http://www.showmemissouri.net/index.htmlCyber-Travelseneninfo@showmemissouri.netCopyright 2015 Show-Me Missouri2026-05-11T15:05:22-05:00 hourly 1 2000-01-01T12:00+00:00 Fri, 4 Mar 2011 20:01:59 -0600info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2026-05-11T15:05:22-05:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/638f7b187e0723daaa05f9264a094a4d-59.html#unique-entry-id-59http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/638f7b187e0723daaa05f9264a094a4d-59.html#unique-entry-id-59 Can you name the four rivers that form parts of Missouri’s border?

That question is a reliable stumper in a trivia battle about Missouri. Sure, most folks can name the Mississippi and the Missouri. But identifying the other two river borders nearly always requires a lunge for the atlas.

One of those rivers is the St. Francis. On a map, it helps outline Missouri’s most distinguishable characteristic, the instep of Missouri’s fashionable Bootheel.

The fourth river? It flows across Missouri’s sloping forehead, along a county named for the commander of the Corps of Discovery. For about 25 miles, the Des Moines River borders the very northeast part of Clark County in the very northeast part of the state. Most folks just assume that when our ancestors carved out Missouri, they drew the state with a flat top, a straight line from the Mississippi across the Show-Me State’s noggin. Look closer. A chunk of Iowa extends 16 miles south of Missouri’s northern border. That southernmost Iowa appendage looks nothing like a fashionable “bootheel” so the corresponding dent in Missouri’s northeast corner goes mostly unnoticed.

By the time my car delivered me to the Battle of Athens State Historic Site, I felt as tired as Mark Twain retreating (look it up). Indeed, in this northeasternmost part of Missouri, we’re closer to the state capitals of Iowa and Illinois than Missouri.

I can understand why people would want to settle here, and I promptly nestled into a secluded campsite myself and explored the Des Moines River Ravines Natural Area. The park enjoys a mile and a half of river frontage and enough hills and woods to get lost. The rolling hills and beautiful scenery stand as irrefutable proof that north Missouri is much more than flat farmland. Clark county boasts five separate conservation areas for hunting and fishing, plus the Great River National Wildlife Refuge along the Mississippi.

Driving south from Athens along the Des Moines River, I came upon the Illiniwek Village State Historic Site, the only known summer village once inhabited by the Indians of the Illiniwek Confederacy. The Illiniwek, or Illinois Indians, were prevalent when Europeans first came to Missouri. The village looks different today than it did back in 1673 when Marquette and Joliet visited the 8,000 villagers. The 300 lodges along a network of streets are reduced to an archaeological dig. Still, this village is the biggest and best-preserved of the Illiniwek culture.

My car doesn’t care that I’m the great-grandson of an Irish Catholic priest. Yet she obliged as I took a circuitous route from Illiniwek to the village of St. Patrick, not far from the Wyaconda River. I got a kick out of hanging out in the only place in the world where you can send a letter postmarked with the name of this legendary evangelist.

There’s a lot to discover, all tucked under this border river along Missouri’s sloping forehead. ]]>info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2026-02-05T17:15:01-06:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/6d21422ed3dc4ff57af453baae33b6db-58.html#unique-entry-id-58http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/6d21422ed3dc4ff57af453baae33b6db-58.html#unique-entry-id-58 Six years ago I was late to my 50th class reunion. I had stopped to hear John Prine and shed some tears. Six months later he was gone. Not long after that I watched a sunset on the Missouri River at Cooper’s Landing, listening to the Prinelike storysongs of Forrest and Margaret McCurren. Forrest’s lyrics bare a soul full of insight and humor borne from the road.

Forrest McCurren is a road dog. You hear it in his songs. The grit. The gears. The unexpected turns that produce a favorite mantra: You got to get lost to get found. His delivery is a pearl-snap shirt on a Saturday night, a Prinelike glimpse into sticky life, sycamore-sweet in the Texas heat, sparkling in his native Ozarks sun where the sacred Osage flows into the Missouri River.

He raises a beer to trailer park lovers with matching tats and waitresses wise beyond their barstools. His ballads salute good people who got bad grades in school, drunk on dreams, still trying to figure out if life is sour or sweet. Then he drives off in a van that looks like it might be your plumber.

Equally at home quoting Shakespeare and the Bible, McCurren’s pluck and dirt songwriting prompted Blake Shelton and Taylor Sheridan to stick him in the lineup to compete in the series, “The Road,” which airs on CBS.

That’s a feather in his cap. But his big break came a few years back when he met his muse.

I got lucky,” he says rhetorically, “in a life-changing course that shifted my focus from sports to music.”

He played soccer at Helias, a Catholic High School in Jefferson City, and ended up turning down a soccer scholarship at Saint Louis University, opting instead for William Jewell in Liberty where he might play more minutes.

The move was fortuitous for two reasons. At Jewell he met Margaret, and he picked up the guitar. Margaret, a bright eyed multi-talented musician who learned to read music before she learned to read words, grew up on her family’s suburban farms in St. Louis, then Boston.

Margaret encouraged his development. Her fiddle paired with Forrest’s voice and lyrics like a whiskey chaser. It wasn’t long before she had him playing more minutes in music than soccer, in venues that shouted Missouri character, like the Frank James Saloon in the postcard town of Parkville on the Missouri River.

Every road is a road home for somebody. McCurren’s latest album, “Small Prayers, Big Blessings” captures both road and home. “There’s a rowdiness that comes from the road and then there’s a thoughtfulness when we’re off the road, getting back home and putting in context how much you love your family.”

As you read this, Forrest may or may not have survived the competition on “The Road.” Regardless, he does his beloved Missouri proud.

I told him he has yet to make me cry. But the balladeer is young. The road is long. I am patient.

Visit ForrestMcCurren.com for more about the artist. ]]>info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2025-11-17T13:18:15-06:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/e7338575217c41cb39a7b723c74cbcbb-57.html#unique-entry-id-57http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/e7338575217c41cb39a7b723c74cbcbb-57.html#unique-entry-id-57 They’ve been around for decades.

But in the past few years they have popped up like mushrooms. More than 10 dozen Missouri communities have livened up downtown spaces with murals, touting everything from the home of sliced bread to the baby chick capital of the world to the “neatest little town in Missouri.”

The earliest murals still speak to us from caves, where distant ancestors tried their hand at interior decorating. Now, wall art is in full bloom. From Hannibal to St. Joseph and points between, artists have mounted ladders and scaffolds, adorning willing walls with stunning portrayals of local history and culture.

A New York Times reporter visited Cape Girardeau a few years ago. The reporter wasn’t kind, complaining that the drab gray floodwall gave the city a medieval appearance. The wall separated the city from its lifeblood—the river—and discouraged visitors.

Cape Girardeau responded by launching a mural project on that floodwall, a bold artistic feat so stunning that historians will categorize Cape’s history as pre-mural and post-mural. The visuals are that good.

The people of Cape Girardeau embraced their history, their downtown and each other in smacking an artistic grand slam over a 12-foot-tall gray floodwall. And the murals have helped spawn a renaissance throughout downtown Cape Girardeau.

When the city announced a search for the perfect muralist to transform a barren wall, several world-class artists offered their services. Many had impressive credentials. They talked about their muralistic conquests across the globe. They proudly portrayed their portfolios.

Then a visionary young painter named Tom showed up, wearing a cheap suit and a red pork pie hat. Other artists attempted to win Cape’s favor by boasting of their prowess and finesse. Tom took a different approach.

“Who are your characters?” Tom asked. “What is your history?” He courted the town, and the town courted Tom, and they struck a relationship that sank deeper than a coat of paint.

Locals began to recognize him because he always wore that bright red pork pie hat. They spotted him everywhere. Rather than zipping into town for a quick interview and leaving in a whoosh of self-important urgency, Thomas Melvin stuck around. Like a fiddler on the roof, he perched and squatted in every possible spot to perceive the town and its rich fabric.

He talked to the townsfolk, and asked about things that were important to them and to their city. He dined with them at Port Cape Girardeau, a restaurant where, looking out a giant picture window, patrons and New York Times reporters saw an imposing gray floodwall. Tom saw a blank canvas...awaiting.

Now when you sit at a table in front of the big picture window at Port Cape Girardeau with a platter of ribs glazed three times and bathed in smoke, that picture window is bathed in tales of this river community.]]>info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2025-08-05T14:43:45-05:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/4379b3c1d568e9f7a5a72b1af22de324-56.html#unique-entry-id-56http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/4379b3c1d568e9f7a5a72b1af22de324-56.html#unique-entry-id-56 Connie caused me a lot of trouble.

It wasn’t her fault. Connie was sweet and beautiful, her allure too hard to resist. I thought I could get away with it and stop for only a few minutes, if only to gaze upon her beautiful shape.

But my detour to her doorstep brought me deep despair. I paid dearly for my mistake.

Connie stays at Kansas City’s old municipal airport. She’s known more formally as a Lockheed Constellation, the airline workhorse of the 1950s. You’d instantly recognize the plane, with her curvy porpoise fuselage, three tail fins and four propellers—the poster plane for Howard Hughes’ TWA.

She sits in Hangar 9, a museum at the old airport, itself a relic, replaced by the larger, safer Kansas City International Airport. Tucked into a tight river bend beneath the watchful eyes of the Kansas City skyline, this airport museum gets overlooked by just about everybody, one of Kansas City’s best-kept secrets.

On the day we visited the old airport, foul weather had grounded flights. Forecasters predicted tornadoes. So Erifnus, my car, delivered me through the howling wind and rain into the parking lot.

As I climbed out and locked her doors, I realized I’d left the keys in her ignition. I stood, numb, frozen—not from the wind and rain that pelted me, but from my own stupidity.

Erifnus Caitnop doesn’t deserve such rude neglect. She’s performed nearly flawlessly as my Trigger, my Lassie and my Old Faithful all rolled into 140 horsepower. She is my one constant companion along this journey across every mile of every road on Missouri’s highway map, my trusty steed for 15 years and nearly 300,000 miles.

But on this day, she sat protecting my keys from the wind and the rain.

And me.

I must confess that this is not the first time I’ve locked the keys in this car. In fact, I’ve probably tied a world record: performing this stupid feat twice in one day. That memory is painful. At the end of that horrible day I promised Erifnus I’d never again treat her with such neglect.

But over the years, as with most partnerships, there were stressful moments. Most were caused by driver error. Spinouts. Warning tickets. Getting stuck in mud. Sliding sideways under downed power lines. Stuff like that.

And now this.

I regained my composure and entered the museum hangar, confessing my stupidity to the friendly folks inside. They were extremely helpful, being pilots and mechanics and classic airplane lovers.

But try as we did, we couldn’t make a coat hanger unlock my car.

So after a tour of the museum and a walk down the aisle of that classic old aircraft with its three tail fins and four engines and porpoise-shaped fuselage—and $90 for a locksmith—I thanked my hosts, said farewell to Connie, tucked my tail fin in the driver’s seat, and drove home.]]>info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2025-05-08T15:02:42-05:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/eba0cef5e200f8466369b3b8032e2303-55.html#unique-entry-id-55http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/eba0cef5e200f8466369b3b8032e2303-55.html#unique-entry-id-55info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2025-02-12T16:00:22-06:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/419a7b1cadeb60a690595e27c4bfd49f-54.html#unique-entry-id-54http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/419a7b1cadeb60a690595e27c4bfd49f-54.html#unique-entry-id-54 The senior center in Ellington was the most satisfying meal decision I’d made in a long time. I knew the routine, having eaten hundreds of meals at senior centers with Dad. No matter where you are, the best lunch bargain in town is at the senior center. It’s a balanced meal. The price is right, even for non-seniors. But the value goes way beyond price. The best thing about the senior center is the company you keep. So I walked into the dining room ready to fill up on more than food.

From experience, I knew to honor the seating chart. The seating chart is not posted on the wall or the cash register or in the manager’s office. It’s in the habits of the seniors who come here every weekday at the same time and sit with the same friends in the same chairs at the same table.

Folks were eager to tell me about Ellington, stuff you might not hear at the Reynolds County Museum down the street. Robert, an affable chap at a table within earshot, told me about the industry in town. Boats and saws, mainly, reflecting the area’s predominant natural resources.

“If you’re going past Lake Wappapello, don’t miss Bullwinkle’s. You’ll find out about the airplane,” Robert laughed.

I thanked my hosts and left the warm security of the senior center for the surprises of the road, including Bullwinkle’s Bar with an airplane crashed straight down into the top of the roof. It was rigged, of course, but an effective attention getter.

To get to Bullwinkle’s we crossed the Castor River, crossed the Castor River again, crossed it again, and again and again. We crossed the Castor River so many times that I stopped to study my map. Turns out there are two Castor Rivers, at one point flowing within five miles of each other. Apparently, when engineers drained all this swampland, one Castor River became two.

Castor is French for beaver, and the beavers built dams all through this swampy region. Despite being the hardest working hydraulic engineers on the planet, beavers don’t get a paycheck, so they have a right to be the namesake of multiple waterways.

Henry Schoolcraft, the first chronicler of the Ozarks, had another name for the Castor. He called it Crooked Creek. It’s a simple name. One can understand why he preferred simple names. His wife’s name was Obabaamwewegiizhigokwe, which in her native Ojibwe language means “the sound that the stars make as they rush across the sky.” Henry called her Jane, which means “Jane.” I think I know why. Her mother, Ozhaguscodaywayquay, probably didn’t object, since she herself adopted the Anglo name Susan Johnson.

Despite his prominence in exploring Missouri’s Ozarks, I have yet to drive past a sign or a town or any place named Schoolcraft. He’s in good company, though, since there isn’t a Moses, Missouri or an Austin either. There’s no town named Yogi in Missouri, although there is a Jellystone Park. There’s no Shapley, no Blow, no Dice, no Wilder, no Sacagawea or Calamity. Ah, but there’s a Jane.

And Bullwinkle’s. ]]>info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2024-08-07T15:32:57-05:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/d1c05843a8bbcb5aa3afcf269f5ee033-53.html#unique-entry-id-53http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/d1c05843a8bbcb5aa3afcf269f5ee033-53.html#unique-entry-id-53 Some say Wildwood Springs Lodge is haunted. If so, they are friendly spirits.

The walls of this 102-year-old lodge echo with the music of legends who performed in its comfortable living room. Leon Russell. Dr. John. Rusty Young of Poco.

This fall, Poco kicks off the lodge’s Living Room Concerts. During following weekends share the living room with Ricky Skaggs, Head East, Yonder Mountain String Band, Tab Benoit, the Ozark Mountain Daredevils, Asleep at the Wheel and the Marshall Tucker Band.

Where is this musical Nirvana? Tucked in the Ozarks between Cuba and Steelville, overlooking the Meramec River Valley, the lodge has endured peaks and valleys—times when visitors flocked to its doorstep, times when its doors were locked.

The sprawling lodge, built of stone and stucco and native hardwoods, had slowly slid into decline when Robert Bell brought the old place out of mothballs and saved it from ruin. Robert knew the history of the old lodge, a “Roaring ’20s” retreat where folks could escape the soot of the city and hunt and fish and float, then dress to dine at tables spread with linen and china and silver. And he’s resurrected the lodge’s elegant dignity, with a twist.

Of all his renovations and innovations, Robert is proudest of his marketing plan. He should be. He’s assembled a mix of talented hotel staff and kitchen magicians who provide wonderful cuisine. But his big draw appears on Wildwood’s web page, which lists an entertainment lineup that attracts fans from all over the world to this Ozark hideaway. Every year, he assembles a who’s who of classic rock ’n’ roll acts, icons like Hot Tuna and Brewer & Shipley. The musicians love the relaxed atmosphere and the chance to mingle with the crowd. Everybody—on both sides of the guitar—keeps coming back.

Like a proud grandparent, the lodge displays its photos. It was here that a young St. Louis musician, Gordon Jenkins, honed his chops. Jenkins later became a famous producer for Decca Records. Listen to Frank Sinatra and Nat King Cole, and you’ll witness Gordon Jenkins’ handiwork.

Robert has revived a long history of great music and great times at the lodge. But it takes a lot of fix-it to keep things rolling. His secret weapons include Miss Paula, who tends the dining hall and the vibrant wildflower gardens. If you’re lucky, catch Bill Freeman, twice retired—first from the highway patrol. Most recently he’s handed over the lodge’s fix-it duties to Curtis. All three are walking history books, telling stories about the river, the region, the lodge.

The long dining hall could be a movie set. Its hardwood floors, linen tablecloths, and gorgeous floor-to-ceiling French windows serve up splendid views of the rugged ridges and ravines. The guest rooms are European style. Their comfortably spartan appointments offer a subtle hint that rooms are for sleeping. Days should be active, with a vigorous examination of the great outdoors.

And when you return to the lodge, get ready for classic cuisine and tasty music.

The friendly spirits approve. ]]>info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2024-02-01T16:07:01-06:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/81f368aa040e3452ad1eca0bbc08c184-52.html#unique-entry-id-52http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/81f368aa040e3452ad1eca0bbc08c184-52.html#unique-entry-id-52info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2023-11-10T15:37:16-06:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/2c55249c2f206e96d46501f15be9867c-51.html#unique-entry-id-51http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/2c55249c2f206e96d46501f15be9867c-51.html#unique-entry-id-51 About the same time this magazine was getting off the ground, five people crammed into a small twin-engine plane in near gale-force winds to barnstorm 11 Missouri towns in one day.

That white-knuckle flight marked a sea change in promoting Missouri: we launched a campaign to encourage Missourians to vacation in Missouri.

Before 2001, Missouri’s state tourism division advertised predominantly in markets outside the Show-Me State. But the terrorist attack on the World Trade Center changed the world forever. It was a gut punch every American took personally. The staggering loss of life. The feeling that our open society—our ability to move freely—had been deeply wounded. In the immediate aftermath of 9/11, Americans changed basic habits. We stayed closer to home, closer to family.

The day after the attack, Lt. Governor Joe Maxwell and I (his chief of staff) huddled with state tourism officials, including Interim Director Bob Smith who had stepped up to fill the shoes of Chris Jennings who had guided the state into the modern marketing era. We all recognized the problem: It was taboo in the Missouri tourism industry for the state to advertise to Missourians. Let the local attractions take care of that. But in this new environment of fear, people were staying very close to home.

I suggested the obvious: Missouri dollars spend as well in Marceline as in Orlando or Anaheim. Use the state’s significant marketing power to promote Missouri to Missourians.

The result? From the ashes of tragedy, Rediscover Your Missouri was born, urging Missourians to “check out your own back yard.” The state would use significant resources to promote attractions big and small to our own residents. We would even promote Missouri State Parks and conservation areas, which for some inane reasoning, were prohibited from advertising their own sites.

We planned a detailed rollout that took us to 11 airports in 11 strategic markets.

We took off from Jefferson City in morning darkness, landing at a Bootheel airstrip where the wind threatened to blow out the sun as it peeked above the horizon. Greeting us in the dawn’s early light was the publisher of a travel magazine that was still in its infancy.

With time and distance from 9/11, people began traveling more and farther. But Missouri’s tourism marketing strategy had changed forever to include an in-state audience and to finally promote the Show-Me state via home-grown media like Show-Me Missouri magazine.

Congratulations, Gary Figgins, on 25 great years. In my five decades of working closely with those unique Missouri Press Association members who wear many hats as writer, editor, publisher, columnist, photographer, layout artist, ad manager, circulation manager and chief cook and bottle washer, I can say that nobody does it better than you.

John’s new book, “Souls Along The Road,” caroms through Missouri destinations, forgotten history, remarkable people and memorable food.]]>info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2023-08-08T15:05:15-05:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/e9e1c362b592a1df53296e4e14c40465-50.html#unique-entry-id-50http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/e9e1c362b592a1df53296e4e14c40465-50.html#unique-entry-id-50info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2023-05-09T14:31:59-05:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/99db182fee6e7953ae2a860c8c619aac-49.html#unique-entry-id-49http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/99db182fee6e7953ae2a860c8c619aac-49.html#unique-entry-id-49info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2023-02-16T14:40:00-06:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/3e8d2754824bef60fa9a60c5a5d80436-48.html#unique-entry-id-48http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/3e8d2754824bef60fa9a60c5a5d80436-48.html#unique-entry-id-48info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2022-11-15T12:28:09-06:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/5e2c86406810730a9e0e4afd776dff0f-47.html#unique-entry-id-47http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/5e2c86406810730a9e0e4afd776dff0f-47.html#unique-entry-id-47 I recently saw an interview with Gregory Robinson, director of NASA’s James Webb Space Telescope Program. The new Webb telescope is producing startling images, pushing aside the workhorse Hubble telescope, named for Missourian Edwin Hubble.

I’m still waiting for NASA to name a telescope for Hubble’s fellow Missourian, Harlow Shapley.

Unless you’re a rocket scientist, you may not have heard of Harlow Shapley. But Albert Einstein knew him. And so did fellow Missourian Edwin Hubble.

Indeed, this Mizzou grad and stargazer should be in the Hall of Great Americans. Alas, he’s not even a footnote on the website for Mizzou’s Department of Physics and Astronomy.

Shapley almost missed his calling altogether. He wanted to be a journalist. That’s why he came to Mizzou. But he was ahead of his time.

He worked as a reporter even before he finished high school. Arriving at the University of Missouri in 1907, he planned to apply the next year to study journalism. But when he found out that the world’s first J-school had been delayed for a year, he picked another major. As a fledgling reporter, he must have begun looking at the course guide in alphabetical order, because his biography states that he almost decided to major in archeology, but finally settled on astronomy.

That turned out to be one giant leap for mankind, in terms of understanding our place in the universe. Harlow’s study of the speed of light illuminated the theory that Earth and its solar system are not in the center of the universe. In fact, according to Harlow, we’re nowhere near the center of the universe, which is much bigger than anybody thought. This monumental discovery shook the foundations of belief unlike anything since Copernicus, who proved that the sun—not Earth—is the center of our solar system. It was a dangerous belief to promote back in 1543, and Copernicus began his report by predicting his revelations would cause heartburn. Harlow Shapley’s discovery was every bit as unsettling.

Harlow’s resolve and determination were early indications that he later would stand firm in his discoveries, even against popular opinion. He didn’t attack religion any more than Copernicus did. But his discovery suggested that the Earth was not placed in the center of the universe. He suggested that the Milky Way, alone, contains a hundred thousand million opportunities for life. He knew it would cause a great philosophical debate when his scientific discoveries collided with Genesis and miracles, mysticism and the supernatural. That was not his intent. He just discovered the size of the Milky Way and the fact that Sagittarius, not our sun, is at its center.

Somewhere in the galaxy, Copernicus is smiling.

Harlow Shapley is just one of the surprising characters in John Robinson’s first book, A Road Trip Into America’s Hidden Heart.]]>info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2022-08-05T16:19:23-05:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/418bce1fa2088d19c7e2a91a2a0e37b2-46.html#unique-entry-id-46http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/418bce1fa2088d19c7e2a91a2a0e37b2-46.html#unique-entry-id-46info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2022-05-06T10:36:15-05:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/a8b487f745380e349642e59de9e560ef-45.html#unique-entry-id-45http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/a8b487f745380e349642e59de9e560ef-45.html#unique-entry-id-45info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2021-11-05T15:46:56-05:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/6fd37428ae32b8960b17707245977e70-44.html#unique-entry-id-44http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/6fd37428ae32b8960b17707245977e70-44.html#unique-entry-id-44 by JOHN ROBINSON

Could a tiny Midwest town founded with little fanfare by the Santa Fe Railroad have a main street that competes with the bright lights of Broadway, the music on Bourbon Street, the stars along Hollywood Boulevard?

Perhaps the most replicated street in the world runs through the middle of Marceline.

It’s nearly impossible to travel more than one block in Marceline without opening a page in the storybook of young Walt Disney’s life. The icons pop up everywhere, testament to Walt’s influence on the town, and the town’s influence on Walt.

Flash back to 1955: Walt Disney had long since moved away from Marceline and made his mouse tracks in the world. But a half century hadn’t dulled Disney’s memories of the happiest time of his life. That’s why Marceline’s main street inspired Walt’s blueprint for Main Street USA at Disneyland. For sure, the Magic Kingdom’s Main Street was a communal effort among Walt and his art directors, who jazzed it up with bells and whistles and walking photo-ops with life-size cartoon characters. But every element of Disney’s Marceline is represented at the theme parks. The train station. The locomotive. The gazebo. The picture show.

Walt described the essence of his Main Street vision: “Main Street is everyone’s hometown–the heart line of America. To tell the truth, more things of importance happened to me in Marceline than have happened since, or are likely to in the future.”

Marceline is where young Walt first discovered the world. When he wasn’t hanging out downtown in a vacant lot beside a giant wall painted with a Coca-Cola logo, he might be found in his back yard engaged in what he later called “belly botany.” Lying on his stomach in a field, he’d conduct an up-close study of ants and aphids, crickets and critters. Indeed, the descendants of Jiminy Cricket still live here.

Kaye Malins is a walking encyclopedia on Walt’s Marceline years. She literally dreams Disney, living in his boyhood home on the outskirts of town. His home is a Disney tale in itself. Kaye has taken steps to enhance living history at Walt’s boyhood home. The bedroom Walt and brother Roy shared remains unchanged from their childhood.
Behind the house sits the barn.

In typical Disney style, the townspeople raised a new barn in 2001 to replicate the structure where 8-year-old Walt got his showbiz start. It’s a faithful replica, with a swayback roof—like the one Mouseketeers remember on TV—a shrine on the spot where his imagination began.

From all over the world, pilgrims visit the new barn, scribbling thousands of notes, verses, and signatures in every language on the rough-hewn wood walls.

Somewhere, a belly botanist is beaming.

Follow John’s travels at JohnDrakeRobinson.com/blog.]]>info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2021-08-10T17:00:57-05:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/bb8b64168675ae96bb82d2dd3c6403b3-43.html#unique-entry-id-43http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/bb8b64168675ae96bb82d2dd3c6403b3-43.html#unique-entry-id-43info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2021-05-20T14:38:10-05:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/6c70e777f2e1c19b9bdc6fd76e3aaffe-42.html#unique-entry-id-42http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/6c70e777f2e1c19b9bdc6fd76e3aaffe-42.html#unique-entry-id-42info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2021-02-16T15:06:28-06:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/a1282746750eafaaa02a6702af4567f4-41.html#unique-entry-id-41http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/a1282746750eafaaa02a6702af4567f4-41.html#unique-entry-id-41 Get ready to lose one hour of your life.

If Missouri lawmakers have their way, you’ll never get it back. The “Daylight Saving as the New Standard Time Pact” is coming to several states near you. And odds are better than ever the momentum will sweep into Missouri.

The umbrella statement of the pact explains what will trigger the change: “In the year in which at least 20 states have passed legislation entering those states into the pact, each state will switch clocks to daylight saving for the last time and daylight saving time will be eliminated.”

So far in the past year, it appears we’re nearing—or already past—that 20-state trigger threshold. If Missouri joins, we’ll agree to kill the hour. Permanently.

So here we go.

Will we adjust? Summer won’t be a problem. Missouri has been springing forward since we first moved to Daylight Saving Time on April 26, 1970. Missourians younger than 50 have known nothing but the ritual “spring forward, fall back.”

I asked my granddaughters what they thought about the permanent change. They’re ok with it. “We like playing outside later in the daylight.” But honestly, they’re more interested in the legislative proposal to make the corn dog the official food of the Missouri State Fair. And they debated one legislator’s idea to name the Gateway Arch the official state monument.

“My favorite monument is George Washington Carver,” one child protested. “It has classrooms where you can do science experiments.” I agree with her, for a multitude of reasons. But I didn’t have the heart to tell her that visitors to the Arch outnumber Carver monument visitors 100 to one, a ratio not likely to change.

I wonder what George Carver—America’s foremost recycler—would think about throwing away one whole hour, and not recycle it in October.

Alas, the only constant is change.

Like a chameleon, our culture changes to suit the seasons, natural and artificial. In a short string of generations our telephones evolved from live operators to party lines to busy signals to answering machines to selfie sticks to texting while driving.

Media has exploded from three television networks to ten thousand channels, from AM to FM to satellites, from MTV to YouTube, from the smell of fresh ink in the local morning newspaper to the personalized silos of social media. Our shopping has shifted from Norman Rockwell images of downtown to giant megamalls. Now the megamalls have become struggling monuments to the shopping trip, replaced by the homey convenience and instant gratification of online shopping, next day package delivery and porch pirates. Our fingers have migrated away from the Yellow Pages and the Sears catalog to Google and Amazon Prime.

Everything evolves over time. Now time itself will evolve.

With pain, most of us have adjusted to pandemic avoidance techniques. The food delivery industry has changed our eating habits, and kept some restaurants alive while others wither and disappear. We’ve moved from drive-in theaters to indoor air-conditioned big screens and back to drive-ins.

We survived an insurrection. So I guess we’ll adjust to permanent daylight saving time. But on that Saturday night in late October, I will miss the comforting reminder, “don’t forget to set your clocks back one hour.”

Okay, fine. Take away my precious extra hour of sleep in October. But who’s gonna remind me to change the batteries in my smoke alarm?

John kills time by writing in JohnDrakeRobinson.com.]]>info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2020-11-05T15:53:42-06:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/e95bb04b425c53421c06310ad92a0bd1-40.html#unique-entry-id-40http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/e95bb04b425c53421c06310ad92a0bd1-40.html#unique-entry-id-40 Taking the Highway 15 exit ramp off the Avenue of the Greats, I can get to anywhere in tiny Shelbina in five minutes, as long as a freight train isn’t crawling through the middle of town.

It wasn’t, and that was a good thing because the chime on my radio signaled it was straight-up noon, and as the newscaster began his first story, I knew lunch was already on the table.

From different directions, Robert Shoemyer and I arrived at the table at the same time. We exchanged greetings as we sat down to the glorious task of absorbing a 15-course meal. Robert is a family friend—and my hero. He farms for a living. And like most folks who toil the whole time the sun is watching, he stays young behind his weather-beaten face that looks all the more leathery as he sits hatless across the table from me, his balding pate a pasty white above a tan line as stark as the rustline in a porcelain tub. That tan line is testament to five dozen seasons on the seat of a tractor, sowing soybeans and feeding cattle. Robert has the energy and the enthusiasm of a kid despite his eighty-some years. He owes his stamina to early rising and hard work and clean living, but mostly to his companion for 60-plus years.

Dorothy Shoemyer’s kitchen table looks like a Grandma Moses painting. Everything is on it. Everything. Her face would be on the label of the grocery-store package that says “grandma’s home cooking,” if there was such a package. Robert and I dug into a home-grown, sit-down, all-you-can-eat, family-style, “don’t stop now because there’s only a spoonful of cottage cheese left and finish up those peaches ‘cause I can’t keep up with ’em fallin’ off the trees and here, have some more fried chicken ‘cause there’s not enough room to put all this stuff back in the fridge” dinner from Dorothy Shoemyer’s kitchen table, featuring beef and gravy and new potatoes with green beans from the garden and sliced home-grown tomatoes and cucumbers from her garden, too, and corn and relish and pickled beets and bread and butter.

Robert watched me coax the last drops of chocolate syrup out of a Hershey’s squirt bottle onto a dish of vanilla ice cream. I worked the squeeze bottle like a bellows, violently expelling a few drops of syrup in a flatulent whoosh, then waited as the air wheezed back into the plastic bottle.

“Give it here,” Robert said. He grabbed the squeeze bottle and decapitated it, held it in one hand and a gallon milk jug in the other. He poured milk into the syrup bottle.

“Chocolate milk,” he explained, “and I don’t even have to dirty a glass.” Dorothy Shoemyer chuckled as she flitted like a hummingbird from stove to table to sink.

“More ice cream?” she asked.

“No, thanks,” I demurred, as I watched Robert shake his squirt bottle to make his chocolate milk. I was stuffed. It’s rare that a weary road traveler gets a home-cooked meal, especially for lunch.

Robert’s work ethic is impressive, and he’s married to Saint Cook. But that’s not why he’s my hero. Robert finds a use for everything. Or a short cut. And I knew that as soon as he finished his chocolate milk, the squeeze bottle would find the recycling bin. This lunch was a refreshing oasis in my sojourn through this big, throwaway world.

From “A Road Trip Into America’s Hidden Heart,” the perfect stocking stuffer. Visit JohnDrakeRobinson.com to learn more.]]>info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2020-08-11T16:19:42-05:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/64a9cfd6b1998bd19bd2c5601a95894c-39.html#unique-entry-id-39http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/64a9cfd6b1998bd19bd2c5601a95894c-39.html#unique-entry-id-39info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2020-05-11T11:32:52-05:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/a4bc1725540db04efa5ea4fd1e290c6d-38.html#unique-entry-id-38http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/a4bc1725540db04efa5ea4fd1e290c6d-38.html#unique-entry-id-38 The road can lead to strange stories, none stranger than this.

It began when I left the comfort of Route 66. Driving south into the rugged hills, I entered the land of Moses.

Most people are aware Moses never made it to the Promised Land, a detail that disturbs more than a few Texans. Technically, Moses Austin made it to Texas, but he didn’t stay. In 1821, Moses was the first person to get permission from the governor of Spanish Texas to establish an Anglo-American colony there, leading a group of 300 families from Potosi to San Antonio de Bexar. He returned to Missouri and died soon after.

His remains rest in a cemetery in the middle of downtown Potosi.

The county where he’s buried is named for the Father of Our Country. But there’s visible proof that Moses Austin is Washington County’s favorite son. And they intend to keep it that way despite the nefarious intentions of a few Texans.

Encased beneath a slab of concrete the size of a carport, Moses has resisted body snatchers so far. Lone Star historians say Texas made overtures to remove Moses from a “neglected cemetery” and repatriate him with his son, Steve, in Austin.

Potosi historians are a bit more blunt. They tattle on Texas undertaker Thurlow Weed, who they say drove a hearse to Potosi in the early 1930s and started chipping away at Moses’ tomb. The marshal and a posse of enraged citizens sent Weed tumbling back to Texas, bearing no pall. Texas historians say there was no posse and that Weed returned to Texas with a Potosi City Council resolution opposing the move.

In 1938, both parties agree, the governor of Texas made one more attempt to get Moses. Texans say the Lone Star secretary of state came to make one last plea for the body, but instead came away recommending that Moses rest in peace in Potosi. Local tales persist that the Texas official came to apologize. But regardless of the purpose of this final attempt, Potosi is the only American town to repel a Lone Star invasion.

Moses is the grandfather of Texas, not Missouri. But among his Missouri accomplishments, he donated land for this Washington County seat of government. Named for a Bolivian silver mining town, Potosi is a South American Indian word for “place of much noise,” a harbinger to the Moses grave dispute. Backwards, the word Potosi comes one letter shy of spelling isotope, appropriate for the region’s heavy metal mining. In the realm of heavy metal, Moses Austin was a rock star. He established the first reverberatory smelter west of the Mississippi. And like most rock stars, his rise and fall was mercurial. A bank failure and recession in 1819 forced him to close his lead mining business, and he turned his attention to “the Texas Venture.”

Dipping into the land of Moses’ bones, I neither saw nor smelt, nor heard heavy metal, but heavy woods stretched in every direction over these foothills to the St. Francois Mountains. Route 47 snakes down to join Highway 21, and like two old friends, they share a path for five twisting miles. The trail could be named Memory Highway, because every two miles or so, an Adopt-A-Highway sign declares “In Loving Memory of [YOUR NAME HERE].” The most intriguing dedication is “In Memory of Beef.” Well, then. Suffice it to say that this road has delivered more than one species to glory. It’s just another indication that the end is near.

Moses knew that.

But even as he believed the end justified his means, Thurlow Weed couldn’t dislodge the grandfather of Texas from his final resting place.

Visit JohnDrakeRobinson.com to find out where to purchase a copy of his latest book, Souls Along The Road.]]>info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2020-02-12T10:01:09-06:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/3be3b81aa7f44bc9fda837805561aa3c-37.html#unique-entry-id-37http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/3be3b81aa7f44bc9fda837805561aa3c-37.html#unique-entry-id-37info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2019-11-12T16:44:08-06:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/584d3fd2ab43f730ee56ba9827d33999-36.html#unique-entry-id-36http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/584d3fd2ab43f730ee56ba9827d33999-36.html#unique-entry-id-36info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2019-07-31T11:50:52-05:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/f2c42a9b520d48adde051eaab5736233-35.html#unique-entry-id-35http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/f2c42a9b520d48adde051eaab5736233-35.html#unique-entry-id-35info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2019-05-15T11:28:41-05:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/03497b2c46a24709c522f5d29efa3519-34.html#unique-entry-id-34http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/03497b2c46a24709c522f5d29efa3519-34.html#unique-entry-id-34info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2019-02-06T11:47:12-06:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/e71a0bac64c73dfa82a83e20563b4e93-33.html#unique-entry-id-33http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/e71a0bac64c73dfa82a83e20563b4e93-33.html#unique-entry-id-33info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2018-11-05T11:50:10-06:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/ed31b254b8a58d4aef7ba8add3b501e5-32.html#unique-entry-id-32http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/ed31b254b8a58d4aef7ba8add3b501e5-32.html#unique-entry-id-32info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2018-08-20T15:29:25-05:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/94d4e1319d418d1391fa79c647ed1c28-31.html#unique-entry-id-31http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/94d4e1319d418d1391fa79c647ed1c28-31.html#unique-entry-id-31info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2018-05-08T09:50:29-05:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/ac58a8fdf53ab9951dde9a59f9a4d453-30.html#unique-entry-id-30http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/ac58a8fdf53ab9951dde9a59f9a4d453-30.html#unique-entry-id-30info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2018-02-07T13:31:07-06:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/e71a63c5d7c2186e93ed5190d790d5bf-29.html#unique-entry-id-29http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/e71a63c5d7c2186e93ed5190d790d5bf-29.html#unique-entry-id-29info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2017-11-06T10:34:55-06:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/c306af3fa258722c2501bc190a77a4e1-28.html#unique-entry-id-28http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/c306af3fa258722c2501bc190a77a4e1-28.html#unique-entry-id-28 Give me the Elvis.”

I hadn’t expected to encounter food fit for the king. Not here, within a wedge shot of so much history. But that’s what makes the journey so rewarding.

I finished my Elvis, a peanut butter sandwich slathered with marshmallow crème and bolstered with bacon and bananas, served on grilled whole wheat. It’s a big seller at Clinton’s Soda Fountain on the Independence town square, although young Harry never sold one in his first job there, since Elvis didn’t put his first peanut butter in his diaper for decades after Harry worked there.

“Where’s the Harry Truman?” I asked my server across the counter.

She pointed to the menu on the wall. “Right there: The chocolate sundae with butterscotch.” I had one in due course. Thus fortified with the favorites of the king and the leader of the free world, I set out to scratch the surface of this historic town.

Guarding the courthouse, Truman’s statue shares the grounds with the county’s namesake, Andrew Jackson. In America there are more counties named Jackson than there are rabbits or zucchinis. This Jackson County has a wild history. Old Hickory could care less, by the looks of his statue, mounted on horseback, sitting slim and grim. He looked pissed. But Andrew Jackson always looked pissed. Today he’s pissed that he may get kicked off the $20 bill. In contrast, Harry Truman’s statue is smiling as he strikes a walking pose.

Locals saw a lot of Harry Truman.

They saw him across the street during the centennial of the old 1859 jail, its future looking squarely into a wrecking ball until Truman helped save the structure.

The Independence jail appeared on the world stage many times. Its most infamous resident was so popular among townsfolk that the jailer never locked his cell. Wanted for robbery and murder, Frank James chose to turn himself in to Governor Thomas Crittenden at the State Capitol in Jefferson City, and that odd couple rode the train west to Independence. The event was more like a homecoming than a surrender. For six months over the winter of 1882, inmate James came and went as he pleased, before he was shipped off to trial at Gallatin.

Crisscrossing downtown, I must’ve run a dozen stop signs, smiling broadly as I crossed each intersection.

“The mules are immune” to things like stop signs and traffic tickets, my guide told me as he held the covered wagon’s reins to Harry and Ed, named for two partners in a bygone local haberdashery.

Ralph Goldsmith was born for this job. He looks like he could be a member of the Cole Younger gang, whose ranks lived in this area, or maybe a wagon master among the millions of people who launched from here on the perilous journey to a new life on the western frontier.

“You know my favorite Truman quote?” he asked. I didn’t. “There’s nothing new in this world, except the history that you don’t know.”

The 30-minute wagon tour, a bargain at fifty cents a minute, sets the scene for digging deeper into the many layers of history preserved in Independence. As Ralph talked about the pioneers and the Mormons and Truman and Frank James and the origin of Bill Hickok’s wild nickname, we rode in the very ruts (swales, they’re called) formed by a hundred thousand wagons headed west. With a firm foundation of tales about the town, I thanked Ralph Goldsmith and drove a short hop to the magnificent museum called the Truman Library.

After all, there’s nothing new in this world, except the history that you don’t know.

Excerpted from John’s upcoming book, “300001, A Road Odyssey.” ]]>info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2017-08-15T17:02:03-05:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/63d200b2d1ab46349872c6b74a18b06f-27.html#unique-entry-id-27http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/63d200b2d1ab46349872c6b74a18b06f-27.html#unique-entry-id-27 Should’ve planned it better. Some exotic background like Mt. Rushmore or the Golden Gate Bridge. After all, this car has been my steed for 17 years. But the milestone sneaked up on us, along a busy interstate.

You wouldn’t pick her for World’s Greatest Car.

Her headlamps have filmy cataracts. Her doors are dented, and she suffered the insult of a salvage title after her complexion was pocked by a hailstorm. She smells of antifreeze. Her transmission whines. Her brakes squeal.

But she’s a keeper.

I met her in a car lot 17 years ago. She was sleek and new and lipstick red, and even though I didn’t realize it at the time, she would set course on a journey no other car has made; she’s driven every mile of every road on Missouri’s highway map.

Her name reflects the auto company that built her, a company that folded and faded in the rearview mirror, leaving Erifnus Caitnop to fend for herself. Yet she remains strong, reaching an age when 99 percent of her peers have been pounded into refrigerator magnets.

With little planning, Erifnus and I began a string of shortcuts that lasted beyond a dozen years, a journey that left our tire tracks along every inch of state-maintained pavement, every county road from AA to ZZ, plus thousands of miles of gravel and dirt.

This 1999 Pontiac Sunfire became my Trigger, my Lassie, my Old Faithful. She’s dauntless on dirt roads and fearless beside 40-ton truckships. She’s crossed Skull Lick Creek and Rabbit Head Creek. She’s climbed Long Tater Hill, descended to Devil’s Well and the Little Grand Canyon and three Toad Sucks. Oh, and the Garden of Eden.

She’s witnessed OcToasterFest and the Testicle Festival, and a mineral springs with two iron pipes that deliver separate healing waters to Democrats and Republicans.

She’s outlived the company that made her. But I wouldn’t trade her for the Mona Lisa.

This car won an Emmy. Oh, I went along for the ride, but the car was the star of the show.

Erifnus doesn’t care. Even as she nurses a small patch of rust beneath her passenger door, she’s a workhorse, performing flawlessly, for the most part. Blame her brushes with danger on driver error.

I drove into danger because I was curious. Erifnus did it because she had no choice. But she’s a gymnast, handling like a thoroughbred through curves and mud, dodging texters and tweeters and road ragers and drunks and texters and squirrels, dogs, cats and deer and terrapins and texters. We’ve slid sideways in sleet, jumped curbs and low-water crossings. We’ve passed every pun on every roadside marquee, every time-and-temperature sign, every clip joint and carny barker and corn dog vendor, every barbecue shack and taco stand.

And we’ve stopped at most of ’em.

That’s why I should’ve planned better when her milestone sneaked up on us as we left hometown Columbia’s city limits. We pulled off I-70 and into a parking lot, where I made Erifnus Caitnop turn in circles until she reached 300,000 miles. It was an insensitive thing to do to an old horse who has served so well. But I wanted photos...and not on the shoulder of I-70.

During our short celebratory detour, I-70 had backed to a standstill. So Erifnus did what she does best: hit the backroads. Blacktops to Millersburg through Mark Twain’s deep forest past Tonanzio’s tables where in a different millennium we feasted like Bacchus. We passed white-fenced farms raising white-faced horses, followed a river that led past Dan’l Boone’s grave and a dozen vineyards. We reached our destination late, with more stories than a barrel o’ bards/troubadours.

Come to think of it, we got a good start on 400,000.

John Robinson is considering one of two titles for his upcoming book: 1) Pioneers Need Pants and Other Stories from the Road or 2) 300001: A Road Odyssey. Which do you like? Read more of the author’s stories at JohnDrakeRobinson.com. ]]>info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2017-05-19T15:51:32-05:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/ca9b0e5d60f9cc398fc4ea742b37f942-26.html#unique-entry-id-26http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/ca9b0e5d60f9cc398fc4ea742b37f942-26.html#unique-entry-id-26 At the Ozark Orchard Restaurant in Eminence, between sumptuous bites of homemade onion rings and fish soup, I learned the legend of Captain Jack.

A young Shawnee Indian boy stowed away on a packet steamer headed down the Ohio River in 1811. As the boat reached the Mississippi and started south, the New Madrid Earthquake turned the waters backward and wrecked the steamer, pinning the captain in the wreckage. The boy, nicknamed Jack, freed the captain, and for the kid’s bravery, the skipper gave his captain’s cap to Jack.

After a career on the Ohio and Mississippi rivers, Captain Jack settled along the river that eventually took his name: the Jacks Fork. Always wearing his cap, Jack became a fixture on the river. For decades, day and night, summer and winter, he poled his john boat up and down the river. He was a bit mysterious, but he looked official in his captain’s hat.

Today Jack’s spirit warns floaters, even experienced floaters, that this river—any river—can be tricky.

They’re about to become trickier.

Come mid-summer, floaters may lose a key river tool. The tool isn’t something you buy at the Jiffymart with beer and snacks.

It’s a gauge—one of 49 gauges that measure our rivers in key spots. These gauges—operated by the United States Geological Service—have saved countless lives by reporting water volume and river levels to your smart phone. Smart floaters use these gauges. Combined with weather forecasts, the gauges can help plan a safer experience on the river and help avoid high-water tragedy and low-water trudgery. Gauges inform floaters on the Current River, the Jacks Fork, Eleven Point, Meramec, Huzzah, Little Piney and the Big and Little Niangua Rivers.

Avoiding float trip tragedy is only one purpose for these stream gauges. Beyond these Ozark float streams, the same type gauges are on many rivers for a different reason. They provide data for managing drinking water and timing wastewater discharges and reservoir releases, irrigation, even power plants. They’re used to manage habitat. They help design bridges and levees and dams.

But current funding for these 49 USGS gauges in Missouri will end June 30. Unless other funding sources are identified, the information from these gauges will no longer be available.

If you’re a Navy Seal, you probably feel secure without these reports. If you’re a mother sending your kid into the unknown, you may not be so sure.

Figures from the USGS indicate that one gauge costs about $15,000 to operate for a year. If a gauge is removed a re-install would add about $15,000.

Writer, geologist and hydrology expert Jo Schaper compares “rivers without gauging stations to roads without traffic signals. You could still use the roads, but the risk would be much greater.”

Former Missouri Department of Natural Resources Environmental Specialist Sharon Clifford brings up another issue. As MDNR’s first coordinator to monitor our streams’ Total Daily Maximum Loads, Clifford recalls that “40 states were sued over this issue. It’s about fixing waterways that don’t meet standards after all permits are issued, and it’s part of the Clean Water Act. To calculate a TMDL, you must have good flow information to plug into the model. Without it, it isn’t possible to do it accurately. So what now? More lawsuits? Huge waste of tax payer dollars.”

It’s like driving a car without a gas gauge.

Your mechanic has a phrase for it: “You can pay me now, or you can pay me later.”

Listen to your mechanic. Contact your state and federal representatives and tell them to keep the river gauges.

It might save a soul from joining the ghost of Captain Jack.

Read more of the author’s stories at JohnDrakeRobinson.com. His previous books, Coastal Missouri and A Road Trip Into America’s Hidden Heart are available at independent bookstores and online booksellers everywhere.]]>info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2017-02-08T11:51:19-06:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/b9399364f2c47a92fe1202d990a33003-25.html#unique-entry-id-25http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/b9399364f2c47a92fe1202d990a33003-25.html#unique-entry-id-25info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2016-11-18T10:19:22-06:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/4ae5d22875cf67695dca1233651be746-24.html#unique-entry-id-24http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/4ae5d22875cf67695dca1233651be746-24.html#unique-entry-id-24info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2016-08-10T16:05:45-05:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/b9004993bf5c9a7ec204bc1659a17b03-23.html#unique-entry-id-23http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/b9004993bf5c9a7ec204bc1659a17b03-23.html#unique-entry-id-23info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2016-05-12T15:50:43-05:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/acf128acaa78cee783659425667e40d6-22.html#unique-entry-id-22http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/acf128acaa78cee783659425667e40d6-22.html#unique-entry-id-22 Erifnus, my car, took me across the Missouri River to Lexington. Nowadays the new bridge offers a stress-free ride, unlike its predecessor, the second-scariest Missouri River bridge ever, now relegated to the scrap heap of history.

The old bridge was so narrow that it was difficult to squeeze a death certificate between passing vehicles. The ride could get even scarier at the south bank where the river bluff forced a tight turn. The new bridge is spacious and safe, a tribute to engineering progress, except for one thing. Unlike the iron railings of that old bridge, through which I could see the river, the new bridge has solid concrete walls that rise just high enough to impede my view from Erifnus’ low-slung cockpit, forcing me to pay attention to the highway.

Up the hill, Lexington is a history book. Even before the Civil War’s legendary Battle of the Hemp Bales, this picturesque town bled tales of triumph and tragedy. Many stories rise from the hallowed grounds of the oldest continually-operated corporation in Missouri. This business isn’t going overseas, and it won’t change its name in a corporate takeover. Macpelah Cemetery did a brisk business during America’s westward expansion, burying pioneers who succumbed to disease and boiler explosions and drowning. Within the cemetery’s walls are thousands of tragic pioneer stories, mostly forgotten, buried by time.

A whole section of the cemetery contains scores of Mormon pilgrims scalded to death when the steamer Saluda’s boiler blew them onto the river bank. It was Good Friday, a cold day in 1852. The river delivered chunks of ice through a narrow chute just upriver from Lexington. The Saluda’s Captain Francis Belt had tried for two days to power his ship through the chute, and on this morning, he was determined to make it around that bend, to continue steaming toward his destination in Council Bluffs, Iowa. He ordered more steam, and within seconds the boilers exploded, throwing a hundred bodies onto the banks and into the river, which swept them away. The recovered bodies, many of them children, were laid to rest at Macpelah.

I had dinner that evening with local historians. Byron Nicodemus told me about one of Lexington’s brightest stars. Back in the days before talking movies, Carl Stalling played a mean piano around the local theaters. He was so good he gravitated to Kansas City, where a young artist named Disney heard Carl playing and hired him as musical director at his fledgling Laff-O-Gram Studios. Moving west to L.A. with Walt, Carl later left Disney Studios—a move some people questioned at the time—and went to work for Warner Brothers. There, Carl became “the dean of tunes,” an innovative musical director for the soundtrack of America’s childhood, some 700 Looney Tunes and Merrie Melodies.

Carl arranged a Dave Franklin song, “The Merry Go Round Broke Down,” for a 1937 cartoon called “Rover’s Rival.” The song became the theme for Looney Tunes. You’ve heard it as many times as you’ve sang “Happy Birthday.” But that’s not Carl Stalling’s most important contribution to civilization. His most lasting legacy happens every time a child sees a Warner Brothers cartoon. Daffy Duck. Bugs Bunny...it doesn’t matter. Behind every visual is a musical score that bathes the viewer in classical music. His scores dig deeper than the obvious classical greatest hits. Yes, he uses the William Tell Overture. But his works blend in Chopin and Grieg and Mendelssohn, Rossini and Mozart, and Irving Berlin.

It’s a safe bet that if your next door neighbor hums a classical tune while washing his car, he learned it not in school, but after school, watching Porky Pig.

I tried to find Carl Stalling’s house in old Lexington. It’s a paradox: In a town that boasts more historic homes per capita than anywhere, the sad fate of Carl’s house remains unknown. In a town with layers of rich history, mostly well-preserved, there isn’t much remaining from Carl Stalling. My car didn’t care. Erifnus shouts Carl’s classics from her cd player, while avoiding the fate of his last name.]]>info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2016-02-09T16:43:29-06:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/607bda3162d8010207042d61352ac9bc-21.html#unique-entry-id-21http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/607bda3162d8010207042d61352ac9bc-21.html#unique-entry-id-21info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2015-11-11T14:11:07-06:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/b1050c90fde9454a18eeccb9c59cb7ea-20.html#unique-entry-id-20http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/b1050c90fde9454a18eeccb9c59cb7ea-20.html#unique-entry-id-20 Mom had no idea.

Oh sure, she prepared us for our adventure. She layered us in sweaters and coats and pants until we couldn’t bend, and she fixed mittens over our finger gloves because she hated to hear us cry when she had to run cold tap water over crab-slow fingers, almost frostbitten from overtime on snowy Forest Hill.

She knew we were going sledding.

After all, she and dad bought the sleds we picked out. Fearless Flyers or something like that. And she bit her lip because she knew the risks. Dad always reminded her about the time he flew down Strawberry Hill in Hannibal, guiding his sled between the front and rear wheels of a moving trolley car.

She knew all about Strawberry Hill because she grew up two blocks from there. As a child, she sledded that same hill, fearless and invincible. But that was before she became a mom.

As a mom she did all she could to make us safe.

“Watch for cars. No pile ups. Stay away from trees and curbs and culverts.” Of course, she also supplied the paraffin to wax our runners. “This’ll help you go faster,” mom promised.

She never made us wear helmets. But she would’ve fitted us in body armor if she had known what we did.

A half mile from our house, on an Ozark hill at the edge of Rolla, somebody had positioned an old Plymouth car hood as a makeshift ski jump for sledders. Word traveled fast about the sled jump, and we went straight there. It took all afternoon to work up our nerve to jump that car hood. Meantime, we raced and formed sled trains and double deckers and triple deckers. We went down the hill backwards.

About the time our fingers started tingling, a kind of brain freeze numbed our fear, and we took off down the hill to rock the Plymouth hood.

During any sledding event, it was a safe bet there would be casualties. Mainly, inanimate objects got damaged. Plastic sleds and saucers were the first to break. And the car hood, even packed with snow, lost its graceful shape. Every once in a while, we’d bend a steel runner or split a centerboard, which destroyed Fearless Flyer’s guidance system. Despite our daring jumps, rarely did we suffer anything more than a bloody nose or a loose tooth.

Always in the backs of our minds we heard the warnings from mom.

“You can get hurt if you’re not careful.” Then she’d tell the story about the kid who broke his neck, or lost a tooth or an eye. We would shudder and promise her we’d be careful. Then we’d head to the most dangerous slope and let ‘er rip over the car hood or some other makeshift jump. We were young and invincible, and we were going to live forever.

If you’re reading this passage to your toddlers, tell them not to try this. But please understand that your children, as they grow and experiment with life, will do stupid stuff like this, and they’ll never tell you. That’s just the nature of things.

We always stayed too long, even when the snow was slushy and the sledding was slow.

“Just one more ride,” we would agree, spending our last energy pulling our sleds up the hill, slipping and sliding to the start.
Then we’d go home for the warmup, and the cold water torture on near-frostbitten fingertips.

Nowadays snowboarders laugh at our 1950s makeshift sled runs. That’s okay. We used what we had. We did what we knew.

This winter when conditions are right, after a fresh snowfall, sledders and snowboarders will hit the slopes. Wherever it’s still permissible, they’ll find a perfect hill. And when they’re not texting or tweeting or taking selfies, they’ll plunge downhill to test the limits of their bravery and gymnastic skills.

But don’t tell mom.

Read more of the author’s stories at JohnDrakeRobinson.com. For more stories about growing up in rural Missouri, check out the trilogy by Bollinger County native author Stan Crader: The Bridge, Paperboy and The Longest Year.]]>info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2015-08-12T16:46:40-05:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/7489c54d04a7a35019a6f5433e716260-19.html#unique-entry-id-19http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/7489c54d04a7a35019a6f5433e716260-19.html#unique-entry-id-19 There are a lot of ways to see Route 66.

This view might be the most fun.

Afternoon thunder roared in the distance as we unloaded three kayaks and prepared to launch into Roubidoux Creek. I paused to look up, not so much at the storm clouds, which would offer only a glancing blow, but at the giant piers that supported twin bridges over this creek.

The bridges carry traffic along I-44, and they’re the great-granddaughters of the Route 66 bridge we’d float beneath downstream.

On this day, the navigable part of Roubidoux Creek begins here, beneath the Mother Road amid the pillars and concrete sprayed with graffiti and littered with trash. We spent a few minutes deciphering the prose...and picking up some of that trash.

Then we hit the water.

As we launched our kayaks, over our heads we heard a hundred cars pass, their passengers unaware that we were about to float Missouri’s second-most overlooked stream.

For almost a mile the water twists and braids past brush piles and gravel bars and blue herons thick as mosquitoes around their rookeries. We flowed into the heart of Waynesville. Yet we never really saw the town. Not from the creek. Buildings and buzz and hubbub rose around us on both sides of this waterway. But from the water, our view was pastoral.

Roubidoux Spring gushed at us from the right, roiling from beneath a giant concrete wall where a dozen young brave souls jumped into the cold waters. The spring doubled the volume of Roubidoux Creek and lowered the water temperature 20 degrees.

We approved.

A kayak floating Roubidoux Creek is like a blood cell coursing through an artery. A lot of activity happens outside this conduit, but you don’t see it. And it doesn’t see you.

We paddled past dozens of locals along the stream bank. Kids swimming. Adults relaxing on their lunch break. Off-duty soldiers from nearby Ft. Leonard Wood were fishing...right here in this hidden waterway through the middle of town.

And then I looked downstream.

In the distance the old Route 66 bridge arched high over our path, as it has for eight decades, looking like an old Roman aqueduct with the original mother road coursing over the old span’s back through the heart of Waynesville. But drivers only catch a fleeting glimpse of us, if they see us at all. I waved at them anyway.

On our right were ball fields and soccer fields and fitness trails. Or so I was told. All we saw was green vegetation and clear spring water. We passed a giant pipe pouring thousands of gallons of purified water into the stream. That water used to be sewage. But treated, it’s drinkable, I’m told.

It looked clear, smelled good.

We paddled downstream as another thunderstorm shook its fist, blared at us, then twisted off to the north. I became aware that we were coursing beside another highway, draped along a ledge a few stories above the water level. Occasionally, through the trees, I could see motorists. I waved. They didn’t see me.

But during the hundred times I’ve driven this same stretch of Highway 17, my eyes were always sweeping this creek. I would’ve seen me. I would’ve waved back.

It ended too soon, abruptly dumping us into the Gasconade River at a picturesque spot beneath a towering bluff. As we carried our kayaks up a steep bank, I turned to say a silent prayer for the mudpuppies who struggle to survive beneath these waters. And I said goodbye to the second-most overlooked stream in Missouri.

Next time you’re driving along old Route 66 through Waynesville, look down as you cross Roubidoux Creek. I’ll be waving.

See more at JohnDrakeRobinson.com/blog. His books, Coastal Missouri and A Road Trip Into America’s Hidden Heart are available at independent bookstores and online booksellers everywhere.]]>info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2015-05-12T13:47:25-05:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/a5b5bba681357d2147dbb2071d57a82b-18.html#unique-entry-id-18http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/a5b5bba681357d2147dbb2071d57a82b-18.html#unique-entry-id-18
Devil’s Well is the largest known natural underground lake in Missouri. Through a hole no wider than a backyard trampoline it beckoned us to peek a hundred feet straight down into an underground river. One of the area’s preeminent geologist-explorers calls it a big stomach. It’s Mother Nature’s perfect indoor pool, except that it’s cold and dark and underground and scary as hell, hence the name.

Before the Devil relinquished this well to the National Park Service, a few lucky folks descended into the stomach, er, sinkhole in a bosun’s chair. It was a ride much like the worm experiences when dangled from a fish hook, although the conclusion is less digestive.

Back then, the actual owner was Bill Wallace. He and his brother first explored the cavern in 1954, via that bosun’s chair.

Excited about our hot afternoon journey, we parked in the Devil’s Well parking lot and walked the steep switchback trail down into the well. The sinkhole’s dimensions are such that it would make a perfect sheath for a small tornado...if Satan wanted to store one here. The hole narrows to the size of an inverted forest tower, descending to a platform where we peered over a ledge through a hole that could easily become plugged by an elephant if it fell from the sky into this vortex. Ten stories beneath our peephole was the water. The cavern is the exact size and circumference of the Astrodome, best I can tell. So this hole is the world’s first domed sports facility.

Divers, cavers and mappers joined together in a project called Ozark Spring Studies to explore this well over 62 weekends from 1969 to 1973. Dye tracing indicates this underground river surfaces at Cave Spring on the Current River.

The National Park Service bought the land in 1974.

Today, you can’t ride the bosun’s chair into the cavern, but thanks to well-hung electric lights, we saw the cavern and its pool, which would be the eighth wonder of the world except that it already has a higher ranking as the seventh wonder of Shannon County.

We ascended the staircase out of the hole with the realization that the surrounding terra was not that firma. That was our first unsettling revelation.

Our second unsettling revelation came when our driver tried to start her car. Dead battery. Middle of nowhere. No cell phone service, and a gravel road that switchbacked up a steep hill for two miles to the nearest country blacktop. So I started running up the gravel road to find help.

Up the hill, closer to the fringes of the outer beginnings of the path to the edge of civilization, I met a van carrying a vacationing family from Wisconsin descending into the valley that contains the hole that leads to the Seventh Wonder of Shannon County. Friendly and willing, they provided the jumper cables and the juice to start the car and get us out of the vortex of the Devil.

That evening, over homestyle fried chicken at a country cafe called Jason’s Place, among friends whose jobs it is to set tourism lures, we relayed the story of surprise and despair and the kindness of strangers, all within the clutches of the Devil and his well.

John made it home. Erifnus is fine. See more at JohnDrakeRobinson.com/blog. His books, Coastal Missouri and A Road Trip Into America’s Hidden Heart are available at independent bookstores and online booksellers everywhere.]]>info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2015-02-12T11:36:00-06:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/9c282b30f350e81107044eb1e6cc2c89-17.html#unique-entry-id-17http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/9c282b30f350e81107044eb1e6cc2c89-17.html#unique-entry-id-17info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2014-11-14T16:58:10-06:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/30e9f94f8f465bbced366563900f9d20-16.html#unique-entry-id-16http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/30e9f94f8f465bbced366563900f9d20-16.html#unique-entry-id-16info@showmemissouri.netOFF THE BEATEN PATH2014-08-14T16:53:00-05:00http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/16238043a2747fa78111a9f92449fe1e-15.html#unique-entry-id-15http://www.showmemissouri.net/pages/offthebeatenpath_files/16238043a2747fa78111a9f92449fe1e-15.html#unique-entry-id-15by JOHN DRAKE ROBINSON
artist rendering of the original Munger-Moss (now the Elbow Inn) by Clarke Harvey

I found a hideaway. When I rolled to its door, a thundershower was beating down on the low slung structure made mostly of logs with mud chinks, its back wall standing just a couple of feet above the swollen Big Piney River. ]]>