A 115 Year Old Mystery

 A 115 Year Old Mystery

    Some of you will know exactly who Lizzie Borden is while others may have never heard of her. My 83 year old mom is certainly familiar with the Fall River, Mass woman who was accused of bludgeoning her father and step-mother to death with an axe on Aug 4,1892. Mom grew up just a few blocks from the house at 92 Second street where the murders were committed. She remembers jumping rope as a child while her friends chanted this spooky little nursery rhyme,

Lizzie Borden took an axe

And gave her mother forty Whacks,          

When she saw what she had done, 

She gave her father forty one.

     I recently went on vacation to Narragansett, Rhode Island with my wife Jennie, my daughter Angela and my sister Karen. Fall River is only a 30 mile drive along the coast so we made the trip several times from Narragansett to visit relatives. It was on one of these trips that we decided to stop and tour the murder scene of Andrew and Abby Borden.

    Other than the color of the 162 year old victorican home and the sign proclaiming it the Lizzie Borden Bed and Breakfast, the two story, light green house looked the same as it did that gruesome day 115 years ago. The current owner did a beautiful job in restoring it to its original glandeur.

    As we toured the house, our knowledgeable guide paused in each room to explain in great detail what took place the day of the murders.

    Mr. Borden, a wealthy banker and highly respected man in the community had gotten up early that fateful morning and left the house to run his usual errands. He returned at approximently ten oclock and went to the sitting room on the first floor to lay down on the sofa for a while. The maid, Bridget Sullivan was napping in her room located in the attic. Lizzie was in the barn looking for sinkers for a future fishing trip and  re-entered the house about eleven oclock.

   She walked into the sitting room and found her fathers horribly disfigured body slumped over on the sofa. What the repeated blows from the buiness end of the axe had done to his face would sicken even the most seasoned homicide detective.

     “Some one has come in the house and killed Father!” Lizzie franticly yelled up the stairs towards Bridgets room at 11:15. “Come down at once!”

  Bridget was told to run across the street and get Dr. Bowen. She quickly returned with the doctor and a neighbor, Mrs Churchill who had heard Lizzie’s screams coming from the house.

  Mrs. Churchill asked where Mrs. Borden was. Lizzie said that she felt her mother had also been killed. Bridget found her body moments later in an upstairs guest bedroom where she had been changing the linen on a bed. Her corpse laid face down on floor in a puddle of blood. Her head had been crushed in much the same manner as her husbands. 

   Police did a complete search of the home and found an axe head minus the handle in the basement. They assumed it was the murder weapon even though it was free of any blood.There were no visible signs of forced entry and neighbors hadn’t seen any strange people around the house. The murderers clothing must have been literally drenched in blood but it was never found.

    Mr. Bordens assets were close to $500,000 which was a great deal of money in 1892. He was known as a very frugal man who liked to get by on the bare necessities of life. That didn’t sit to well with Lizzie.They were a family of means and she thought they should live more extravagantly. Lizzie and her sister Emma had many arguments with him about the way he planned to divide up his fortune among their relatives.

    Motives and a poor alibi made the 32 year old Lizzie a prime suspect in what would become a sensational trial that made head lines around the world.

     Just days after the murders, Lizzie was seen burning a stained blue dress in the kitchen stove. She claimed that the dark colored stains were from a freshly painted baseboard she accidently brushed up against.

   Several key bits of evidence were excluded from the trial such as her attempt to buy cyanide at a local drugstore just days before the murders.

    It’s said that Lizzie wanted to make a death bed confession but died before she could.    Bridget Sullivan, moments before she died, allegedly told her sister that she had changed her testimony on the stand to protect Lizzie.

    Despite the incriminating evidence against her, Lizzie Borden was found innocent after just one hour of deliberations. Some blame her acquittal on the fact that her entire original inquest testimony was barred from the trial.

    After inheriting a fortune from the death of her father, Lizzie lived the affluent life she always craved at 306 French street in a wealthy part of Fall River. Just a few short blocks away, an impressive stone arch perhaps twenty five feet in height with a gate house on either side guards the entrance to Oak Grove cemetery and the final resting place of the Borden family.

    Cemetery workers must have grown tired of telling the curious where Lizzie was buried so there are painted arrows showing the way on the street. The lush green grass that reaches into every nook and cranny of the graveyard is missing from the Borden family plot. It has long ago succumbed to the steady parade of visitors viewing the graves of Mr and Mrs Borden, Lizzie and Emma.

     A note with several names and where they were from had been slipped under a small rock next to Lizzie’s stone. A cheap bracelet was wrapped around the rock.

    Like the thousands before us, we stood under the giant oak tree that watches over the graves and tried to figure out one of America’s greatest mysteries.

    I personally think that Lizzie was a very clever woman who methodically planned and timed every single step and phase of the murders down to the most diminutive detail and carried out the crime alone.  

 My wife Jennie agrees with the jury’s findings.

    My daughter Angela believes that Lizzie killed her mom and was some how involved in her father’s death by possibly letting an accomplice in the house.

    My sister Karen thinks that she killed both of them with another persons help.

Dispute over the killer or killers continues to this day. Movies have been made and books have been written about the tragedy.

The Lizzie Borden Bed and Breakfast owner, Lee Ann Wilber believes Lizzie was involved but didn’t actually commit the murders. We toured the bed and breakfast during the day but you can certainly spend the night there if you have the courage.

 

“We don’t like to say the house is haunted.” Lee Ann said. “That’s too negative. We call it “active.”

Things have happened in the house that can’t be explained easily. Footsteps when nobody is in the house, doors opening and closing, a rocking chair that moved across the room while I was sleeping to where it was facing me when I woke up so that it was the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes and I was alone in the house. Just little things. We have lost a guest or two in the middle of the night. Not because anything actually happened to them, but more the fact that they scared themselves into not sleeping.”

There is a lot more information on the internet about Lizzie Borden if you do a Google search.

To read more about the Bed and Breakfast, go to

http://www.lizzie-borden.com/

Hoofbeats in the Flint Hills

Hoofbeats in the Flint Hills

    An over cast sky looked down on Dan Daughtery and I as we loaded a few items in my car. I had been invited to do a story on a cattle roundup and needed someone that was good with a camera and knew a lot about every day life on a ranch. Dan was the perfect choice since he grew up on a farm and photography was one of his hobbies.

   Our destination would be the Division ranch eight miles north of Strong City, Kansas in the beautiful Flint Hills. The 150 miles went by quickly as we listened to a George Jones CD and discussed everything from fishing to the high cost of gasoline.

   Twenty miles east of Strong City the clouds couldn’t hold it back any more and a cold, light rain that would be with us the rest of the day began to fall.

  About a mile south of the ranch, Dan spotted Lower Fox Creek School, a rustic one room school house made from local limestone. The structure was built in 1882 and began classes in 1884. My dad attended a school just like this one in Linn County, Kansas as a boy so I didn’t hesitate when Dan suggested that we take a quick tour of it. As we entered the old building, it immediately took us back in time for a few moments as we gazed at black boards that ran the length of three walls to the little wooden desks with ink wells. It wasn’t hard to picture warmly dressed children huddled around the pot belly stove eating their lunch as the harsh Kansas winters howled just outside the door.

  If our trip would have ended right there at the school I would have considered it a great day but there was even more in store for us just five minutes away.

  The asphalt highway suddenly became gravel as we turned left and drove under an impressive steel arch declaring this property the Division Ranch. About a hundred yards inside the gate we stopped and got out of the car to take a look at the view. And what a view it was with the main house, barns and out building sitting in a beautiful valley about a quarter mile away. The surrounding Flint Hills were absolutely breath taking. The rain stirred up the wonderful aroma of native grasses and wild flowers. A gentle breeze brought the inviting smell of percolating coffee and burning wood from the ranch to dance around our noses.

  We continued down the gradual sloping road around a curve and pulled up to a huge barn. My Hyundai Tiburon looks sleek and fast out on the highway but appeared small, meek and very much out of place surrounded by the dozen or so giant pickup trucks and horse trailers crowded into the parking area.

  We only took a couple of steps into the barn when Purina District Manager, Ernie Rodina introduced himself and invited us to have some of that piping hot cowboy coffee we got a whiff of by the gate.

   On the other side of the barn, my old friend John Duckworth had a very attentive audience of 15 people who paid 500 dollars each to listen to and watch his hoof care demonstration and participate in the second annual Flint Hills Spring Round-Up. All proceeds will go to the Flint Hills Rodeo in Strong City.

  John wrapped things up and took us around the room introducing us to several people including cattleman and ranch manager, Jason Lewis.

  Jason is an impressive man both in physical stature and maturity. At the young age of 35 he runs the day to day operations of the 5,200 acre ranch and has since he was 24 years old. Later in the morning we had the pleasure of meeting his charming wife, Teri. I was very impressed with her ability to deal with the needs of their three young children through out the day even though she was extremely busy.  The kids, Tanner, Bailey and Jaron have chores that must be done each and every day. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree” is a saying I have heard a few times over the years and finally found a case where it actually applies. While I think it’s remarkable that Jason started running the Division ranch at age 24, I am equally impressed that his boy Jaron at the tender age of five can drive a gator utility vehicle and ride a full size horse as easily as a grown man. It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if this youngster holds an important job some day at a very young age like his father.

  Even the rain wasn’t a powerful enough deterrent to keep us in the barn once lunch time arrived. A quick jaunt down the muddy road on foot took us to a huge tent whose sole purpose was to protect the tables and food below it. I must say it did a fine job as did Ernie with the hamburgers and Italian sausage cooking on the grill.

  We were able to eat in peace since the flies and bugs weren’t a problem with the rain and smoke temporarily grounding them. A coral just thirty feet or so from the tent held 17 bulls. Everyone watched as these magnificent beasts pushed each other around the enclosure sometimes falling in the mud.

  Shortly after lunch Jason gathered everyone together to tell us that it was just too risky to continue with the roundup plans due to the weather. If it was agreeable to everyone he suggested we instead divide the bulls into two groups and drive them out to the cows.

  Being the good sports that they are, each man and woman said “lets do it” and off they went to saddle up. Since Dan and I don’t own a horse we wondered how we would be able to tag along as observers.

  As talented as young Jaron is, he can’t ride a horse and a gator at the same time so he had to make a choice which fortunately for us was his horse.

 Before we could decide who was going to drive the little four wheel drive vehicle, Chase county extension agent, Mike Holder volunteered. Mike was a tremendous help getting us in to position so we could take pictures and answering my many questions.

  With a little prodding from the riders, half a dozen of the powerful bulls came running out of the coral, across a picturesque stream and out of sight over a slight hill. Dan, Mike and I brought up the rear in the gator. Like keeping the insects grounded, the rain would once again help us by keeping the dust down that I figured we would soon be eating.

   I wasn’t quite prepared for the view when we popped over the hill. With in seconds I understood what they meant when they say wide open spaces. As far as the eye could see was nothing but land. My eyes stared at thousands of acres of beautiful unspoiled land that probably looked exactly the same 200 years ago when buffalo ran free. The occasional pond or small grove of trees with the flint hills surrounding them was worthy of a painting. A sight I found even more heart warming was Teri and her youngest son happily riding side by side, oblivious to the rain.

 As we approached the camp site I noticed that several of the horses had a Purina Mills blanket under their saddles. I asked Mike what that was about and he told me they were one of the sponsors of this event along with Holton Trailer Sales, Intervet, The Bullet Hole, Priefert, B&W Hitch and John Deere. With companies like these and hard working people like Jason and Teri Lewis, John Duckworth and Mike Holder the Annual Spring Roundup will only get bigger and better.

Darkness would be on us within three hours so we decided to skip the feast that was being prepared for supper and head back to Kansas City while we still had enough daylight.

  We stopped for one last picture at the gate on our way out and discovered that the same breeze which carried the smell of coffee and bacon earlier that morning was now heavy with the aroma of Kansas beef being slowly turned over an open fire.

Beauty In The Sky

Beauty in the Sky         

   I vaguely remember my Aunt telling me years ago that my great grandfather Sanford Speaks was said to have invented one of the insulators you see on telephone poles but never took out a patent on the invention.

   Sanford lived in Linn County, Kansas and as the story goes, he was traveling by horse back in the mid 1880s to Kansas City so he could apply for a patent on his invention when he decided to stop at a tavern for something to eat and drink.  Too many beers loosened his tongue and he started bragging about his insulator and how he would soon be a rich man. With his belly full and his ego sufficiently inflated, he continued his journey. Just twenty miles down the dirt road two armed thugs from the tavern caught up to Sanford and took his invention and any future rewards it might have brought his way.

   My Aunt didn’t hear the story directly from Sanford. It was handed down to her from an older relative when she was a child and we all know how stories can change each time they are told. I do however; have a photo of my great grandfather taken about 1885 that shows him holding up an insulator with a wire some how attached to it with out being tied on so there must be something to the family legend.

    I recently learned that my old friend Jim Mummaw has a collection of approximately sixty five glass insulators. I asked him if he thought there could be any truth to the Sanford Speaks story. “I’m just a beginner in the hobby.” Jim said. “You really need to talk to Charles Brandon out in Overland Park who has one of the largest glass insulator collections in the country.”

  It was as though I had descended into the treasury room of King Tut’s tomb when Charles and I entered a large room in his basement. Literally hundreds and hundreds of beautiful glass insulators filled shelves from the floor to the ceiling on three walls.  Sunlight from a near by window poured over and through vividly colored insulators in a glass cabinet magnifying their beauty. They certainly wouldn’t have looked out of place sitting among King Tut’s gold and prized possessions I thought as we slowly made our way around the room pausing every few feet to closely examine the insulators that looked more like a work of art than a simple component once mass produced by the thousands from the 1850s to the 1950s.

“The insulator is designed to keep the wire off the pole.” Charles said when he noticed the puzzled look on my face as I stared at an oddly shaped one. “You don’t want the wire to come in contact with the pole because the current will bleed off into the ground.”      

     For a hundred years the efforts of inventors to improve the insulators ability to keep the current loss at a minimum and protect them from vandalism created some interesting shapes that resembled every thing from Trojan helmets to salt shakers, ginger bread men, bat ears, Mickey Mouse ears, Pluto the dog, mushrooms, bee hives, bullets, castles and even a giant screw. Some were constructed with pleated glass or copper skirts to create a longer path of resistance for the electrons to follow down the pole to the ground. It was also hoped that the pleated skirts would cause the insulator to break off in small chunks when hit by a bullet or rock instead of completely shattering.

     I noticed that the insulators came in several different shades of blue, green, white, black, purple, amber and gray. “Why is there such a big variation in the colors?” I asked Charles. “They just sit on top of power poles so what difference does it make?”

  “The Power and Telephone Company’s could order insulators in what ever color they wanted.” Charles explained. “The various colors really didn’t mean any thing. The glass manufacturers used what ever glass was left over at the end of the day to make the insulators. Although, in some cases the power company might designate blue to the neutral line going through town and the amber ones for the other two legs. One utility company here in Kansas City used Electric Blue Mickey Mouse insulators with milky swirls embedded in the glass exclusively for the DC cable serving the trolleys running along Brookside into the Plaza area. It’s the only place they were used in the entire country.  Some insulators were clear when they were made but over a period of time the sun turned them purple because of the manganese found in them. They never made red insulators because it took a small amount of gold to make red glass.”

      The vast majority of Charles’s 4,300 insulators are about four inches in height and approximately three inches wide with a few smaller ones about the size of a quarter. The grand daddy of them all proudly sits in a corner of the room. The green giant weighs in at a whopping 57 pounds and measures 18 inches in width making it the biggest insulator ever found in the world.

   I asked Charles what got him interested in such an unusual hobby. “I grew up on the out skirts of St. Joseph, Missouri.” the 52 year old mechanical engineer said. “I was a distance runner in high school back in 1971 and did a lot of my training in the country since it was so close to my house. I especially enjoyed running along the railroad tracks. I’d see signal lines and poles with insulators still attached to them lying off to the side of the rails. I thought they looked pretty cool and unscrewed a couple of them. I figured that carrying one in each hand as I ran would build up some muscles. They were every where and came in so many different sizes, shapes and colors that I started collecting them.”

    In addition to the unusual shapes and jewel like colors, Charles would learn that there were a couple of other key miscues glass manufacturers inadvertently did that attracts collectors.

    The manufacturers weren’t too worried about creating perfect insulators so iron and other impurities were often in the glass when they were made. This would sometimes cause slight imperfections such as milky swirls and other flaws that would make them quite valuable to collector’s decades later. Embossing errors such as backward letters will earn an insulator a spot at the front of a display cabinet.

  Charles showed me a thread less insulator from the 1860s that was simply jammed over a wooden pin on the cross arm of a pole after soaking the pin with oil. Storms and vandals would occasionally knock them loose, so some one designed a plunger in 1871 to swirl out threads as the insulator was being made so it could be spun on to the pin to keep it in place. Drip points at the base of the insulator to help get rid of moisture that could build up from temperature variations and lesson the insulation properties was another clever improvement.

    

  

 

    With inventors constantly upgrading the workability of the glass insulator during the hundred years they were in production, I’m beginning to think the story about my great grandfather might have some truth to it.  I asked Charles what his thoughts were on the Sanford Speaks story.

   “He was obviously proud of what ever his involvement was with that insulator.” Charles said. “Having been in the hobby for 35 years, I don’t recall seeing any photos of some one posing with their insulator. The fact that you don’t see a tie wire holding the wire in place shows more than a remote chance that he devised a new way to hold the wire in place. I would say he was involved in some way.”

   People are still finding the old insulators in places such as abandoned railroad tracks, garage sales, in mines, on trees, on buildings, antique shops, newspapers and from collectors like Charles who sells and trades them as a member of the Missouri Valley Insulator Club.

       It seems the collectors bug has bitten me as I now find myself subconsciously glancing skyward every time I’m in the country. Perhaps I’m hoping that some day I will be driving down a desolate gravel road and suddenly see a long forgotten row of ancient glass insulators high atop a power pole glistening in the morning sun like beautiful rare jewels and I’ll know exactly how Charles Brandon feels. 

WHATSOEVER

A Powerful Beacon 

     

    Like a lighthouse, the tall red brick building sits high atop a hill doing its best to guide people in the right direction.

  Originally built as the Jackson schoolhouse in 1889, the eighteen room structure at 1201 Ewing has been home to the Whatsoever Community Center since 1941.

    Whatsoever was born in 1915 when a group of women from the Independence Boulevard Christian Church in Northeast started a soup kitchen in the basement of a café on Winner Road.

    The centers name came from the bible verse, “Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it  with thy might.”

  From that little soup kitchen, Whatsoever evolved into an important ally to countless parents in the surrounding neighborhoods.

   I grew up in the Sheffield neighborhood directly north of the center in 1950s and 60s.  Most of the families had an abundance of children, which was great when it came to getting up a game of baseball or football but could spell trouble on summer vacations when we became bored with the games. It’s no different in today’s world. Kids with plenty of idle time and nothing to do can easily get in to trouble.

   Fortunately, Whatsoever was just a few blocks away so we spent a lot of our spare time participating in the many activities they offered such as the game room, art room, boxing and field trips.  

   Even though its been at least forty years since I was last there it hasn’t changed much. A lot of good memories from my childhood came back as Whatsoever executive director, Charlie Gasich and I climbed the creaky 119 year old stairs to the second floor.

    The center has a inspiring feel of hope and expectation similar to Ellis Island where millions of immigrants walked through its doors to gain access to American.      

 Thousands of children from all walks of life including myself have passed through Whatsoever’s wide double doors on their way to becoming adults. Some of them were from poor families, some were immigrants and some were from wealthy families but they all came for the same reason which was and still is the support and guidance provided by the centers staff and the long lasting friendships they develop.

   Because of the age and size of the building I mentioned to Charlie that it wouldn’t surprise me if the old place had a ghost or two roaming the halls late at night after things got quiet. He replied that several people including his self have heard heavy footsteps on the stairs when no one else was in the building. Numerous times, workers have heard faint whispering that sounds like a young girl when they are alone. Cold spots in the middle of summer have been experienced in various rooms.

   Since it was a child’s voice that they heard, I thought it would be interesting to bring in Millers Paranormal Research to see what we could find.

   Millers arrived on a cold Saturday evening last January. Charlie, Whatsoever Youth Services Director, Crystal Rice, my daughter in law Shani Castle and I helped carry up several thousand dollars worth of infra red cameras, tape recorders, digital cameras, emf meters, 35 mm cameras, thermometers and monitors to the second floor. Charlie and Crystal took the paranormal team who has done over a hundred investigations on a tour of the building so they could decide what rooms to use the equipment in.

    Once that was done, all the lights were turned off except one room that was used as the command center.

    Shaker and Seer Misty Maeder who earlier that morning used her psychic abilities to work with three police detectives on a murder case in Pomona, Kansas began leading a small group of us through the pitch black building with only the occasional flash from our cameras to show us the way.

   We didn’t go very far before we encountered the spirit of an older man in one of the offices. Misty talked to him while the rest of us remained quiet. “This man stays here because he wants to see changes.” She explains. “He says he use to donate money to the center when he was alive.”

  The words were no more out of her mouth when Shani nudged me. “Some thing happen to me in the hallway leading to the office.” She said. “ I don’t feel very well. Can you get me outside?” Long time Millers member, Brenda Marble went outside with us to see if she could help. Crying and over come with emotion, Shani said some thing in the dark hallway seem to pass through her body leaving her weak, confused and extremely sad.

“ That was the spirit of the man in the office.” Brenda told us. “We call that experience taking a hit. He did indeed pass through you as he left the room. The feeling is similar to getting hit on the back of your head by a baseball bat but you don’t feel it right away. It drains all your energy, your knees are weak, your head is swimming and you’re about to go down. You will be fine in an hour or so.”

  All though not fully recovered, Shani was ready to continue after thirty minutes or so. As the investigation progressed, Misty found the spirits of two young boys and a little girl.  

 “ The girl died here back when the center was some type of hospital.” Misty said. “She is here all the time but the two boys come and go. They drowned in a nearby creek and are attracted to Whatsoever because of all the kid energy and it’s a place they probably had fun at when they were alive.”

   Three 150 pound heavy bags suspended from the ceiling in the boxing area of the basement were violently swinging in unison as Misty and Brenda entered the room. It was as if some one had pushed each one of them as they walked by but no one else had been in the room since we first arrived.  An infra red camera was set in place to watch the bags but they remained stationary the rest of the evening. Before we left the basement,  Brenda asked for volunteers to stay and quietly sit in the pitch black room for a while. I was just about to take a seat in a comfortable looking chair when I heard a young sounding girl whisper my name. It was very faint but most definitely my name. The two women sitting next to me hadn’t said a word so it wasn’t them. It didn’t scare me but sure got my attention. The entire experience was very interesting as we watched orbs come and go on the monitors and explored all 18 rooms.

    Millers Paranormal Research assures me the spirits aren’t going to hurt any one and just add a little mystique to an old building with a rich history of helping children.

   “Over the years, we’ve had people occasionally stop by to reminisce about their childhood days at Whatsoever.” Charlie said. “ Some of them leave the center money when they die because we affected their lives in some way when they were kids.  Recently, a woman about 75 years old came by to take a trip down memory lane. While looking through the hundreds of pictures we have she came across an old photo of the Hep Cats which was a group comprised of mostly teenagers who came to the center to socialize, dance and listen to music. Her eyes filled with tears as she held the picture and remembered her time with the group as a child.”

      In those days, baseball, football and boxing were the main sports played at Whatsoever. Boxing is still popular but due to the large Hispanic population in the area, soccer is now the favorite sport with some basketball still being played in the large gym behind the main building.

   In addition to sports there are many other activities for eight to sixteen year old kids such as field trips, an art room for projects, a computer room and a place to do your home work. Its all free and you can come as often as you like. Drug and alcohol prevention,  literacy, education and other youth development programs take place after school and during the summer.

   They also do meals on wheels for seniors, some senior socialization, infant toddler care for children six weeks to two years old and a pre school for children two to six years old.

  I asked Charlie if it was expensive to keep the old building up and running.

“Yes it is.” he said. “ Using our old furnace for just three hours a day this winter cost us between 1,500 and 2,000 dollars a month. It recently died and people in the community and board members rallied to raise money to have a new one installed. KCPL also helped because the new furnace will be more energy efficient and save us money. We hope to raise enough money to replace the air conditioning units next.”

  United Way, Combat, various foundations, fund raisers and private donations keep the center going.

    Charlie is no stranger to the Northeast area. The fifty one year old grew up in the east bottoms, went to grade school at Assumption and graduated from Saint Pius in 1974. His father and two sisters still live in the bottoms. He is executive director but mops floors, delivers meals on wheels and fixes what ever needs fixing.

  Charlie and his staff of seven full time and two part time employees work long hours but its worth it when a kid comes back a few years later and gives them a big thank you for turning their life around. He estimates that close to10,000 kids have walked through Whatsoever’s doors in his thirteen years on the job and every year brings in new ones.   

  All six of my children spent a great deal of their time at Whatsoever as they grew up. I asked my oldest daughter Angela, who is the program administrator for Combat, what the community center meant to her.

     “ Whatsoever had a significant impact in my life.” She said. “They guided me thru various phases as I grew up.  The people at Whatsoever were like parents, friends, employers, disciplinarians and educators. They molded and encouraged young people providing them with hope and opportunities. Whatsoever was always that big red brick building that guided us into the future. They were always there if we were lost, or more importantly, just needed direction.  I partially credit Whatsoever for me being who I am today and cherish all of the many memories from a small child to when I graduated college.”

   Like a lighthouse, Whatsoever casts powerful beacon of light in the darkness to guide people to safety.

   Come in and quietly look at the wonderful old photos and you might just hear an ever so faint voice whisper some thing in your ear.

Mugs Up Still Lives

Mugs up Still Lives

    I can remember a lot of wonderful things when I was a boy growing up in the Sheffield area of Northeast in the 1950s. One of my favorite memories were when my friends and I would walk to Mugs Up on Independence Ave and Winner Rd for a 5 cent frosted mug of the world’s best root beer. It really hit the spot on a hot, sticky summer day.We stood in what little shade the roof over the front of the building provided and watched the customers drive in and out of the lot as we finished our drinks. We all agreed that it would be real cool to have a car and cruise the lot.

  Once I got to be a teenager and earned enough money to buy a car I did just that. I drove through the lot every chance I got and took dates there to eat. I just loved the zip burgers, whiz burgers, black cows, chilli dogs, fries and orangearoo’s. The service was so fast that sometimes the carhops were standing there ready to take your order before you put your car in park. It was a great place to sit in your car flirting with the car hops and shooting the breeze with your friends.

  A lot of customers were saddened when they closed Mugs Up in the late 70’s. A brand new Aldi’s now stands where the old orange and white building used to be.

   Unknown to me and probably a lot of other people, there was another Mugs Up on 23^rd st just six blocks east of Noland Road in Independence, Mo. I checked it out today and it’s an identical twin to the one that was in Northeast. Nothing has changed at all. The building is still orange and white and other than a couple of minor changes, the menu reads exactly like it did over 40 years ago when I was a kid growing up in Sheffield.

   When I called the number listed in the phone book, Ann Kendall answered the phone and told me to come on out to Double Nickel Ceramics, a quaint little shop she owns and operates in Blue Springs, Mo. It turns out that Ann is a 1959 graduate of Glennon high school and used to eat at the Mugs Up on Independence Ave as a kid. Her eyes light up when she talks about Mugs Up and its history. She and her husband Bill, who graduated from Northeast high school in 1953, bought the restaurant back in 1978 from a couple that originally started it 23 years earlier. It wasn’t doing too well and they hoped they could turn things around. They decided to name it Bill and Ann’s. Ann said that didn’t work very well at all. They switched the name back to Mugs Up and put the phone number in the book. Almost immediately, they began receiving phone calls asking if this was an actual Mugs Up with the fantastic zip burgers and frosted mugs. With Bill doing the cooking, Ann doing the bookkeeping and the old name back where it belonged, business was off and running.

   On most summer days, 300 or more customers are served and 250 gallons of root beer are sold. They have lost count on how many out of state people stop by that have either heard about them or used to eat at a Mugs Up back when they were growing up. A lot of customers will even take photos of family members standing in front of the building. I asked Ann how they got those mugs so frosty and she told me they dip them in water and set them in a special machine. To my surprise, their famous root beer is still made right in the store.

   Ann did everything from cooking to car hopping for the first 13 years while Bill continued to work as an electrician at his old job. Ann watched over the hundreds of girls that worked for her over the years like a mother hen. She made sure they always did their homework. If they didn’t, she made them set down and do it right then. All eight of their children worked at the restaurant at one time or another. There has even been some romance as one of their kids married a coworker and the other one married a customer.

  Ann turned the place over to Bill when he retired from his electrician job and he has operated the restaurant for 13 years. Counting their combined 26 years and the original owners 23 years, you have a Mugs Up that has been in that same location for 49 years. They plan to come up with some special 50 year anniversary mugs real soon.

  The very first Mugs Up was started at 63^rd and Raytown road by Jim Heavey in the early 1950s. Before long there were franchises in several states including nine locations across Kansas City. Bill and Ann’s Mugs Up was the twenty first one built. Their Independence location and the Mugs Up in Columbia, Missouri are the only two remaining in the country.

  Enough of this nostalgic talk. I’m heading out to Mugs Up to experience some of it first hand.

The Ultimate Messenger

The Ultimate Messenger

  Close your eyes and let your mind take you back in time to World War Two. You’re hunkered down in a fox hole behind enemy lines with a raging battle going on all around you. Vastly out numbered, ammunition nearly gone and about to be over run by the enemy, your Lieutenant screams for the radioman to get a call in for artillery support. The Lieutenants heart sinks when he’s informed that communications were knocked out several minutes ago. To make matters worse, darkness is quickly closing in on the desperate soldiers and freezing rain has begun to fall. The men are in a hell of a jam. They have to get a message back to headquarters immediately. With help over a hundred miles away, a man on foot would never make it in time. The message would have to be delivered through the air.

  The Lieutenant bellows the order to get a flyer ready to move out as a grenade explodes just 200 feet away. The platoon watches as their youngest flyer lifts off into a smoke filled sky lit up by enemy artillery fire.

  Less than two hours later the message is delivered to the commander with the platoons coordinates so the necessary action can be taken to rescue them. The flyer is cold, hungry and near exhaustion after the heroic flight. A much deserved meal of seeds and grains will be brought to him in the loft he shares with several other pigeons.

  Our hero is not the common city pigeon you see milling around on tall buildings or looking for hand outs in city parts.

  These are known as homing pigeons and played an important role in wars through out history as they carried vital messages. Homers, as they are called by people who raise them rode in a wicker basket attached to a soldier’s back as the infantry advanced. When needed, a message was written on light weight onion paper and slid into a tiny capsule attached to the bird’s leg. Tossed high into the air, the bird would head straight for its loft which of course was located at headquarters. 

   Scenarios very similar to the one I described took place many times in both World Wars. In World War Two alone, 32 homing pigeons received the Dickin Medal bearing the words “For Gallantry” and “We Also Serve.”

  I talked to four members of various homing pigeon clubs in the Kansas City area recently to learn more about these marvelous birds. To a man, they suggested I talk to John McLean of Shawnee, Kansas. They all agreed that he is the leading expert on homers.

  The beautiful weeping willow tree guarding the front of John’s comfortable two story home gave me the feeling he would be a down to earth type of man. My feelings were 100 percent correct. The 85 year old retired dentist motioned for me to have a seat at the kitchen table as he poured a cup of coffee. He no more than sat down when his ten year old cat strolled into the room with his tail sticking straight up. Perhaps he sensed that we would be talking about one of his favorite topics; pigeons.

  The little feline earns his keep by following John into the loft where he patrols for potential pigeon feed thieves such as field mice.  

  John, who grew up in Columbia, Mo has raised pigeons since the tender age of nine. He was a bombardier in World War Two and a Dentist in the Korean War but never got the opportunity to work with pigeons in the service. His dental practice was at

Independence Avenue

and Prospect on Kansas Cities northeast side for over forty years.

  In the center of his large back yard sits an impressive white building the pigeons call home. The birds looked very nervous as I followed John inside the loft. “They don’t like strangers coming in here” said John as he picked up several of the homers and set them in crates so they could be loaded into the back of a pickup truck belonging to fellow Kansas City Pigeon Racing Club members who were on their way over with their own birds.

  The men planned to haul the birds approximately 25 miles away for their first flight since last fall. Competitive racing doesn’t start until April and ends in late fall. As soon as they’re released they’ll head straight for home and in all likely hood beat the truck back. The distance will be increased each week until they are back in top condition and capable of competing in races as long as 600 miles.  On a good day, a champion caliber bird can cover that distance by the time the sun sets. On occasion, they encounter bad weather such as rain, strong winds and excessive heat that slows them down and extends the trip to several days or even months such as the time John had one show up a year later.

     Pigeon races often attract as many as 1,200 entries. A mechanical device releases the homers at the same precise time. At the end of the flight a small electronic computer scans each bird’s identification number and the exact time it enters its home loft. This information is taken to the combine secretary in Topeka, Kansas where they determine what place each bird finished in. Judging from a solid wall of trophy’s in John’s home I would say most of his homers which are known as McLean pigeons because he has been breeding and raising them for over 70 years win their fair share of the races.

  “There isn’t a lot of difference in male and females when it comes to racing” said John. “As a rule, the males are slightly faster and better suited for short races while the females are more steady and better for the longer runs but I do have birds that do great at both types of races”.

   For exercise, they are set free twice a day to fly high in the skies over Johnson County.

   As you can see, not all pigeons hang out on tall buildings dropping unwanted “presents” on clean cars or beg for hand outs in parks.

 Homers like to earn their way in this world.

  

 

Lighting Up The Criminal World

Lighting up the Criminal World

     For those of you worried about the city running out of bad guys, you can relax. There are still plenty of them around as my hour and twenty minute ride in a Kansas City Police helicopter proved on a recent Friday night.

  I met officers Brent Thompson and Denny Mason at the police heliport in the Leeds area of Kansas City a few blocks southwest of the sports complex. The heliport is home to three 1968 Hughes Oh6’s helicopters and 1973 copter recently donated by the U.S. Army.

  Lights on the exterior of the hanger illuminated the blue colored copter sitting on the concrete pad. Even at rest it looked sleek and ready to fly into action at a moments notice.

  I watched the officers make their pre trip inspection of the aircraft and noted that it was a warm and exceptionally dark night without a full moon. The perfect combination for the criminal element I thought as I pulled my seat belt tight and watched the forty year old helicopter blades begin to slowly turn.

  The cover of darkness does indeed help the bad guys but it can also give them a false sense of security when the copter closes in on them. Several times from my lofty perch in the copter I saw people do their best to hide just to have the one million candle power spotlight turn darkness into day and reveal them.

  Over the next eighty minutes we responded to calls involving a foot chase, burglary, street disturbance, prowlers and an armed residential robbery. As we approached the house where the robbery took place officer Thompson noticed a white car two blocks away traveling at a high rate of speed on the wrong side of the road.

 Officer Mason had a decision to make as the copter easily over took the vehicle. He could use the spotlight or the infra red device mounted on the front of the Hughes Oh6 . The spotlight was his choice in this instance. A simple flick of a switch bathed the car and immediate area surrounding it in bright light but the driver could care less.  It was almost comical as he made numerous turns in a futile effort to get away. After a brief chase the occupants stopped in the middle of the road. All four doors flew open and the men hit the ground running.     

  With police ground units closing in the bad guys scrambled to find places to hide in a backyard.

Officer Thompson flew the helicopter in a tight circle while Officer Mason continued to sweep the area with the light. Both men directed the arriving officers by radio to where they could find the hiding crooks.

  Infra red is an amazing ally in locating criminals when they elect to use it. A man under its gaze appears on the screen as a gray image much like a person on a photo negative.

“It depends on the circumstances as to when we use it,” forty three year old Officer Thompson said. “A lot of times we don’t want the suspects to know we’re watching them.”

  A good example would be several people hiding in a backyard when patrol cars are still several minutes away. The pilots don’t want to scare them with the light and cause them to run so they will locate them with infra red but shine the spotlight on a neighboring yard causing them to think their well hidden. The officers will continue to sweep the wrong yard with the light but keep an eye on the crooks with infra red until ground units arrive. The light is then turned on the right yard and the officers round up the suspects.

   Whether their in a car or on foot most guilty people will run for cover when the police helicopter starts following them. “I’ve seen them hide under decks, crawl under cars, climb trees and burrow under bushes to hide from us,” four year veteran pilot Mason said. “They will even trying hiding behind a tree and keep moving around it as we fly in circles but it doesn’t do them much good. We usually catch them.”

  Once airborne the two officers begin scanning all the radio frequency’s for calls they think they can help with. Many times they will head to a scene before dispatch can call them. A few extra seconds can make all the difference in the world. On a weekend night it’s not unusual for them to be involved in a dozen or more calls.

   I was completely lost for most of my ride until we patrolled the northeast area of the city. I easily recognized St. John,

Independence Avenue

, Hardesty and Van Brunt from land marks but couldn’t begin to tell you the names of the pitch black streets running parallel to them. Incredibly, either pilot could glance at any street I pointed to and immediately identify it.

“Memory,” Officer Thompson said when I asked him how they know one street from another in the dark. “We’ve memorized how many blocks each side street is from a main road. If we were looking for Lawndale for example, we would simply count three blocks to the east of Hardesty to locate it.”

  It’s rare but occasionally the helicopter will land to assist in an arrest when the situation warrants it. They will only touch down long enough for the co-pilot to get out and the pilot will immediately lift off again to continue accessing the situation.

  I was amazed at what a tremendous help the helicopter crew is to the police department and neighborhoods it protects across the city. I for one will sleep a little easier at night knowing men like Officers Thompson and Mason are patrolling high above our homes fighting crime.

Mud, Sweat and Tires

Mud, Sweat and Tires

 Our next door neighbor’s front porch was a constant gathering place for several of us kids on those hot steamy summer evenings in the Sheffield neighborhood of Northeast. Mrs. Ault owned the house and in addition of having a great deal of patience with kids, she also made the best ice tea this side of the Mississippi.

   I can remember sitting there trying to stay cool when we would suddenly hear the distance roar of engines on a weekend evening just before dark. Everyone would try to guess what it was and where it could be coming from. One of Mrs. Ault’s older sons heard us talking late one afternoon and said it was the stock cars racing at Olympic Stadium about a mile away. We were around 12 years old at the time and he didn’t want to get us in trouble with our parents so he refused to tell us how to get there when we asked him.

  All of us boys were beginning to get interested in cars so we weren’t about to let something like no directions stop us from exploring a potential source of fun. It was decided that we would bring our bikes and meet at Mrs. Ault’s house the following Friday evening and let the sounds of the car engines guide us to the stadium.

  About seven o’clock on the agreed evening our quiet neighborhood suddenly erupted with the sound of twenty high performance stock cars trying to out do each other.

The startled sparrows that had been peacefully eating bread tossed out in the yard by Mrs .Ault flew away in terror from the loud noise. We jumped on our bikes and rode towards the exciting sound that continued to rise in volume as we got closer. At best, we figured we had one hour to get there, look around for a few minutes and get back home before our parents realized we were gone.

  The plan worked beautifully for a change and we were all sufficiently impressed with the stadium and all the cars being brought in on trailers. The atmosphere was fantastic with the now deafening noise and smell of hot dogs and popcorn being sold in the concession stands. We could only imagine how much fun the people in the bleachers were having as they cheered on their favorite drivers. On the ride home we made a pact that we would all come back and see the inside as soon as we could earn enough money. In time, we did indeed go back to Olympic and loved every minute of it. Sitting in Olympic Stadium on a hot summer night under the stars eating hot dogs, drinking pop and watching race after race has to rank right up there with watching a baseball game or fishing on the banks of a creek for catfish.

   My life long friend and classmate, Larry Dady did more than just sit in the stands wishing he were a race car driver like the rest of us.

  After he graduated from Northeast High school in 1968 and did a hitch in the Navy, he married his high school sweet heart and 1970 Northeast graduate, Mary Layman. In 1976 Larry didn’t have much money so he traded a CB base unit even up for an old Plymouth Fury. A good friend put in a roll cage, replaced the windshield with wire screen and Larry entered the expensive but thrilling world of dirt track racing.

  Over the last 30 years the Dady’s have owned about fifteen different cars. Mary does all the chassis work while Larry does the mechanical work. They have never had paying sponsors so every dollar spent on the hobby comes out of their own pockets.

  As a young fan in the 1960s, I didn’t really understand how your starting position in a race was determined. Larry explained to me that each driver has to compete in an 8 lap heat race which typically has 8 to 10 cars. The top two finishers of each heat race go on to compete in the feature race. A feature race has 26 cars racing for 25 laps on the 5^th mile oval dirt track at speeds up to 70 mph. There wasn’t a lot of concern about safety equipment when Larry eased his powerful Plymouth on to the dirt track for the first time 30 years ago dressed in blue jeans, a tee shirt, work boots and a helmet. Today, he wears a fire resistant suit, special safety boots, gloves and a helmet with tear offs on his visor.

  I asked Larry what his most memorable race was to date and he said it would have to be the time he beat Terry Bivins. Terry raced locally for many years and was competing on the Winston Cup Series when he came to Kansas City to race a stock car at Riverside Stadium. For several weeks leading up to the race, Larry told his buddies that he would beat Terry. Everyone had a good laugh at his bold prediction but Larry had the last laugh as he beat Terry Bivins on opening night in 1976.

   Olympic Stadium saw many great drivers entertain the fans such as Jud Larson, Charley Taggert, Bud Hunnicutt, Vito Calia, Clyde Ellis, Anthony Gulotta, the Weld and McVay families and my old boss for a few years, Dick Sutcliffe.

  In addition to watching the cars jockey for position and negotiate turns at breath taking speeds, you got to see Sammy, “The Dancing Flagman” Callahan in action. Looks can indeed be deceiving as you watched this short stocky man standing along the track suddenly take on the fluid athletic moves of a wide receiver and the grace of a ballerina as he risked life and limb dancing his way across the track.

 Another man that everyone loved was J.O. “Pop” Hartman. I never met him but virtually every person I have talked to couldn’t say enough good things about him. Pop was around race tracks in one capacity or another his entire adult life. At various stages of his life he was a driver, pitman and mechanic. He was the first riding mechanic in the first ever Indianapolis 500 in 1911. After a long career that took him to tracks from one end of the country to the other, he retired to a house trailer at Olympic Stadium. In 1961 the Blue River came out of its banks, damaging the stadium and destroying Pop’s trailer. The owners of Olympic built an apartment in the wall of the stadium when they remodeled which is where the aging patriarch of racing spent his remaining years reminiscing with friends, fans and owners.

  Retired fire fighter, Ray Elder spent part of his childhood living in a house trailer on the east bank of the Blue River next to Olympic Stadium. In 1949, at the young age of 13, Ray talked to Olympic owner, Dutch Miller and it was agreed that he would begin his four year working career at the stadium by flagging cars into the parking lots for Sunday evening races. Eventually he started parking cars on both Saturday and Sunday. Due to his small size, he got to pick up trash, soda pop and beer bottles under the bleachers during the day for extra money. In time, he did the maintenance repair work on the parking grounds and collected parking fees which were a mere thirty cents per car in 1952. The best part of the job was getting to meet and talk to all the drivers in those four years.

  There use to be a beer garden in front of the old race track called the Cotton Club where fans and drivers spent countless hours discussing the sport of racing.

Olympic Stadium opened in 1937 and closed in 1974 but what a beautiful 37 year run it was with hundreds of stock, modified stocks and midgets racers providing fans with a life time of memories.

 Check out the Racing Hall of Fame and links to area dirt tracks still in business at www.kccarb.com

Muddy River Blues

Muddy River Blues

   The hot, sticky humidity hit us like a blast furnace when my son John and I stepped out of his air conditioned car on August 5th at River Front Park near downtown Kansas City. It was seven o’clock in the evening and the cicada’s had already reached a fevered pitch with their shrill songs as we walked down the boat ramp.

  Catfisherman, Branden Stombaugh, his eight year old boy, Eric and their 20 foot long Lowe Line Jon boat were waiting for us at the Missouri rivers edge.

 We were about to embark on a four hour fishing trip to try and catch a trophy catfish on the muddy waters of the Mighty Mo.  Never having been on the Missouri, I was a little nervous as everyone found a place to sit in the seven foot wide boat. A good shove from John propelled us out into the swift current where the smooth running 75 horse Evinrude  took over and began pushing us up the river.

  Within a few hundred feet a massive sand dredge came in to view. It was anchored to the bottom of the river and there was no sign of life on board. With the crew off for the weekend, it looked eerily like an ancient ghost ship as we slowly made our way past it.

   “Getting bait will be the first order of business” yelled Branden over the engine noise. “We should be able to find a small feeder creek on the Kansas River where we can throw casting nets for shad”. As we approached the area, Branden eased back on the throttle to slow the boat down. Young Eric suddenly stood up and scampered over to the console and crouched underneath it. The boy knew from previous trips with his dad that Asian carp dislike the noise the motor makes and would begin jumping over and in the boat at slower speeds.

  Right on cue, dozens and dozens of carp weighing in excess of ten pounds began leaping high into the air emulating King Salmon in a mountain stream. One made the costly mistake of landing on the floor of the boat where he would become catfish bait along with the shad we netted.

   “Lets head back down stream to the Missouri river and fish by one of the wing dikes and see what we can catch” Branden said as we sped away from the motor hating carp.

  As soon as we were securely anchored, Branden began getting the heavy duty rod and reels ready. I asked him why he fishes this particular river when there are so many lakes and ponds around the metropolitan area.

    “I grew up in Illinois and loved fishing for catfish on the small rivers in that part of the state” he said. “When I first moved to Kansas City three years ago I drove across one of the Missouri river bridges and said wow! I have to learn how to fish it! I’d never seen a river that big and figured it had to have huge catfish”.

   “The river is quiet and peaceful with very few boats and fisherman to contend with” he said as he cast one of the rods baited with a big chunk of shad towards a scour hole at the end of the wing dike.

  When the last of the poles were baited and set in rod holders on a rack about three feet high across the back of the boat I sat down and noticed all the cars driving across the Lewis and Clark Viaduct. “What do you suppose all those motorists think when they look down here and see three men sitting in a boat on a huge river like this” I wondered out loud.

Thirty five year old Branden chuckled and said they probably think were nuts. He remembers his friends telling him he was border line crazy for going out on the Missouri and completely insane once they found out he spends the entire night there and actually sleeps in the boat while anchored.

Other than the current, the river seemed as calm and serene as any lake I had ever been on so I asked Branden what the biggest danger is. 

.  The look on his face showed that he was dead serious when he said the main danger on the river is your self. “You have to pay attention to what you are doing and use plain old common sense”. I actually feel safer on the river in the middle of the night with dense fog than I do on Smithville Lake in the middle of the day. Be careful around wing dikes, barges and bridge pillars and you’ll be fine.

  A cool, refreshing breeze found its way down the river just as the sun began sinking over the horizon, leaving behind, a stunning, reddish orange sky.

   Suddenly, the clicker on one of the reels started screaming as line began disappearing into the river at an alarming rate. The pole that just five minutes earlier had been pointing to a beautiful Kansas City skyline was now pointing down at the water.

  I was quite surprised that a man 6’1” and 270 pounds could move so quickly when Branden grabbed the rod and reel and began cranking.  The seven foot rod was bent double and looked like it would snap in two any minute as the skilled fisherman fought the angry fish and current. With darkness now beginning to engulf the boat, it would be hard for John to net the trophy catfish. The line danced around in the murky water as Branden brought the monster close to the surface next to the boat. John thrust the net below the water where he thought the fish should be but missed on the first two attempts.   The old saying, third times the charm came true as he successfully netted the 45 pound Flathead catfish and deposited it in to the bottom of the Jon boat.

  We wasted no time getting the hook out so a few photos could quickly be taken and the fish released back into the river where it would continue to grow and reproduce. Things were obviously heating up as Branden caught a 20 pound Bluecat just ten minutes later. Unfortunately, I had to be up very early the next morning and had to leave after just two hours of actual fishing.

“You didn’t give it a fair chance” Branden said. “Meet me here next Saturday night so we can try it again”

  Saturday evening quickly arrived and I once again found myself in Branden’s spacious boat. This time my daughter in law, Shani Castle came with me. The 27 year old shot her first deer on the farm she grew up on at eight years of age and now she wanted a crack at a monster cat.

  Back in the same spot as the week before, the three of us eased into the comfortable folding chairs to wait for a bite, I watched Eric make a long cast towards the north bank. “He handles that rod and reel very well for an eight year old kid” I said. “He should” said Branden. “That boy has been fishing the Missouri with me for three years and recently caught a six pound Blue cat. I keep a very close eye on him and he has certain rules he must follow such as wearing a life jacket at all times and sitting on the floor when the boat is moving”

“You obviously like to fish for cats. Are you also a Bass fisherman?” I asked.

    “As soon as someone catches a 100 pound bass I’ll try it out laughed Branden”  “I love the fact that catfish get enormous. I fish to relax from my professional life which is quite hectic and stressful. A Bass fisherman has to constantly think as he fishes. Decisions have to be made such as what type of lure to use or what color. The most taxing part of cat fishing is whether I should change my bait after its been on the hook for an hour or if I should have another beer.

   A long mournful blast from a distant train whistle caused me to look towards the back of the boat just in time to see Shani’s rod bending towards the water. The 130 pound woman grabbed it in her small hands and held on for dear life. “Slowly bring the rod tip up and crank the reel as it goes back down” yelled Branden. “You’ve hooked a very big fish. Take your time and you’ll land this baby!” The ensuing battle reminded me of an exhausting 12 round prize fight between two evenly matched opponents. A full 15 minutes later a beautiful 55 pound blue cat found out what the floor of a 20 foot boat looks like. An ecstatic but worn-out Shani couldn’t believe what she had just done. “I was scared and very excited as I fought the fish.” She said. The catfish was very strong and the thought entered my mind several times that I might not have the strength to keep the fight up. I’ve never done any thing like this in my life. It was exhilarating!”

   Over the next hour or so I caught a small 15 pound blue cat and Branden caught a monstrous blue that tipped the scales at 70 pounds. That’s a140 pounds of catfish in just two hours.

 I asked Branden why cat fishing is so great on the Missouri. “They outlawed commercial fishing back in the early 1990s and that really helped” he said. “There are miles and miles of water, plenty of structure and more than enough for them to eat.”

  I’ve always fished with trot lines. That’s how my father and grandfather taught me to catch catfish. I will continue to fish that way but after sampling the peace and tranquility yet excitement and danger the river offers, I will most definitely add rod and reel fishing in the Missouri river to my repertoire.

Like Branden Stombaugh, those adventurous embers are beginning to burn within me.

The Fungus Among Us

The Fungus Among Us

   Every spring from approximately 1965 to 1985 my brother and I went on our annual one day hunting trip with our father. Your typical gear such as shotguns, shells and dogs remained at home. We hunted with our bare hands. The only equipment we needed would be a plastic bag, good walking boots, a can of tick spray and a good pair of eyes.

  Our destination would be the Marais Cygnes Massacre site in eastern Linn county Kansas. I still remember the sign next to the ravine where we parked explaining how on May 19, 1858 thirty men from Missouri under the leadership of Charles Hamilton rode into the Trading Post along the Marais Cygnes River just a few miles west of the state line and captured eleven unarmed Kansas free-state men. The captives were lined up on one side of the ravine while the Missouri men stood on the other side. The order was given to fire. After the smoke cleared, five free-state men lay dead with their six comrades near death beside them. I thought about what happened there each time we quietly walked pass the historical spot to enter the surrounding John Brown hills. Locals from near by towns tell me these hills were named after the abolitionist John Brown who played a huge role in the pre civil war days.

   My brother flanked our father on one side while I maintained an equal distance on the other side of him as we made our way in to the woods. Keeping in site of each other we slowly worked our way up and down hills and across small valleys.

  I liked to take a few steps and stop so I could scan the ground in every direction. Yellow morels can be some what difficult to spot if there are a lot of leaves around them. We always concentrated on places like old wagon trails and barns or open areas in the dense timber.

   A couple of farm houses time had long ago turned to dust still had their ancient foundations jutting up out of the ground like prehistoric dinosaur bones. There always seem to be a few morels growing close to them.

       Giant Elm trees, especially dead ones are excellent places to concentrate on.  Tree stumps will some times have a few around them. We also like to look by any type of large tree that has been blown down by a storm or fallen due to old age.

   Occasionally, you will get lucky and find a mess of morels growing in unlikely places such as beautifully manicured lawns or maybe along a sidewalk in the middle of the city.       

    I once found over thirty growing in a small area next to a grave stone in a northeast cemetery. With our father now deceased and time at a minimum in an increasingly busy world, we usually skip the long drive to Linn county, Kansas and hunt mushrooms on

Cliff Drive

. It’s an excellent place to fill a sack with the nutty tasting delicacies if you’re willing to work at it. Northeast resident and long time hunter, Tony Digerolmno has searched the woods along the cliffs for 12 years with a fair amount of success. The 53 year old normally only finds small ones but once in a while he’ll come across a batch of morels as big as soda pop cans.  

It’s always a good idea to cut the morel at the base instead of pulling it out by the roots.  We also leave a few so they will hopefully reproduce for the next spring hunt. If you spot one be sure and take your time looking all around it. There are usually others close by.

    Warm nights and plenty of rain form the perfect recipe for growing mushrooms. They can literally pop up over night. I like to look early in the morning. A perfect spring day to me is finding a bag full of morels in the morning and catching a stringer full of crappie in the afternoon.  Soak the mushrooms in salt water over night to get rid of bugs. Cut them length wise. Roll the morels and crappie in an egg batter, sprinkle crushed crackers all over both sides and fry in butter until a golden brown and you’ll have a meal fit for a king.

    Mushroom hunters and fishermen have a couple of things in common. Under no condition will they ever tell anyone where their best spots are at and they will some times stretch the truth ever so slightly when bragging about how many fish they caught or how many morels they found.

    Case in point; my co-worker of 20 years and good friend, Dan Daugherty insists that he once had a mushroom dog that could find and point morels as easily as a German Shorthaired Pointer locking down on a cubby of quail. If true, this wondrous animal would be the most incredibly valuable canine in the country. Since no one has actually seen this dog, could it be one of those “Fishing Stories”?

You be the judge. Dan’s favorite quote is, “I’ll never lie to you but I won’t let the truth stand in the way of a good story”.

Happy hunting!