply one pole or the other, black or white. When someone does something remarkable, some nut out there must top it, no matter what it costs. Witness all the "reality" and "survival" shows. All of this is a result, I suppose, of modern man's fear of anonymity, and flight from same, of which I touched upon in the last blog.

Much has been written lately on the wild man who lives, hunts and feeds with wolves. Wasn't enough that a couple, a man and wife, recently spent six years in the wilds studying wolf packs scientifically; this most recent nut had to get down in the blood and guts with the wolves, "to truly understand them." I probably should keep my trap shut on this maniac for I do not know even a part, much less the whole, story. But I will say this: When this wolf man's mess mates finally turn on him during a carcass feeding frenzy and rip him into itty-bitty inches, the world may lament, but I shall not. Crazy as he may be (right), he must surely understand the consequences of his acts. Fame has its dues.

As mentioned in an earlier blog, I generally have a live and let live attitude toward all nature, animal, vegetable or mineral. The operative word here is "live." When something out there would like nothing better than to kill and eat me, I will either stay away from the threat or start carrying a pistol and knife. For someone to voluntarily live with wolves, sharks, bears, alligators, or whatnot, displays a desperation for notoriety that simply baffles me. Like those professional risk-takers I see on TV, those people who are so maniacal for glory that they will risk everything, including their lives, to gain public fame and favor--skiing down avalanches, jumping motorcycles over 22 cars, hang-gliding through airplane hangers, setting themselves on fire. Screw public fame and favor. From those I have known and talked to who have plenty of fame and favor, it really isn't worth it.

Speaking of wolves, here is an account from Fort Larned, Kansas (left), during the mid-Nineteenth Century:


[A] mad wolf, a very large grey wolf, entered the post and bit one if the sentinels--ran into the hospital and bit a man lying in bed--passed another tent, and pulled a man out of his bed, biting him severely--bit one man's finger nearly off--bit at some woman, and I believe one or two other persons in bed.... [He] passed through the hall of [a] house, and pounced upon a large dog which he found there, and whipped him badly in half a minute, and then passed on to where there was a sentinel guarding the haystacks, and tried to bite the sentinel, but did not succeed--the sentinel shooting and killing him on the spot! He proved to be of a very unusual size, and there appears to be no doubt that he had the hydrophobia. The Indians say that they have never known one bitten by a mad wolf to recover.

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Photo of the Day





















Among other tribes, the Hooter Indians were greatly feared due to their uncanny stealth and penchant for night attacks.