The Mad Hatter II

When Civil War came in 1861, Boston Corbett (above) was initially torn between patriotism and the teachings of Christ. At length, he reached a decision.

"I have prayed over it," he told Rev. Rogers, "and I must go."

"He thought it right to shoot traitors wherever they could be found and he had announced his willingness to ‘shoot men like dogs,'" revealed a friend. "He rejoined that the rebels deserved just that; he would first say to them: ‘God have mercy on your souls,' and then ‘pop them off.' "

Trouble began almost from the moment Corbett entered the army. When a colonel one day "cursed and damned" his men as they stood at attention, the new recruit was stirred to action.

Recorded a witness:

Corbett stepped out of the ranks and reproved him, saying that he had violated military regulations and the laws of God, and he considered it his duty to reprimand him. Corbett then took a Bible out of his pocket and read the commandment, "Thou shall not swear." The result was that Corbett was ordered into the guard-house for punishment. He went cheerfully, declaring on the way that he had done only what was right, and that he was willing to accept what should come of it. In the guard-house he sung psalms, disturbing the other prisoners. He was then directed by the officer in charge not to sing any more, but he would not obey, and did as he pleased.
 
This initial brush with military law would not be his last. "I have seen him often in the guard-house," recalled a comrade, "with his knapsack full of bricks as a punishment, with his Testament in his hand, lifting up his voice against swearing, preaching temperance, and calling upon his wild companions to ‘seek the Lord.' " Unlike other prisoners, Corbett would emerge from his numerous confinements smiling and happy, announcing that he had spent a "good time with his God and his Bible."

When the incorrigible soldier abandoned his post one night, declaring that his enlistment was up at midnight, he was arrested, tried, convicted, and sentenced to be shot. The government settled on drumming the troublemaker out of the military, instead.

With his patriotism rekindled, Corbett reenlisted, this time with the Sixteenth New York Cavalry. In a fight with John Mosby's guerrillas in Virginia, Corbett found himself suddenly cut off from comrades. Although his predicament was dire, surrendering to rebels never entered his head.

"I faced and fought against a whole column of them," he later reminisced. Before his ammunition finally gave out, Corbett reportedly killed seven of the enemy, shouting
"Amen! Glory to God!" as each man fell. Soon overwhelmed, the defiant Yankee was packed off to the Andersonville prison camp in Georgia. After several months of captivity, Corbett was exchanged and returned to the North. Again, unlike other prisoners who managed to survive the hellish conditions at the prison and harbored only nightmarish memories of their captivity, upon his release Corbett could only give thanks and praise the Lord.

"There God was good to me, sparing my life," he said matter-of-factly. "But bless the Lord, a score of souls were converted, right on the spot where I lay for three months without any shelter."

After recruiting his health at a military hospital in Maryland, Corbett found himself in Washington on Black Friday, April 14, 1865. Like everyone else, the Sergeant lamented the slain president and longed to see the assassin caught and punished. Unlike most, though, Corbett prayed day and night that God might make him the instrument of his wrath by allowing him the honor of "popping off" the murderer. God heard and God delivered. In a bizarre turn of events, Corbett was on hand the very night federal cavalry surrounded a barn in which John Wilkes Booth was hiding. Despite orders not to fire, Corbett did.

"Why in hell did you shoot without orders?" demanded an angry officer as Booth lay dying on the ground.

Coming to attention and saluting, the strange little sergeant stared at his accuser for an instant, then pointed to heaven.

"Colonel, God Almighty directed me."

Seeing at a glance that he was not dealing with a balanced mind, the officer shrugged, then had the malefactor arrested.

When the column returned to Washington with Booth's body, a lieutenant marched Corbett directly into the War Department where the grim, bespectacled Edwin Stanton was waiting.

"Are you sure Corbett shot Booth?" stared the stern Secretary of War.

"I am," answered the lieutenant.

"You arrested him for firing without your order?"

"I did."

"You did right," said Stanton as he turned to the sergeant. "Do you agree with the Lieutenant's story?"

"Yes," replied Corbett, "I shot without an order. . . . I think I did right."

After a brief pause to eye the strange little man, Stanton at last spoke: "The rebel is dead, the patriot lives; he has spared the country expense, continued excitement and trouble. Discharge the patriot."

Thus did Boston Corbett narrowly avert yet another court-martial. Even greater surprises were waiting outside, however. Accepting a lunch invitation from a War Department employee named Johnson, Corbett and his host were followed by a growing crowd eager to feast their eyes on the slayer of Booth. Once at the home, the throng became so noisy and its demands for a speech were so loud, that the hero was at last forced to step out onto the porch. When the cheers and applause finally faded, Corbett spoke.

"Fellows," shouted the sergeant. "I am glad to see you all. Johnson won't let me make a speech. Goodbye."

After lunch, Corbett's host led him through the streets toward Matthew Brady's studio where photographs of the now famous celebrity were scheduled. Again, surrounded by wild, cheering crowds, the sergeant was besieged by hundreds seeking his autograph. One man offered Corbett a thousand dollars for the revolver he used to kill Booth. Although his carbine had already disappeared while he was at the War Department, the little soldier refused the money, stating that the pistol was government property and not his to sell. Others in the throng merely wanted to hear Corbett speak and tell his tale. The hero was happy to oblige:
 
I aimed at his body. I did not want to kill him. . . . I think he stooped to pick up something just as I fired. That may probably account for his receiving the ball in the head.

When the assassin lay at my feet, a wounded man, and I saw the bullet had taken effect about an inch back of the ear, and I remembered that Mr. Lincoln was wounded about the same part of the head, I said: "What a God we have. . . . God avenged Abraham Lincoln."
From a religious crank and crazy fanatic, disobedience of orders and a single pistol shot had elevated Boston Corbett to an "eccentric" hero and man of the hour.

"He will live as one of the World's great avengers," praised a grateful editor.

For the next several weeks Corbett remained a popular, if curious, tourist attraction. Wherever he trod people were sure to stop and stare and swarming crowds were certain to follow. In keeping with his character, Corbett eagerly used his new notoriety to save souls and spread the Lord's mighty message. Wrote the sergeant in one admiring lady's album: "Andersonville, the blackest spot on earth was made bright and glorious by the saving presence of God. His providence also was manifest in delivering me from that place, and making me the agent of His swift retribution on the assassin of our beloved President, Abraham Lincoln." As Corbett soon discovered, however, fame had its price.

Despite persistent requests to buy his pistol, Corbett refused, insisting that it was not his to sell. And so, someone simply stole it. Also, the sergeant began receiving crank letters and hate mail. For the moment, Corbett was too preoccupied to trouble himself with death threats. Instead, he spent much of his time trying to secure his share of the $50,000 in reward money–of which he had not seen a cent–and using his sudden status to badger Edwin Stanton into granting him an early discharge from the army, a request the secretary refused. Soon, though, Corbett's concern for his personal safety became all-consuming. Increasingly, the famous sergeant considered himself a "marked man," imagining that mysterious figures were dogging his trail; men who definitely were not interested in his autograph.

"My life has been threatened in a most blood-thirsty manner, but God is well able to protect me," announced the hero in public. In private, however, Corbett began withdrawing from the limelight. When newspapers reported that he had been murdered near Baltimore, the sergeant saw it as a terrible omen and became even more neurotic. After pulling his new pistol on another sergeant who had angrily ordered him from a military stable, Corbett was court-martialed yet again. The defendant's only alibi–"I was on the alert for anyone that might molest me"–was not good enough; he was convicted and received a reprimand.

With his revolver capped and ready for action, Corbett turned in each night with the weapon under his pillow, expecting a visit from either stealthy assassins, the ghost of John Wilkes Booth, or the devil himself. Since those individuals still seeking his signature could expect a pistol pointed at their heads and a lengthy interrogation, autograph-seekers became fewer and fewer. Delusions, self-mutilations, dementia, orders from God–Boston Corbett could now add chronic paranoia to his growing list of mental maladies.

When Corbett finally received his cut of the reward money, it was a mere $1,653.95. Long before that, however, the destitute former soldier would have gladly swapped the money–most of which was soon stolen anyway–simply to still the demons within. Already haunted by visions and voices, after Corbett left the military he found himself ruthlessly hounded by them.
 
HELL, September 1, 1874 Boston Corbett: Nemesis is on your path. J. WILKES BOOTH
Hate letters from ill-wishers like that above which many famous people received, were pondered, then processed through Corbett's disturbed mind until they were transformed into dozens of stealthy assassins relentlessly dogging his trail. Fearing the wrath of "Booth's Avengers," the "Secret Order," and a host of other blood-thirsty organizations, Corbett remained ever-vigilant and kept his pistol handy at all times. More likely now than ever to pull his weapon on suspicious strangers–which included virtually everyone–fewer and fewer friends were willing to risk death by facing the fanatic's dangerous paranoia.

After scratching out the barest of living as a hatter and part-time preacher, the former army sergeant left the East for good in 1878 to stake a claim in the West. From a "little forlorn-looking house" in New Jersey, Corbett moved into a veritable hole in the ground here in Cloud County, Kansas. Unfortunately for the novice homesteader, the letters in the mail and the voices in his head that had plagued him earlier not only followed him to Kansas, but they greatly increased. As a result, Corbett began wearing two revolvers.

Almost immediately, the strange little man with the "wild look" caused trouble with his new neighbors. Whether it was warning trespassers from his land with a shotgun blast or whether it was waving his pistols at frightened youngsters who innocently played baseball on the Sabbath, the former soldier well-earned his reputation as a dangerous, crazy hermit. The few times Kansans coaxed Corbett from his muddy home to present lectures on Booth and Andersonville, the zealot spent the entire evening exhorting the crowds to repent of sin, uttering not a word of his famous exploits.

Finally, in a well-intentioned attempt to parade one of the state's most celebrated heroes, a local politician managed to appoint the recluse to the position of Third Assistant Doorkeeper at the Kansas Legislature in Topeka. The plan went well for nearly a month. On February 15, 1887, however, the voices in Corbett's head became louder than usual. Pulling his pistol and a knife, the little man ran wildly through the Capitol, sending legislators, clerks and janitors flying for cover. When the culprit was finally overpowered, he was hauled into court. County prosecutor, Charles Curtis, Kaw Indian and future vice president of the United States, needed only one look to satisfy himself that the defendant was utterly mad. Posthaste, at age fifty-five, Corbett was judged insane and led away several blocks to the state lunatic asylum.

For the next year, Corbett slipped in and out of delirium. The howls and screams of the other patients certainly did little to alleviate his paranoia or his reoccurring vision of assassins stalking the hallways. On May 26, 1888, while he and other inmates were enjoying their daily stroll outdoors, Corbett spotted an unattached horse. Before attendants realized what had happened, the former cavalryman had leaped on the animal and in a cloud of dust was last seen galloping south.

And thus, except for several reported sightings over the ensuing years, this was the last entry of Boston Corbett in the book of records. The famous slayer of Abraham Lincoln's assassin had come onto the world stage anonymous, and anonymous would he leave it.

The Mad Hatter

Of all the crazy characters I have run across in my research, Boston Corbett (above) may be the craziest. This nut from Cloud County, Kansas, rewrote the book on odd behavior.

O, Lord, lay not innocent blood to our charge but bring the guilty speedily to punishment.
 
Similar words were uttered in other churches throughout the land on that day, April 19, 1865. In this case, the words were not so very important so much as how they were said and by whom they were spoken. Leading this prayer in a Washington church four days after the murder of Abraham Lincoln was a small, slight man in a blue sergeant's uniform. With his long hair tied back, the newcomer soon warmed to his subject and began stalking among the pews. As the shocked church members watched in disbelief, the shouting stranger soon steered the services away from a eulogy of the dead president to a common revival rant on the wages of sin. With a shrill fervency in his cries of "Glory to God" and "Come to Jesus," anyone who peered into the man's wild eyes could see at a glance that his elevator didn't go all the way to the top.

Like many another late-comer to God (my Grandma Goldie and my Great Grandma Brown, included), Thomas Corbett was determined to recover lost ground with fanatical intensity. Soon after emigrating from England with his parents at the age of seven, the boy apprenticed as a hatter. While still very young, Corbett took a wife. Several years later though, the woman died during childbirth. Despondent over this loss and deeply in debt, the young man soon turned to drink, which only accelerated his plunge. One night in Boston, the drunk stumbled up to a street evangelist. Despite his reeling brain, Corbett heard for the first time in his life the voice of God. And with those words echoing in his head, a miracle occurred. Casting off his old life, including his name, the reborn Christian became a crusading missionary on the spot.

"In Boston I was converted; and there met my Redeemer," said the grateful man simply, "and Boston is the only name I wish to be called by."

In addition to reading the Bible day and night, Boston Corbett allowed his hair to grow long and parted it in the middle, in imitation of Christ. He also took his Savior's message to heart by sharing his meager resources with any less fortunate. Taking his religious verve further and further, the young man also refused to work for any employer whom he considered "un-Godly." And even when he did find a boss that measured up, Corbett's habit of halting work to kneel and pray for profane co-workers insured that the crusader would find himself habitually unemployed.

Moving to New York City, Corbett quickly joined a Methodist church. It was not long, however, before the newest member began to "greatly annoy" others in the flock with his peculiar brand of religion. According to one account:

He took part frequently, and in his prayers was in the habit of adding "er" to all his words, as "O Lord-er, hear-er our prayer-er." When anything pleased him he would shout, "Amen," "Glory to God," in a sharp, shrill voice, to the great horror of the Dutchman who controls the meeting. All remonstrance was in vain, and he shouted to the very last.
 
When the newcomer was especially aroused he would whoop and scream like an Indian, startling to a panic the more sedate parishioners. Boston Corbett's missionary work was not limited to the temple. Like John the Baptist of old, he took his message into the field. Remembered the Reverend J. O. Rogers:

He often visited the docks, and places of toil, where he would mount some box or chair, and speak to the rough natures around him of Christ and the resurrection. He was frequently threatened with mischief, and on one occasion a burly Irishman succeeded in banding a considerable force for the purpose of compelling him to leave. Corbett was not in the least dismayed. "Now you cannot scare me. I am not made of any such stuff as you suppose. You may bring all Ireland with you, and it won't frighten me in the least."

Although he and God may have faced down Irish mobs, inwardly Corbett was troubled by his own demons. One night, after his return to Boston, Corbett discovered two young women watching him closely with a gleam in their eyes that was anything but Godly. Frightened by the "animal passions" rising within, the desperate young man–-now in his mid-twenties–-had a vision right there on the spot. Racing home, Corbett reached up to a shelf, grabbed a pair of very sharp scissors, lowered his trousers, then promptly castrated himself. Once purged of the devil, the fanatic thereupon went to a prayer meeting that same night and followed it up with a "hearty dinner." 

(continued tomorrow)

Down on the Farm 6

When I was about twelve, a family named Budd moved in to the old Hoover place a mile north of our farm. I first realized there was a kid about my age when the BB gun was stolen. 

Grandma and I were fishing down on the creek at the rock hole not far from the family's home. When we walked back up the meadow to the car, I discovered that my BB gun was no where in sight. Grandma drove right over to the Budd's place. She and the mother, Naomi, were already good friends.

"Hey, Goldie!" a pert ten-year-old said when she came out to the car.

"Norma," asked Grandma, "have you seen Mikie's BB gun?"

The child didn't even blink.

"Well, we got your gun. Albert said he found it in the creek."

We did indeed get the gun back. Norma couldn't tell a lie if her life depended on it; it just never entered her pretty head to lie about anything. A few days later I met her brother, the thief. Albert was a rather long, lanky, hound-dog sort of kid, about a year older than me. He fit the perfect profile of a lazy hillbilly. Unlike Norma, Albert couldn't tell the truth if he saw any edge in the lie (which was just fine with me since I was sort of that way myself). Fishing, swimming, smoking-–we got along just capital.

Albert's six-year-old brother, Jimmy, followed us around wherever we went and because of his laughing good nature and willingness to act as our slave, he generally avoided our kicks in the butt. Little Elmer Budd, four, was too small to serve and was always left behind.

The Budds had been migrant farm workers. They must have spent much of their time in the Ozarks or Arkansas since their accents were a bit more nasally than most folks in that section of southern Missouri. With six mouths to feed and one on the way, the father, Wanda ("Wan-dee," in the vernacular), and the mother, Naomi ("Nay-o-muh," in the vernacular), decided to abandon the nomad life and settle down. The place they picked had to be the hardest of hard-scrabble farms. Several cows, a pig or two, an old tractor that broke down on cue, a barn, and a small patch of rocky, pitiless earth. But what was lacking in cash flow, Naomi made up for with her bounteous garden. Despite adversity, the family got along.

Wanda was a little rooster of a man, thin and wiry with a face that indicated he had made much "history." He probably drank too much, but who down there didn't? He always had a laugh and kind word for me. Naomi was a large, dark-headed woman with one eye that shot off at an angle as she looked at you. She was a good, ever-laughing lady and when she and Grandma got together it was like two geese trying to communicate, so liquid and varied were the range of their warbles.

Wanda had a younger brother that would visit from time to time. Bobby Budd was somewhere between twenty and forty and deeply retarded. He was what might be called a howling lunatic. Bobby always wore old coveralls, clod hopper boots and an engineer's cap. According to little Norma, he ate only peanut butter sandwiches and chocolate pudding. Since Grandma had been kind to him, Bobby was in the habit of riding his bike down the long gravel road once a day. He would ring his bell furiously the moment he hit the driveway, then stand outside hollering "GOL–DEEEEEE!" until Grandma appeared.

"Whatcha want Bobby?" Grandma would yell when she finally stuck her head out the door.

"NUTHIN'," he would holler back while straddling his bike. "Whatcha doin'?"

"Oh nuthin' much . . . just gettin' ready to do some wash."

Bobby would stand there in the driveway, under the big elm, silently staring about for a minute or more, a hideous red grimace carved permanently on his face.

"Well, I got to get to work, Bobby . . . you best go on home."

Our visitor might stand there staring for another ten or fifteen seconds, trying to register what was just said. Then the light bulb: "Okay, Goooldeeee. . . . I BE SEEIN' YA."

Bobby would get furious at Albert and me for some reason or another as we played around their place. When his limit was reached, he would suddenly and unexpectedly charge after us. This was truly a horrifying experience and we certainly never let him catch us for as everyone back then knew, crazy people had superhuman strength. Sometimes we would shoot him in the legs with the BB gun, which only made him angrier.

The following July, 1961, Naomi looked out the window and saw smoke billowing from the barn. In a panic, she called the township fire department. She then phoned the garage in Liberal where Wanda had taken Albert and Norma to get the tractor repaired. Farmers in the area soon arrived but by the time a fire truck pulled in followed by Wanda and the kids, the old straw in the barn had created an inferno too intense to extinguish. A bull, cow and calf, which Wanda had just sold and was to deliver that day, were tied up inside. Their cries to escape were horrible. When the tin roof exploded upwards, the rickety building began to collapse.

And then, the parents realized that one of their children was missing-–seven-year-old Jimmy. Desperately, the two ran around the fire calling his name. Ominously, the boy's bike was found leaning against the back of the barn. Refusing to believe what they feared, the mother and father ran through the pasture and timber surrounding the home, screaming the little boy's name. When the blaze finally cooled, firemen moved closer. Near the front of the barn, just inside what was once the door, lay the charred remains of Jimmy. His hands and feet were burned off, as was the top of his head. The mother and father broke down completely. There were theories–-matches, cigarettes, spontaneous combustion--but the cause of the fire was never determined.

I do not know what their luck was like before they moved to the Hannon area, but from my perspective, Jimmy's death seemed to set in motion a series of misfortunes that all but destroyed the family during the coming years.

In 1968, the Budd home burned to the ground. Naomi was inside at the time but the fire spread so rapidly that she was unable to save much of anything. Clothes, food, appliances, toys, keepsakes, photos–-all were consumed. Worse, their insurance covered only a fraction of the loss. For awhile, the family lived with neighbors but they eventually moved a trailer onto the place. At about this same time, Albert lost an eye. He and some other young idiots were horsing around and got into an egg fight.

Ten years later, Wanda killed himself. He had been deeply depressed and was drinking heavily. Several times he had warned Naomi that he was going to take his life, but had never followed through. One evening in late June, Wanda grabbed a large can of gasoline and doused the inside of an old junk car that was sitting in the barn lot. The troubled man carried the can back to the fence and set it down. He walked back to the car, got in, closed the door, rolled up the windows, then paused for one final glimpse at his life. He then struck a match. There was a terrific explosion, followed by a fire that burned everything that would burn, including all the pain and heartbreak that this poor man had endured for most of his existence. Wanda was sixty-three.

Soon after high school Norma married. Two or three children later she divorced and moved a trailer in next to her mother's. One day, her teenage son was out behind the place doing stunts with his bicycle on the dry pond bed. The ground had been baked as hard as rock. There was a mishap, the boy struck his head, and another Budd was dead.

To make ends meet, Naomi had taken a job as cook at the Blue Top Cafe just outside Lamar. As Norma was driving her home one evening a car T-boned them at the Liberal junction. Norma was okay, but her mama was no more. And so on.

Several years ago, I was in St. Joseph, Missouri, and needed to kill some time. I walked into a pub and sat down to nurse a slow one. Since we were the only two in the place, the bar maid and I began to chit-chat. When the woman mentioned that she was originally from Lamar, my interest picked up and we began talking about old times in Barton County. I asked her if she knew the Williams family (see "Down on the Farm 5," 5.5.07).

"Not only did I know them," she said, "but I went to school with several of them."

This was the first I had heard of the family since their abrupt departure from Hannon.

When the bar maid added, "And would you believe that Jimmy is now a doctor in Chicago," I was incredulous. I asked the woman if we were talking about the same Williams family. She assured me that indeed, we were. I was, and to this very day, am, stunned. If that young man, given his wretched background, can make it in the world, then anyone can.

I also asked the lady if she had ever heard of one Bobby Dean Miller (see "Down on the Farm 4," 5.4.07). She had not. Being related in some way, I felt a sense of relief. A few years back, for some reason, Mom had received a call from the Pittsburg, Kansas, hospital with word that Bobby Dean had died of cancer. Mom did not even know him and may have never met the boy; but apparently, as "next of kin," officials there had gotten her phone number. A prisoner to nature and nurture, he was someone who, like Jimmy Williams, never had a chance in life. Unlike Jimmy though, who overcame overwhelming odds and rose, Bobby succumbed to them and fell. I'm sure he spent more time in "homes" and jails than he did out of them. I'm also sure that wherever Bobby Dean is now he's better off; I know the world is.

Twice in the past ten years, I have seen Norma Budd. Once, a friend and myself had stopped at her tavern in Liberal prior to a talk I was delivering in nearby Fort Scott. A few years later, as Deb and I were driving back from talks in Florida, we were on a small country road near her old home when I spotted Norma passing in a car. We stopped and talked for a few minutes. She had lost the lease on her tavern and was now doing manual labor in a factory somewhere. On both occasions when I spoke with Norma, I noticed either a black eye or a missing tooth. I have no doubt how she got them. Despite misfortune enough to crush other mortals to the ground, Norma remains herself, bright, positive and determined to do the best she can with what she's got.

Not all my memories down on the farm are sad. In fact, most are happy. But all my memories, the good and the bad, are important to me because, for better or worse, they are who I am. Not being able to reconnect with my old life down there has been painful and at times I often feel like a ship that sails the sea but never reaches port. I still have the memories though, and for this I am grateful.

Down on the Farm 5

In the last ten years since Grandma and Grandpa Bob died, I have been down there only once; and that ever so brief and painful. I was raised on that farm. It was my home. It gave me life. It was the place I always wanted to be. 

Grandma was my Mom for the first years of my existence and I loved her more than anyone else on earth. But now strangers own the farm and with no relatives in the area there is no excuse to return. To go down and see but be unable to stop would be just too painful.

It's come to me in later years that most of my richest memories are down there. Perhaps this is because the images were so strong. I remember the train that passed early each day-–from the time I was a baby in the crib until they eventually tore up the tracks fifty years later, that pathetically slow train which had fewer and fewer box cars each year was my wake up call every morning on the farm. So fascinated by the trains was I that Grandpa Bob swore that I would become an engineer some day. Even now, whenever I see a train, I still have to stop and watch. I remember Grandma combing and parting my hair whenever we went to town--not because messed up hair embarrassed her like it did my Mom but because she was so proud of me. I remember sitting in the metal lawn chair under the rustling cottonwood shelling peas for Grandma and watching as the hens quietly preened the ground for food-–studying those old hens as they slowly drifted about on a hot summer afternoon were some of the most restful moments I have ever known. I remember fishing, swimming and rowing the beat up boat on the big pond. Had that perpetually muddy Missouri water been a crystal clear swimming pool in Beverly Hills it could not have meant more to me. There were big bass in that pond and catfish, blue gills, painted turtles, and of course, snakes, which Taffy kept well in check. When I think back on it, that pond was the pivot around which I turned. I even saved a little girl's life in that pond once.

Looking back, I now realize how pathetic was that little girl's life in the first place; it was the only one she had though, and I'm sure she was grateful to have it back.

The Williams family lived just over the track on the north edge of Hannon. I could easily see their low, one-story shack from the farm a quarter of a mile away. There may have been a dozen or more kids in the family but I doubt if anyone, including the mother, knew how many there were since they were never in the same place long enough to tabulate. The children generally fanned out over the countryside each morning to play or hunt food, then at night they would return to the roost like chickens. There were doubtless lots of fathers scattered about the county but the only visible men on the place were those who visited the mother periodically to drink beer and make more babies. I remember several of the waifs begging for food at our place. Being a soft touch, Grandma could never resist but Grandpa Bob soon forbid any of the brood to set foot on the place. Although the kids never did come to the house again that I recall, our pasture and the big pond, which were just across the track from the Williams' home, was another matter. One day one of the smaller children got up a tree in that pasture and choked to death on a green apple.

In the summer, the pond was naturally a great draw for the Williams kids and Grandma would clandestinely furnish us with a seemingly inexhaustible supply of old inner tubes to float on. One day, in the deepest part of the pond, a little girl about my age slipped out of her tube and could not recover the slippery thing. She tried to tread water but it was obvious she didn't know how. The child had the silliest look on her face as she went down. It was not panic or even fear; she was trying to smile. And not a word or sound did she utter. I slid out of my own tube and dove down. The water was so brown and murky that seeing was out of the question but I finally caught the girl a few feet below the surface. She was not thrashing about or hard to help in the least. I easily lifted her head above the surface, then worked her toward the dam. As she sat in the mud, the kid stared at me with wide eyes. Her faint smile suggested that she was a bit embarrassed. Except for coughing up brown water, she said nothing. Grandma mentioned later that the little girl was "touched in the head" and I suppose she was right.

Despite the tacit taboo about straying over to the Williams' shack, one day I did. Since there were any number of kids in the family, it was a given that there would be several in my age group. Jimmy Williams and I had been throwing rocks down at the railroad bridge that morning and he invited me back to his house for pancakes. I could see for myself that the place was a hovel whenever I walked along the tracks, but even as a child I was shocked by what I saw upon coming closer. Boards, iron, old bed springs, and other sundry debris littered the weed-infested "lawn." Cots and an old sofa sat on the porch as did a junked ice box. The porch itself had collapsed in several places. Only a broken and ripped screen door separated the outer world from the inner. At the entry way was a collection of nondescript garbage so thick that one had to navigate rather than walk. Blankets and feed sacks on the floor and a sofa with all the stuffing sticking out filled another room. Throughout the place, and despite the lack of windows or doors, there was a horrible stench of stale urine. When we got to the fly-infested kitchen, Jimmy's mother was seated at the cluttered table in her robe. A man was also sitting there (I recognized him as a neighbor who lived a mile up the track) and both were drinking beer. They were smiling and seemed in the best of spirits. Above them, where the ceiling should have been, there was nothing but blue sky and daylight. Even at that age, I was glad there would be no pancakes that day.

Going through Grandma's old scrap album, I discovered two small articles relating to the Williams family. The first was by the editor of the Lamar (MO) Democrat. She had received a letter from someone complaining about the Williams and their living conditions. Since the letter was unsigned, the editor had failed to print it. As was evident by her comments, the editor desperately wanted to print the letter, "but," she wrote, "when the writers fail to sign their names, hiding behind some such signature as ‘Hannon Neighbors'," her hands were tied. Several days later, another letter arrived at the Democrat office and the editor eagerly rushed to press:

SHE SIGNS HER NAME AND TELLS US WHAT THE NEIGHBORS REALLY THINK
 
Hannon, Mo. March 1, 1955.

Dear Madeleine:

Yes, I will sign my name to the letter you received Saturday, February 26, as I want you to print it, also want you to come out with the Health Officer . . . and see for yourselves. This case needs something done about it, and soon. . . . I can't describe just how really bad it is. You'll have to see for yourself.

Mrs. B. F. Durrick

Below is the original letter to the Lamar Democrat
 
Dear Madeleine:

I know you print the true facts in your paper, so I want you to print this. It's fine to help poor needy families, but some familys (sic) just won't help themselves and expect other people to feed and clothe them all the time. The Hannon Family you wrote about are this kind. The wife of this family is so lazy and filthy dirty all she does is sat (sic), or lay around and read magazines and smoke cigarettes, while the children are out begging for her books and magazines to read, or for something to eat. They wear their clothes until they're so filthy and dirty then they're thrown out in the yard. Their bedding and everything's done the same way. When the "father" makes any money, him and her goes straight to Liberal and spends it all on beer, cig's, and magazisne (sic) instead of food for them to eat. They have a bunch of old hound dogs around. They have tied up starving them to death.

Why does the county make people feed and take care of their livestock, and yet do nothing about these children, who's home is worse and more filthy than most people's barn or outside building? We the people of Hannon and community, think this family should be investigated and something done about it now.

You can't help them by just giving them food and clothing, cause in a very short time, the clothes will be thrown out in the yard like all the rest of the nice clothing that has been given them. People around here has carried in big boxes of clothing to them now for years and in no time, they don't have a thing to wear, and are out begging again. I think the people who don't know about the Williams should know whom they are giving to.

Investigate this family and you will find this is all true and a lot more even worse.

Hannon Neighbors
 
P.S. Madeleine, if you have any doubt about this all being true, drive out and visit. . . . Stop and talk to any neighbor close to Hannon or in Hannon. You will really get a story. The children are to be pitied. The way they have to live and do. I think they should be took away and put in homes. Then let her do the best she can or starve. The county can help that way lots better than just giving them food, etc. Another thing. If food is given them uncooked the children eat it raw, cause she's too lazy to cook it.

As it turned out, there was no need for "Madeleine" and her neighbors to travel over Hannon way to investigate the situation since the situation soon traveled to them. A year or so after the above article, the entire Williams herd moved, appropriately, to Lamar. And when they did, the relieved population of Hannon was reduced by roughly half. Without any kids to hold it up, the old hovel itself soon collapsed into a heap.

 (continued tomorrow)

Down on the Farm 4

I mentioned in yesterday's blog that a few years ago Deb discovered several scrapbooks that my Grandma Goldie had kept. 

Looking weird among the funeral notices and photos of couples celebrating their golden wedding anniversaries, were clippings from the Lamar, Missouri, newspaper describing the crime sprees of her nine-year-old half brother. This child was the offspring of Grandma's senile father (see yesterday's blog) and a "lazy, dirty" half-wit half his age (also see yesterday's blog). Although the boy was about my age, I only saw him a time or two during Grandma's infrequent stops at their home. Apparently, Grandpa Bob didn't want this bunch hanging around for not once did they visit the farm while I was there. Articles like the following from the Lamar newspaper, dated April 9, 1956, probably had something to do with it:

A BLISTER OF A NINE YEAR OLD BOYCrimes Of Liberal Boy—Almost Unbelievable—As detailed In Court Monday—Arson, Thievery, Assault—And General Cussedness—A Poser For The Court

The facts in the case against Bobby Dean Miller, nine year old Liberal boy, seemed almost unbelievable, as they unfolded in the juvenile section of the circuit court, Monday forenoon. It seemed impossible that this nine year old boy, small for his age, could have so terrorized a community. But the facts were there to prove it. This boy is the son of Ernest Albert Miller, sixty nine year old age pensioner and his wife, Daisy, forty six. They came to Liberal two and a half years ago from Ava. Both parents were in court but exhibited a remarkable unconcern in regard to the crimes of their young son and to his possible fate.

It developed that both the boy and his mother were addicted to petty thefts in the stores at Liberal. The boy had thrown two switches on the Frisco railroad which might have caused a wreck. He had also thrown rocks through the windows of a passenger train.

He had hit Charles Bogart, eighty, with rocks, hit Mrs. Powers Richardson and Mrs. Ed Coles, both over seventy with rocks and had hit Mrs. Dora Bainter with a rock and knocked her unconscious. He had hit Merl Weaver, four years old, with a rock, and pulled him off the slide board at the school grounds, causing him to fall six feet. He had stoned Romaine Weaver a few days before she was sent to the state hospital.

He had broken eight dollars worth of windows at the Lipscomb grain and had poured three gallons of grasshopper poison over 30 bags of feed, ruining a large share of them. He had taken all the valves out of tires of the implements at the Curless machinery company.

He had built a fire at the Farmers Exchange and attempted to burn some chickens alive by thrusting flaming sticks into a chicken pen. When Mrs. Lon Thomas tried to stop him he threatened her with a knife.

These represent perhaps about two thirds of the specific charges made against him. His mother purchases from 200 to 250 cans of malt per year with which she makes home brew, drinking it largely herself, according to the boy.

As the court heard these charges he became more and more indignant, announcing that no community should be bullied and required to put up with such atrocities. There was, the court explained, but one place for such a boy, viz., the reform school but he hated to commit a nine year old child.

He told the parents that he was turning the boy over to the sheriff to be held in jail for ten days. If by that time the family had not made arrangements for getting out of the 26th judicial district, the child would be sent to the reform school. Observers in court were inclined to think that the parents would make no such effort and that the boy would be sentenced, which was probably just as well. . . .
 
"Observers" were both right, and wrong. The parents did eventually get out of town but it was not fast enough to suit authorities. Bobby Dean, the one-child crime wave, was packed off to Joplin for safe keeping. On September 22 of that same year, Grandma clipped and pasted another article in her scrapbook:

BOBBY MILLER BACK IN LIMELIGHT

Broke Out All Windows--In Home Of Parents--Broke Legs Of Chickens--Poured Paint In Well--Refused To Go To School--Back In Custody Of Barton County Officers


Remember nine year old Bobby Miller? He was the boy who terrorized the folks out at Liberal and was finally sent to the Big Brother school at Joplin for a time. He was back in the news, Saturday. At the insistence of his elderly father, Deputy Sheriff Wid Dresslaer drove out to the Miller farm in the timber in Milford township, took the boy into custody and brought him to the county jail.

The county authorities released Bobby to his parents, at their earnest request, from the Big Brother home, in August. The parents argued that they had sold their home in Liberal and had purchased the remote place in the timber where they were sure there'd be no one for him to molest. They were also desirous that he go to the Golden City school, believing the change of schools would be of benefit.

But, with no one else to victimize, he proceeded to make the life of his parents miserable and well nigh impossible, according to the father.

After the second day of the school term, he refused to board the bus to go to school. He broke out all of the windows in the house with rocks. He caught the chickens and broke their legs. He emptied a can of green paint into the well from which the family drank. He often threw rocks at his father. The latter said that he could no longer endure the situation and enlisted the aid of officers. . . .

Somehow, and for reasons never explained, the family soon slipped back into poor little Liberal. And when they did, Bobby Dean was close behind. After his release from custody the deeply disturbed child picked up where he had left off. According to the clippings which spanned several years, he was sent away again for trashing the newly remodeled American Legion hall, sent away again for beating up his mother when she refused to buy him wine at 16, sent away for parole violation (driving and drinking); he was sent away so many times that it is hard to keep them all straight. Grandma herself told me that he had thrown cats down wells as a child and robbed a gas station outside of Arcadia as a teen. With Billy the Kid in mind, I began referring to this now legendary and sadistic outlaw as Bobby the Dean. Although I badgered her to tell me all she knew about this warped half-brother of hers, Grandma was mostly mum.

Apparently, after the following article, Bobby the Dean took his act to Pittsburg, Nevada City, Fort Scott, and other larger towns on the hem of the Ozarks for he is no longer found in the scrapbook.

MILLER ARRESTED; GIVEN SIX MONTHS

Bobby Dean Miller, 25, of Frontenac, Kan., formerly of Liberal, was arrested in Liberal late Friday night by Sheriff Calvin Dockery after a chase through town. He was sentenced in Lamar Tuesday to six months in the Barton County jail. Miller was charged with driving while intoxicated and failure to stop for an official vehicle.

Sheriff Dockery wrecked his car during the chase when the Miller car stopped suddenly on coming to an embankment where sewer work is being done. Dockery was unable to stop in time to avoid hitting the Miller vehicle.
 
An earlier article mentioned a psychiatric examination performed when Bobby Dean was still a child. This report stated the obvious: The boy suffered from chronic neglect and indifference at home. Unless he was removed to another environment, the report concluded, there undoubtedly would be one more "confirmed criminal" in the world.

Bobby Dean did remain with the parents and society paid the price. How does one calculate the pain and agony that this single, solitary individual inflicted on the planet? For his entire life, his every waking moment seemed devoted to causing as much harm and misery as possible. Other than the little bit I coaxed from Grandma, and these articles in her scrapbook, I heard nothing of Bobby Dean's career after that.


(continued tomorrow)

Down on the Farm 3

Deb is not only an inveterate talker, but an avid newspaper reader. She loves them. This I suppose comes from her years as a reporter in Virginia and Carolina. 

She reads all newspapers but prefers to peruse those of the small towns we pass through that she might catch some of the flavor. We both realize that even in remote hamlets many folks get their spin from FOX and MSNBC and most are very aware of events around the globe. Reading the small town papers, however, gives one a glimpse into what's really on the minds of rural America. "Vandalism at City Landfill," reports one indignant Kansas editor. "City Pool Will Close Due to Heat," warns a Wyoming colleague. "Hearing Scheduled For The Deaf," announces a Nebraska paper. "Caterpiller Reports Growth". . . and so on.

Deb and her sister, Denise, were also owners and editors of their own regional newspaper back in the Blue Ridge. The operation went belly up-–"We were too young to be scared and too stupid to be successful"--but they had a ball while it lasted.

My Grandma Goldie was also a reporter, of sorts. She sent in a weekly dispatch to the Liberal (Missouri) News of events happening in her tiny farming community of Hannon. As a child, I remember Grandma calling around in her goose-like voice to the various neighbors to see what they had been up to. A few years ago Deb found some scrap books kept by Grandma. Among the sundry assortment of clippings which included car crashes, weddings and graduations, were several samples of her journalistic skills.

Mr. and Mrs. F. E. Fellows visited Tuesday night with Mr. and Mrs. Robert Weaver.

Mr. and Mrs. Wanda Budd and children shopped in Lamar Saturday.

Mr. and Mrs. Woody Workman visited with Mr. and Mrs. Glen Peters and children Friday night.

Mr. and Mrs. F. E. Fellows were dinner guests Sunday with Mr. and Mrs. Robert Weaver.

Mr. and Mrs. Charley Hoover and sons enjoyed a watermelon feast with Mr. and Mrs. Don Smith and children Sunday night.

And so on, until she had filled the ten or twelve inches that comprised her column. Why Grandma was so formal, stilted and dull in writing these things I haven't a clue for she was anything but formal, stilted and dull. Married and divorced before she was 17 (one husband down, four or five to go), a traveler far and wide (one of her jobs was as a fortune teller in a carnival; another was as a taxicab driver in Seattle), Grandma had the power and imagination to write well (she once sold a story to a major magazine). I suppose the Liberal newspaper wanted just the conservative facts and Grandma took them literally. Instead of writing that "Mr. and Mrs. F. E. Fellows visited Mr. and Mrs. Robert Weaver," she might have written that "Blanche and Shorty came over to our place twice last week and while we old hens cleaned and clucked, the roosters were outside tanking up on Busch and bourbon until they could hardly stand." Everyone in the area would have understood that (it should be noted that although Grandma's husband, my step-Grandpa, Bob Weaver, really went on some benders, he reformed later in life and never touched a drop after that; only death reformed Shorty Fellows).

Also, Grandma apparently could not resist the temptation to respond to the various "advice" columns:

Her Dad Liked To Gamble
 
I feel so sorry for Miserable because she is going thru the same experiences my poor mother went thru with my father for 24 years. Mom was only 16 when she married my dad, and he was 21.

Dad was a coal miner and made good money. He was a good worker. But mom was never allowed a cent of money for her own. Dad bought the groceries and what few clothes we had at the company store, and we ate and wore whatever Dad brought home and nothing more. We had very few clothes. And Dad thought all a person needed to eat was beans, potatoes, bread, coffee and a little meat now and then. Never any sweets.

My dad was what was called a card shark, and he spent all the time he wasn't in the mines out gambling somewhere. In 17 years Mother had eight children and buried five of them. Not once did she ever have a doctor with any of her babies and Dad wasn't even home with Mom when three of the babies were born. As for doctors and medicine, I know in my heart one of my brothers and one of my sisters would have lived if Dad had been willing to get a doctor in time. He did finally get a doctor, but both children were near death with whooping cough by then and neither could be saved.

Yes, my mother had a hard life and worked herself to death for a man who thought only of himself and his own pleasures. I may sound bitter and hard, but I know everything I've said is true and a lot more because I was the oldest child and I could not help knowing what went on.

My dad remarried a few years ago, and married a young woman just my age. At first I felt sorry for her, marrying a man so much older and with his ways. But we have all been surprised, and now it is Dad I feel sorry for. He is getting old and has two small children to care for. He doesn't gamble any more and hasn't for years now. His present wife is lazy, dirty and drinks all she can get or beg from others. Yes, I feel sorry for Dad tho I know he is only getting paid back for the way he treated Mother. The Bible says if we sow bad seeds we'll reap them.

Miserable, if I were you I'd have a good long talk heart-to-heart with my husband. Tell him how desperate you are. Then if he didn't change, instead of cutting your throat, I'd take my children and leave Mr. Tightwad to think things over. I believe he'll wake up if he thinks you mean business. He'd have to loosen up and give you money for yourself and the children, anyway.

You certainly have my sympathy, Miserable. Like others, I'll be anxious to hear if your home life changes for the better. MISSOURI.
 
Also in Grandma's scrapbook, looking bizarre amid the funeral notices and photos of couples celebrating their golden wedding anniversaries, were clippings from the Lamar newspaper describing the crime sprees of her nine-year-old half brother. This child was the issue of Grandma's senile father (see above) and the "lazy, dirty" half-wit half his age (also see above). Although the boy was about my age, I only recall seeing him once, and this when he was shyly sneaking around a corner of his house during one of Grandma's infrequent stops. Apparently, Grandpa Bob didn't want this crew hanging around for not once did they visit the farm while I was there. I suppose headlines like the following from the Lamar newspaper, dated April 9, 1956, had something to do with it:

A BLISTER OF A NINE YEAR OLD BOY

Crimes Of Liberal Boy—Almost Unbelievable—As detailed In Court Monday—Arson, Thievery, Assault—And General Cussedness—A Poser For The Court
 
(continued tomorrow)

Down on the Farm 2

Taffy was a pretty golden cocker spaniel similar to the dog at right. He just showed up at the farm one day and stayed. 

When I came down in the summers, Taffy would go with me while I fished in the big pond. Very soon I came to realize that Taffy was no ordinary dog. He hated snakes. As I sat fishing, Taffy would, nose down and stub wagging furiously, scour the weeds along the pond. When he discovered a snake, it was over in a matter of seconds. Perhaps a short "yip," a spring into the air, and down he would come. When Taffy came up again, he would be seen shaking a snake to ribbons. When the victim was dead, off the dog would go hunting for more. And in that snake-infested region, there was always a fresh supply.

Since we both shared a pathological hatred of snakes, Taffy and I made a good team. We would stalk the weedy shores of both ponds, as well as a creek a mile down the railroad tracks. With his nose close to the ground, often I would spot a snake before Taffy. Once, while atop the railroad bridge above the creek, I spotted a fat water moccasin stretched on a rock. He was as big around as my arm and not much longer. To aid Taffy in his search, I was in the habit of making sounds of encouragement-–"sic, sic, sic, sic," when he was far away, and "SIC, SIC, SIC, SIC," when he was getting warmer. In this case, my crude homing device worked perfectly. The snake made an attempt to fall into the water, but it was too late. Taffy snapped him up and in only two or three shakes, the green and yellow guts flew in all directions.

Another time, while standing on the dam of the big pond, looking down upon the weeds of the little pond, I saw a huge black cottonmouth coiled a few yards back from the water. "SIC, SIC, SIC. . . ." Taffy followed the beacon well enough, but because of the tall grass he could not see the venomous thing until it was too late. The viper struck and landed atop the dog's back. That was the reptile's last mortal move and within seconds he was dead like the rest. Apparently, the fangs did not reach their target for I never saw any sickness from Taffy then or later. Perhaps he was immune after so many bites.

There was only one time, to my knowledge, that Taffy showed the white feather. Dad, Grandpa Bob and I were fishing on the big pond one still Sunday morning when we noticed what looked like a submarine's periscope coming directly toward us from the opposite shore. It proved to be the largest snake any of us had ever seen outside a zoo. At least two feet of the monster rose straight up out of the water as he crossed. For some reason, even though he certainly saw us, the snake continued in our direction. By now, everyone was on their feet. "SIC, SIC, SIC," I encouraged Taffy when the snake came perilously close to shore. But although he barked furiously, Taffy wanted no part of this sea serpent. Of course, the snake had picked the worst possible landing spot on the pond. Dad's record is clear. Although a Missourian born and bred, Grandpa Bob had enough Kansas connections to hate snakes as well. Without a gun among them this day, the two men used the only weapons they had-–their fishing rods. When the smoke cleared, the score: Humans 1, Snake 0.

By the time the body was finally dragged onto the bank, we could see that the creature was every inch of twelve feet. Grandpa Bob thought it had to be a Bull Snake. Though it was very dead, Taffy wasn't entirely convinced and continued to circle the carcass and bark from a safe distance. I've often wondered since that time if this was the same snake Grandma had seen years before crossing the road. 

(continued tomorrow)

Down on the Farm 1

Deb and I were scouting for morel mushrooms along the Shunga (above) the other day. So crazed for this delicacy are we that both of us put our ophidiophobia in temporary abeyance while we searched the forest floor for this elusive fungus. When mushroom season is over, we both will once again avoid these jungles like the plague.

Perhaps there is nothing so very innate about a Kansan's fear of snakes, just phobias passed from one generation to the next. I have talked in past blogs on my theory as to why Kansas is perhaps the ophidiophobic capital of the world; it has everything to do with our ancestors. Since many of our earliest pioneers were from the northern states, few were prepared for snakes, shocked not only by the incredible size of the reptiles, but by their nightmarish numbers as well.

Though a brave man in every other respect, my Dad was terrified of snakes. He would do everything in his power to avoid them; should that fail, he went right to work killing them. Once, a snake of some sort had managed to get into our garage and crawled down a hole in the floor. Dad tried to drag the thing out with a hoe, but that was no good. He would have loved to use his shotgun but could not for fear that the pellets would fly all over the place. And so, since the only thing handy was a bottle of bleach. . . . The entire contents were poured into the hole.

When we went fishing or were running banks lines along the Kaw, Dad, chewing his unlit stogie, always had a pistol strapped to his hip. He couldn't hit a thing with it, but it made him feel safer. Once, when he pulled up a stringer of bullheads in a Missouri creek, he was horrified to see a snake attached to the last fish. Whipping out his revolver, he blazed away until all chambers were empty (nine), then just dropped the stringer into the water, fish, snake and all.

As a child, I remember the frantic screams of a next door neighbor when she found a snake wrapped around a kitchen chair. She was a young divorcee and my pop was the only man handy. Dad did his duty, but the shrieks from that poor woman! One might have thought that the very devil was chasing her through the house. Those sort of sights and sounds stick with a kid and when a parent or adult is nervous and scared over something, you can bet the children will be too.

Kansans may be terrified of snakes, but we never tire of telling stories about them. There is one tale, perhaps a rural legend, about a group of little boys who went swimming one hot summer day in a neighboring strip pit down along the Kansas and Missouri line. These pits are long, narrow coal digs that have filled up with deep, clear water and are first-rate for fishing. Kansas farm kids never "step" into anything; they jump. And so, when the first boy leaped into the pit, he was immediately swarmed over and bitten by fifteen or more deadly cottonmouth water moccasins.

Not far away, on the Missouri side of the border, I spent the first five years of my life living on a farm with my Grandma Goldie and Step-Grandpa Bob. After that, I would spend my summers with them. They had two ponds not far from the house; one was a large-sized body of water, and the other below it we called the "little pond." It was where the little pond's run-off ran through a culvert under a small gravel lane that my Grandma saw one day a huge snake crossing the road. She said it was at least seven or eight feet long, and that was just the last half of him; she never did see the first half.

"Aw Grandma, you're lying!" I would say in disbelief.

"No I'm not," she would insist, "I'm not kidding, it was that long."

As Grandma spoke in her goose-like voice she spread her arms as far apart as she could. She thought it must have escaped from a circus. About once a month I asked her to tell me that story.

But in the end, I always had the best snake stories and everyone, Grandma, Grandpa Bob, Mom, and Dad, would all listen intently when I told them about "Taffy." They listened closely because they knew all the stories were true.  

(continued tomorrow)