A general store in the Ozarks is a conglomeration of almost everything hillsmen eat, wear, and use. Tuttle’s place of business was a jumble of contradictions. Stick candy kept company with plug tobacco, and bolts of calico sometimes got too familiar with the vinegar barrel. Boots and shoes out of boxes lay tangled on the open counter where the merchant or customer had tossed them. Hats and overalls covered with dust were piled on a shelf propped with a scantling. There was snuff for pleasure and pills for pain in a flyspecked showcase patched with cardboard. Everything was topsy-turvy from the front to the rear of the store. The post office in the corner was about the only orderly arrangement in the entire building. Tart, upon being commissioned postmaster, had taken a large dry goods box and built a dozen pigeonholes in it for the mail. This was placed on the top of another large box and centered by a small opening through which stamps were sold and deliveries made.
The bookkeeping in the store was in line with the merchant’s general habits. He owned a daybook but seldom took the trouble to use it. A charge account might be penciled on the salt barrel or marked on the lid of a shoebox, but even that was not considered necessary. Tart Tuttle had an almost infallible memory. “Just carried everything in his head,” the neighbors told me. And his extension of credit was very nearly universal. Once a stranger in a covered wagon pulled up at the store. “Hey, there,” he bellowed, “bring me out a pair of number ten brogans.” Tart produced the shoes and the traveler tried them on. “Pay you this fall if the boll weevils don’t catch up with me,” he said as he headed his team toward the Arkansas cotton fields. Believe it or not, he did return and make payment.
It was the thirteenth day of the month, and a Friday to boot, but I am not superstitious in such matters and gave it no thought. But it did make a difference with Ed Bullock who lived “a whoop and a holler” down the trail from the store. Ed was cautious as a tomcat on a milk shelf. He had not neglected rubbing a little charcoal in his matted hair that morning. He knew that the footlog across Clabber Creek would be slippery after the freshet the day before, and his new boots were not trustworthy. Superstition says that charcoal in the hair is good luck insurance.
Tobe Mullins, sometimes reticent, sometimes talkative, but always philosophical, realized the cultural value of the store-porch session, and nothing short of a feud or a funeral would have kept him away. Dinner over, he made excuse to his thrifty spouse that he had seen some young squirrels in the clearing and, gun on shoulder, dog at heels, sauntered off into the hollow below the cabin. He planned his course to reach the store in the nick of time to open the discussion.
Hite Lindsey, shiftless but likable, had shingles to rive and repairs to make on his shanty, but the opportunity for rich social intercourse with his fellows called him to the store. He sat on a cracker box next to Lem Logan, chewing homegrown tobacco and whittling out a toy from a block of cedar. Lizzie, his overworked wife, had urged him to remain at home that evening and spend the time at such monotonous labor as mending holes in the roof. She had stood in the door with one baby nursing from a skinny breast and another, about a year older, astraddle her hip as she begged her man to give some consideration to his family. But Hite didn’t push the collar like his father before him and could see no need for such strenuous labor when the rabbits were out in the open and everything pointed to a spell of dry weather. Anyway, shingles might curl if put on in the light of the moon. “No call t’ rip his britches over it.”
Other representative citizens of the Woodville community were present to air their views, stretch their sentiments, and tune in on the lore and logic of the day. It was a distant echo of the old New England town meeting, with a peculiar hillbilly slant, resurrected in the backhills of the Ozarks.
The meeting opened informally with refreshment from Tart Tuttle’s hospitable jug. As yet the limb of the law had not stepped in to threaten the community with prohibition of liquid corn. The mountaineers could sell the product by bushel or barrel as they preferred. Each man tipped the jug as a matter of course and thought nothing about it. Random remarks drifted with the lazy tobacco smoke from clay and corncob pipes. Weather is a prime topic for conversation on such occasions. Naturally, it is a thing of first importance to men who depend upon rain and sun to grow the crops they neglect to cultivate.
Signs of change in the weather are common knowledge to every hillsman. A rainy Monday means that it will be a rainy week. A rain on the first Sunday of the month is a certain sign that showers will come on the three Sundays following. The old couplet “Rain before seven, shine before eleven” is an esteemed adage of the hill country. When the blue of the sky is thickly studded with stars, it is a sign that rain will be falling soon. When there is a circle around the moon, the number of stars in the circle tells how many days before the next rain. When horses refuse to drink, or the rain crow squawks, it portends a break in dry weather. A new moon is wet or dry, depending upon its position in the heavens. Shooting stars foretell unsettled weather. When the sunrise is red, rain is almost sure to follow. If it rains on the twentieth day of June all the grapes will fall off the vines. A storm is expected when rabbits seek security in protected places, and when chickens go to roost earlier than usual or stand with ruffled feathers, tails to the wind. The cock, which hillsmen call rooster in ordinary conversation, is considered to be one of nature’s best forecasters. His persistent crowing before nightfall is a certain sign that a freshet will come before morning. Ordinarily, if the sun sets clear, the next day will be fair. But for some unknown reason, Tuesday is an exception in certain sections of the Ozarks. A clear sunset on Tuesday means a rain before Friday.
In addition to this traditional weather lore, these men at Tuttle’s store knew all the popular signs connected with the moon and zodiac. The almanac is a favorite textbook in the hills and its teachings are taken seriously. But there is a strange divergence of belief and practice among hillsmen. By all known signs it was an ideal day to kill tree sprouts that were spreading into the fields and almost every farmer in the community had sprouts to kill, but, just the same, ten or twelve men occupied kegs and benches on the store porch under the old walnut with no inclination to swing ax or grubbing hoe. Folk life is like that. Wholesome laziness is as essential in flavoring the personality as fatback is in seasoning turnip greens. Of course, these men worked on occasion, and worked hard, but the call of companionship could not be denied and Tart’s store was the only place in the neighborhood suited to such pastime. Of course, the womenfolks dropped in occasionally to swap their butter and eggs for such commodities as are not produced on their small farms, but it was not fitting they should loiter after their business was transacted.
Tobe Mullins approached the main topic of the afternoon with exasperating cautiousness. Eleven pair of eyes were on him, including my own, impatiently waiting for the information he had to deliver. Only the day before he had returned from the county seat where he had “set” on the jury during the three-day session of circuit court. He had things of importance to divulge.
“I’ll be gol-durned if ’n that Luke Walter’s hawg-stealin’ case didn’t turn out jist like I calculated it would,” began Tobe as he reached for Tart’s ever-flowing jug, threw back his head and, like a thirsty chicken, let the “talk-water” slip down, scarcely moving a throat muscle.
Silence hung like heavy vapor in the shade of the friendly old walnut tree. Eleven pair of ears were alert but none of us betrayed any undue curiosity. Tobe stroked his drooping tobacco-stained mustache thoughtfully as he let the import of his statement sink in. He loved the limelight, and in his own unique way never failed to dramatize a commonplace occurrence.
Tobe’s dialect was typical of the hillsman who butchers his English with discrimination. His “hit” for “it” was a stroke of emphasis. He changed vowels and dropped consonants in true hillbilly fashion. Basically a speech with illiterate phrasing, it carried a wealth of lingual survivals. I especially enjoyed the fluency with which he used Elizabethan words and p
hrases.
This colorful Ozarkian dialect is rapidly passing. The influence of schoolteachers and radio is having its effect. Only a few old-timers use the picturesque dialect that was carried to the Ozarks by their Anglo-Saxon forebears.
“I don’t begredge a feller a little hawg meat once in a while but I like t’ see him git it honest-like,” continued Tobe. “If ’n a man’s up agin it, I’ll go right into my smokehouse an’ share what I got with him. But this here stealin’s gittin’ fur too common in th’ county. Th’ jedge thought so, too, an’ he wus aimin’ on puttin’ a stop t’ hit. We’uns knowed he had his back up right frum th’ time he rapped fur order in th’ courthouse. He had a turrible sourcastic look on his face when th’ high sheriff brought Luke in.”
“‘Air ye goin’ t’ plead guilty?’ asked th’ jedge.
“Luke wus as fidgety as a turkey gobbler tied t’ a choppin’ block even if he did have th’ dried gizzard of a hoot owl tied ’round his neck fer good luck. He swallered hard an’ shook his head. Said he wouldn’t since he’d already give a lawyer feller five dollars to defend him.
“‘Moight as well,’ said th’ jedge, ‘yer guilty or ye wouldn’t be hyar.’”
Ed Bullock passed his store tobacco and Tobe took a chew. Ed’s new boots were giving him the third degree. He had filled them with soaked corn the night before to swell them but the result was far from satisfactory. He sympathized with Luke in his “pinched” condition. Tobe chewed his quid of tobacco a few seconds, closed one eye, and taking careful aim at a grasshopper sunning itself on a nearby jimsonweed, let loose a stream of “ambeer” that knocked the insect into the dust. Pleased with his skillful marksmanship, he went on with his story.
“Hit wus a hard nut fer ol’ Ben Blakely, th’ distric’ attorney, t’ crack. Pears like he jist couldn’t get nary a thing ’ceptin’ hearsay stuff agin Luke. Of course ever’body knowed he wus guilty as a suck-egg houn’ dog, but knowin’ air one thing an’ provin’ air another’n. Luke tried t’ put up an alibi, sayin’ he wus tomcattin’ down on Bull Crick at th’ time th’ hawg wus stole. He up an’ tole all about hit right thar in th’ courthouse. ’Cordin’ t’ my notion, a feller that’ll handle that sort o’ talk with decent womenfolks right in th’ room orter be tarred an’ feathered an’ rid on a lye-soaked rail clean t’ th’ Arkansas line.”
Hite Lindsey, eyes swimming in corn liquor, nodded his approval.
“An’, by cracky, he had two witnesses to back ’im up. Both of ’em got on th’ stand an’ swore they had seen Luke in th’ Bull Crick settlement that very day. An’ that thar lawyer of Luke’s shore wus a slick one. His voice gurgled like long sweet’nin’ pourin’ out’n a jug. I snuck a look at th’ other fellers on th’ jury an’ ever’ last one of ’em wus a drizzlin’ an’ wipin’ their noses on their sleeves.
“All of a suttent I reckon th’ jedge got his belly full o’ sich whimperin’ talk. He took his mallet an’ banged so hard th’ winders fairly rattled, an’ bellered out that th’ time fer pleadin’ wus all took up. Then he instructed us an’ he didn’t beat ’round th’ bush about hit. He jist as plain as told us not t’ come back frum th’ jury room till we found Luke Walters guilty in th’ worst degree.
“Luke had gone t’ sleep by this time, a-settin’ in th’ big cheer by th’ lawyer’s table. Th’ sheriff walked over an’ give ’im a kick on th’ shinbone an’ he jumped up an’ grabbed his laig an’ went hoppin’ ’round th’ room like a one-laigged shite-poke. Hit ort t’ be contempt o’ court t’ go t’ sleep right under th’ jedge’s whiskers.
“Wal, we went t’ th’ room th’ sheriff had fixed up fer us back o’ th’ jailhouse an’ after playin’ a couple o’ games o’ pitch cards t’ sorta steady our nerves, we elected a foreman an’ begin t’ ballot. But never did all vote alike. Th’ count wus ’leven t’ one an’ thar we stuck.
“After ’bout three-four hours th’ jedge got turrible restless with us settin’ back thar drinkin’ spring water an’ playin’ cards, an’ takin’ votes on Luke between games. Th’ sheriff said he chawed up a ten-cent plug o’ store tobacker while waitin’ fer us t’ come t’ a decision. After a while, his patience got plumb wore out an’ he jist couldn’t stand hit no longer. He ordered us brought in t’ th’ courtroom. We lined up in front o’ His Honor an’ he asked th’ foreman if we had reached a verdict. ‘No,’ said Sam Willis, th’ feller we had elected, ‘th’ count is ’leven t’ one.’ Ye ort t’ heerd that jedge rave.
“‘Who is that thar one man?’ roared th’ jedge. ‘Pint ’im out t’ me!’ Sam pinted t’ me as th’ contrary one.
“‘What!’ bellowed th’ jedge. ‘Ye would dare hold out agin ’leven good an’ true men sich as these? What d’ye mean by refusin’ t’ uphold th’ laws o’ th’ state?’
“I tried t’ speak but my voice hung in my throat. Anyhow, th’ jedge didn’t give me a chance t’ say nary a word. Sich a lambastin’ as I got! Th’ sheriff stood handy like as if t’ take me t’ jail if ’n th’ jedge ordered him to. At last His Honor jist had t’ stop talkin’ t’ ketch his breath.
“‘Yer Honor,’ I says, havin’ sorta got control o’ myself, ‘I wus th’ only one on your side!’”
The climax of Tobe’s story brought hearty laughter all around, and Lem Logan was reminded of a somewhat similar incident that occurred during court week in Taney County.
The day was almost gone and the doves in the pine thicket mourned its going. The shadows shifted in and out through the cornfield in the valley like mice playing hide-and-seek in a barn loft. But juicy yarns and dry tobacco continued to make the rounds with the store-porch assembly until the sound of a supper bell in Goose Neck Hollow caused an adjournment. Scattering like quail in a barrage, each man sought his home. An hour after sundown an owl hooted on Smackover Ridge, but no one heard it except the two Logan boys who were on their way to a pie supper at the Bug Tussle schoolhouse. “Tired Nature’s sweet restorer, balmy sleep” had come to Woodville.
Location and Names
Some Ozark horse breeders think they can produce a colt of a certain hue by waving a cloth of the desired color in front of the mare at the time of breeding. This defies the Mendelian laws, but not many hillsmen have heard of Mendel and the rules of dominant and recessive traits are not common knowledge in the hills. Perhaps a break with science is pardonable if the purpose is achieved.
I break with literary tradition in this book by mixing fiction with fact. The first section of each chapter is colored with fictitious names and incidents as a prelude to the matter-of-fact material that follows. From atmosphere and patterns we go to actual lore and history. Each has its part in depicting the flavor and individuality of this region.
The Ozark Country is an egg-shaped uplift sprawling in the mammoth bed of the Mississippi Valley. It is a highland region which occupies the southern half of Missouri, the northwestern part of Arkansas, and a few counties in eastern Oklahoma. Some geographers include the southeastern nook of Kansas, the southwestern part of Illinois, and even a portion of western Tennessee. But I prefer to restrict the Ozark Country to the first three states. This expansive empire of hills and valleys, and occasional stretches of rolling prairie, occupies an area equal to that of the state of Georgia—approximately 60,000 square miles. The greatest length from the cloud-pillowed peaks of the Ouachitas (pronounced Washitas) in western Arkansas to the junction of the Missouri and Mississippi Rivers is a little more than 300 miles. The average width of the region, including the foothills, is about 200 miles. Comparatively speaking, the Ozarks contain no mountains at all. Just folds of little green hills with occasional peaks protruding from them. The highest of these peaks is in the Ouachita Range where Mount Magazine reaches a height of 2,823 feet above sea level. The country is marked with deep, rugged hollows, large subterranean caverns, and the largest flowing springs on the continent.
Some scientists and historians do not consider the Ouachita uplift to be a part of the Ozark region. They give the
highlands south of the Arkansas River a separate geographical status. This theory of separation is based upon the geology, flora, and fauna of the area, which are said to be typical of the southern Alleghenies. But we are not greatly concerned with geological, botanical, and zoological lines here. It is the story of a people belonging to a given culture that interests us. My association with hillfolks in the two regions during the past twenty-five years leads me to believe that they have a common ancestral background, and that their underlying traditions are the same. There are slight distinctions in dialect but they are scarcely noticeable to the average traveler.1
The name Ozarks is cradled in folklore. It is the abbreviated corruption of a French term first applied to the region by French-Canadian trappers or by adventurers who mined lead in the mountains of southeastern Missouri. Some historians say that the word is derived from bois aux arcs which means “wood for bows.” They explain it in this way: The Osage Indians occupied a large part of this highland area at the time of the French occupation. These natives hunted and fought with bows and arrows, and the wood of the bois d’arc was used in making the bows. The trappers learned that the Indians were using this wood and from that fact called the region Bois Aux Arcs. The term was later shortened to Aux Arcs but even this was too much of a tongue-twister for the English. They joined the two words, substituted letters, and Ozarks was the final outcome.
Another name origin is presented by students who disregard the Aux Arcs theory. During the days of French occupation, lead mines were opened in the mountains west of the Mississippi River. A German scientist, Abraham Gottlob Werner (1750–1817), had written a book on geology which was popular with students of the subject about the time of our Revolutionary War. Werner made two divisions of the rock formations of the earth: aqueous rock formed by the action of water and containing fossils, and azoic rock formed by fire and showing no traces of organic life. Some of the pioneering French had read this book and when they discovered the large granite rocks in southeastern Missouri, they called them azoic. These rocks form a rough circle fifty or sixty miles in diameter, and the best lead mines were located in the segment or arc in the northeastern portion of the circle. The name Azoic Arc was applied to this particular region. When enterprising English colonists pushed into Missouri following the Revolutionary War they found this name applied to the granite uplift in the southeastern part of the state. Later, it was associated with all the hill country of both Missouri and Arkansas as far south as the Arkansas River. Folk linguists clipped and coupled the name so that Azoic Arc became Ozark.2
Ozark Country Page 3
