Please accept this as the first post in what I hope will become a series about the towns along the river.

Rivertowns: New Haven, Missouri

This small town lies on the southern bank of the Missouri river some 81 miles above the confluence of that great stream with the Mississippi. It’s a picturesque place built on the bluffs and hills and extending back from the river and intermingling with the rich farm lands that surround the community.

 Peopled by industrious, hard working folks of mostly German descent, this area has prospered by the applied efforts of their hands.

 Mostly agricultural, at first glance the entire area has a well tended and carefully maintained air about it. But it is also a vibrant community, with excellent schools and friendly merchants and congenial, hardworking people. Even a talented and growing artistic culture is ingrained into this little town.

 It’s past is gone now and the grand riverboats that were it’s first reason for being are gone as well. The trains fly through without stopping. Industries that sustained it in the past, hat and tent factories, a large flour mill and what was once the largest nursery in the country have come and gone and are replaced by ever newer industries.

 But the first business conducted here was that of a simple woodlot. To fuel the boats that plied the as yet untamed Missouri river.

 At that time, it was called simply ‘Miller’s Landing’. After the industrious man who sold cord wood to the pilots of those river vessels.

 In the early part of the 19th century, the heavily forested hills stretched right down to the waters edge. No real roads other than dirt tracks connected it at first to the area around. And no rails carried trains along the riverbank. Miller’s Landing was an isolated outpost in the center of an American nation that at that time still barely existed west of the riverport of St. Louis.

 But small communities were widely scattered along the river upstream and down and all needed the supplies that could only come from the east. And the boats that carried those supplies had a ravenous appetite for the cordwood Mr. Miller supplied.

 Even a smallish boat would consume as much as ten cords a day. And the largest could burn three times that as they fought their way past snags and sand bars and sawyers and currents trying again to conquer the river with each new passage.

I’ve found no description of what those first labors might have been like providing feed to the fuel bunkers of the boats. But having grown up on a farm in the area, I here propose to use my own imagination to paint a picture with words of this community as it once might have been. A picture constructed without historical verification, and with only what I perceive it might have been.

 Now a cord of wood is a stack four feet wide and four feet high and eight feet long. In today’s world it sells for about $35 to $75 dollars depending on the local markets. $35 dollars today would have equaled about $1.70 in 1835 so at least ten times that is what it might have cost in fuel alone to operate one of the smaller boats of the day. Or about $17.00 a day, a somewhat considerable sum in the 1830’s. Not only was the cost of the wood a burden on the operators but a full load of such fuel could easily consume half the deck space that might be needed for saleable supplies.

 And the supplies of the day were nothing like what you see on store shelves today. Basics were what was needed by the new farms and villages to the west. Nails and horse shoes were not loaded on the boats for trade or sale. Small iron ingots from mines and mills on the Meramec river were delivered to the blacksmiths of the day and pounded into whatever items and tools were needed. Hardware was what was needed to the west. Cloth and glass and manufactured goods were expensive and rare commodities delivered via the river.

 The only foodstuffs carried were the luxuries that could not be grown or raised locally. Hams and steaks and vegetables the pioneers could produce.

 Coffee and salt, sugar and the ever valuable whiskey were, for the most part, imported from the east and the south until the industrious locals could contrive to manufacture their own. Wheels were carried on the boats for wagons built on site, until carriage makers arrived. Gun powder and lead from the mines and mills in southeastern Missouri was brought north to the river and loaded on the westbound steamers.

 All of these products relied on the boats and the boats relied on the woodlots such as Philip Miller’s on the riverbank where New Haven sits today.

 The boats came and went and needed seasoned wood for their boilers so it must have been cut and stacked and cured far ahead of use. Only so much green wood could be burned and still produce the heat to boil the water to power the basic steam engines of the day.

 The trees would have been felled with double cut saws as one would imagine the lumberjacks of the north would use. Limbs were trimmed with axes and cut to length again with the saws. The trunks would be skidded to the woodlot by slow powerful teams of oxen and the trimmed limbs hauled in on the crude oxcarts of the day. Additional labor was of course required to tend these animals. Nothing was either fast or easy.

 The trunks would have to be split with wedges and hammers most likely made on site by Miller’s own smith.  And then sawed to a useable length by saws kept sharp, again by the busy blacksmith.

 Mr. Miller had a huge family but would have required the help of hired crews or contractors to maintain his supply. These men would have stacked the level area that is now downtown New Haven full of ranks of wood and just the labor needed to load the boats would seem daunting to us today.

 Was it passed hand to hand like a bucket line aboard the boats? Were two gangways employed to enter and exit the boats in a circle? Or was it hoisted aboard with steam powered capstains and then stacked by hand? These are questions I cannot answer though none seem easy to me.

 In many areas men who owned slaves often hired them out when they had free time to load wood onto the boats. I do not know how many slaves were in this area but I do know the german heritage would lend one to believe the slave population might have been small.

 These immigrants remembered too only well the servitude of the feudal system they had left Europe to escape. For that reason alone the majority of the settlers to this area prefered to rely on their own labor and not the toil of slaves. That type of sterling self reliance is evident even today as a  hallmark of the community.

 Gardens and livestock, in my imagination, would have been tended by the wives and children of the busy woodcutters and teamsters. Free time would have been slim and valued by all. Fishing lines would line the riverbank above and below the woodlot and been checked daily. The odd hours might have been consumed in the pursuit of small game to supplement the standard table fare. And Missouri river catfish would have been a delicacy.

 The small creeks and streams in the area would have been trapped for the occasional pelt. And the hearths and fires of the work force would have been fueled by that wood too small to feed to the boats.

 The clearcut areas, I envision would have rapidly become fields for corn and pastures for cattle as the area moved steadily toward an agricultural economy. And the export of feed and cured meats might have soon added to the boat’s cargo on their downstream runs. St. Louis was a hungry and growing town.

 Within only a couple of generations the easily accessible wood would have been gone. But so too was the heyday of the boats on the river. They continued to steam up and down the river but in ever decreasing numbers after the railroad arrived in the 1850’s and the railroads soon moved beyond the use of wood and utilized coal as a more efficient fuel. And coal as well, became another product to deliver to these now developing industrial communities along the river.

 And that brings us to the community of today. Passing through on Highway 100 one sees little of the town. The often seen quick shops and groceries, cafes and and bars line the highway in a typical midwestern spread out sort of fashion. Newer Industry and shops are there as well.

 But unless one takes the narrower town streets and heads north toward the river, the origins and history of the town are missed. The older architecture and flavor of the community is overlooked.

 The beauty of the town remains hidden. And the charming natures of the citizens are missed if only you stop for gas.

 The little valley where Olive street now runs on the west side of town was once filled with stockyards. The remains of the old mill also on the west end of the downtown area was once one of the largest flour mills in the country and at one time housed as well, an immense stationary diesel engine that provided electricity to power the whole town.

 A cemetery on the bluff to the east of the old town is reputed by some to be the final resting place of the original mountain man, John Colter, a valued member of the Lewis and Clark expedition.

 A restored hotel and charming B&Bs, artisans, a theater and even a distillery occupy the older town nearer the river where once the ranks of wood once were stacked.

 An access for boaters and a riverwalk atop the levee along the riverbank offer the visitor the opportunity to stroll and view both the river and the town, which continue to embrace each other as they have for generations.

A Glorious Little Storm

 It was still dark as I pushed my canoe into the current. Time was not a factor and I let it drift at the mercy of the of the current. Slowly it spiraled downstream as I made small adjustments in the placement of gear in the boat. And then as the morning sky lightened, I picked up my paddle, and paused a moment to watch the coming show.

 Slowly the edge of the sun appeared in a sliver of clear horizon and lit from below a torn and ragged bank of far away clouds that lay across the eastern sky.

 The red tint of sunlight increased and spread outward and upward through the jumbled greyness and it highlighted with white, the more pronounced of the forms and shapes of clouds controlled by an unseen breeze.

 Then suddenly it changed without prelude and the picture was complete.

 A raging red and orange calamity of colors emerging through a high wall of thunderheads that ruled the eastern sky. I couldn’t look away as red and yellow rays radiated outward and the scene hypnotized my mind.

I felt the rush of beauty wash over me as a shower might have done and left me drenched with an appreciation of the beauty of the coming day. I felt small and isolated in the presence of such a stunning display of colors.

 And was compelled to offer a small prayer of thanks for this magnificent dawn I had been allowed to witness.

 As I finally dipped the blade into the water and firmly pulled to straighten my vessel with the current, my movement startled a beaver lingering upon the bank. With a quick rush the beast, small and young, splashed into the river and was gone. Leaving a ring of waves, rippling the surface and expanding outward to my boat.

 The sun was now hidden by the cloudbank to the east and an eerie green tint lit the world through which I paddled. The odd light was surprisingly crisp and clear beneath the now overcast sky. And surprisingly beautiful as well, illuminating every detail in the soft clear brilliance that can only be seen before an impending storm.

 With a thought to the futility of my actions, I donned my slicker and pulled my hat down tightly as the first gusts rattled the river and a spurt of sprinkles plastered me and the water around. Now a second and stronger wave of rain rolled past and then the slow steady drum of the shower began to beat on my slicker and my boat and the river’s now shattered surface.

 Small explosions and splashes erupted with each drop, covering the water and dancing past in swirling waves, as the storm increased and I felt the first rivulets of water run down my cheeks and neck and enter my collar. Such a minor inconvenience in the glory of the storm I did not mind.

 The wind increased and battered the bow and I was thankful for the heavy pack stowed forward that helped hold it down. But my strokes increased and became more erratic as I fought to hold my course into the wind.

 The torrent increased by the moment and I guided the boat at a gentle angle away from midstream, seeking the cover of a lee bank and the treeline above. And so passed a spell of wet discomfort and glorious wonder at the intensity of the storm.

 And then in moments it passed. The sun was exposed to reclaim the morning and it bathed me in a warmth that penetrated my damp clothes.

 Its rays shone through the treeline above the bank, wet and bright and glistening, and displayed a myriad of diamond-like sparkles from every limb and fresh spring leaf.

 It traced as well, a brightly shimmering line across the river toward my boat. As though God himself were pointing at me and commanding my notice of this wonderfull world through which I now drifted. And I removed my rain gear and let the sun warm and dry my damp shirt as I planted the paddle and pulled.

 Regaining mid stream, I lost the sparkle off the trees but widened my perception of the glory of the river. It was larger and brighter and cleaner than I had perceived before.

 And it goes on, I thought, for a thousand miles. A small eternity of distance and beauty lay before me. And the paddle strokes were no effort at all as my humble little craft glided 
silently, like a waterborne starship into the coming day.   

Gabe Parker's Last Drink

 For miles around there was nothing really to catch the eye. Nothing but the rails and the tank.

A water tank on stilts for filling the trains, a windmill to fill the tank and a small shack for the use of the maintenance crews. As the engine sat idling beneath the spout the brakeman worked to top it off with water. The three passengers had stepped from the train to stretch their legs and stood in the small shade of a scruby excuse of a tree nearby. They watched as the conductor scaled the ladder to check the level of the tank. The Engineer Bill Andrews, was sweating heavily from the heat radiating from the monster as he oiled the bronze journals on the huge drive wheels and thought of a dinner tonight, at home with his grandchildren.

 Cautiously at first, Seth Baxter emerged from the shack. His clothes were badly worn, his belly was empty and so were his pockets. He was down and out. He was chased and desperate. And he’d been hiding in the shack since his horse had collapsed nearby, about this time yesterday.

A little while ago his belly had been rumbling with hunger. His nose had burned from the odor of oily rags piled in the corner of the shed. And cramped muscles had screamed when he stood.

 But now he smiled to himself as he made his way toward the engine. His ship had just come in, he was sure. A fire breathing, steam belching ship on wheels. He drew his weapon as he neared the Engineer.

 Baxter wasn’t even really thinking. Driven by desperation, he wanted food and money, and he wanted them now.

 The young brakeman, Joe Turner, was happily thinking about Summerville a town down the line. And a certain pretty girl he knew there.

One of the passengers, a drummer by trade and new to points west of the Mississippi, happened to spot Baxter as he stalked the trainman. He saw the gun in the stranger’s hand and recognized an ambush about to happen. He pulled forth a puny derringer and in a panic fired a useless shot in the the direction of the gunman.

Seth Baxter heard the shot and felt a rush of fear. And he saw the young man atop the train swing to face him.

 As he wrestled with the canvas pipe to fill the boiler, Joe had caught the movement from the corner of his eye. He turned and the scene before him barely registered before the huge revolver bucked and belched smoke in Seth’s hand. Joe felt the heavy slug burn deeply through his chest and push him backward and off the top of the engine. Had the bullet not killed him, the rock that he landed on would have done the job.

 Turning at the sound of the shot, the engineer hesitated hardly at all and then broke for the cab of the train. With practiced step he mounted the ladder and instinctively pushed forward the throttle lever. The huge engine lurched just as the gunman, excited beyond reason, fired again. What should have been an easy shot hit the driver low in the side. A second round fired would prove sufficient but had distracted the gunman for a single devastating instant.

 At the sound of the first shot the conductor had turned. By the time the gunman fired again. Paul Knowles had his own pistol out. From the water tank ladder the conductor’s barrage of shots rang out and knocked thief, and now murderer, Seth Baxter to the ground beside the rails.

 Confusion reigned as Seth lay bleeding and wondering what had gone so wrong. The few passengers watched in confusion as their train left them behind. And Knowles, the conductor, was wondering what the hell had just happened as he descended from the tank.

 With his last effort the engineer, not knowing the danger was past, locked open the throttle and collapsed. Slowly he slipped from the door and tumbled roughly to the ground as the wheels of the tender rumbled slowly past….

 Gabriel Jonas Parker walked toward the train station where he’d been the agent for almost two years now. He was but twenty seven years old and he saw nothing ahead. No hope or happiness nor anything to celebrate. The train was due any time but Gabe didn’t really care. He did his job, put in his time and drew his pay. And spent his off hours in the saloon. That was the problem. He had way too many off hours he thought glumly. Out here in this poor excuse for a town, he thought, there was nothing in abundance but time. It had gotten so that only the whiskey helped it pass.

 These were his depressing thoughts as he entered the station and pulled a bottle from his desk.

 The door on the firebox hung open and swayed evenly to and fro with the gentle rocking of the rumbling, chuffing engine. The glow of the flames dimly lit the interior of the cab, showing the dial on the pressure gage slowly drifting down, but there was no one to see. The iron wheels rolled, eating up the miles, but slowing gradually as the glow of the flames faded away. The pressure continued to fall as the train approached the little whistle stop town. The heart of the beast cooled and the pistons slowed until the power was gone and with a final hiss of steam the behemoth came to a halt.

 Was it luck or simple circumstance, or maybe the cold silent spirit of the now dead engineer, that controlled the beast? That had halted it squarely in front of the little station’s platform?

 It had glided in so gently the agent didn’t realize the engine was empty. But when moments later the conductor had failed to emerge, Gabe stepped onto the platform, hesitated and then walked to the single passenger car.

 As he stepped inside he saw, on on the first seat a lady’s sweater and scarf, but no lady. Just down the aisle a man’s hat hung on a corner of a seatback. And across the car was a table on which was a deck of cards with two hands dealt and a bottle and two glasses untended. But not a soul occupied the coach.

 As the prairie wind blew through the open firebox door a lingering spark was fanned to life. A thick wall of unburned coal along the side of the firebox collapsed and more sparks flew. And a flame took hold.

 The agent nervously stepped from the coach into the express car. It was hitched with the express room to the rear and though cargo was stacked and lashed into place, no person was present. When he knocked and then pounded on the locked express room door no answer was heard.

 In the engine the flames grew and devoured the fallen coal. The heat built and the water warmed, and the pressure gage began to rise. Slowly the pistons filled with steam.

 As the agent stepped from the train a groan issued from the engine and with a jolt the iron monster inched forward. Confused and disturbed, Gabe ran to the end of the platform just as the empty engine lumbered past. He clearly saw the throttle lever thrust forward and the open flaming firebox. As confusion turned to alarm he watched the empty train chuff and then lurch and then slowly gain speed as it now left the station behind.

 As the train rolled slowly yet steadily away, Gabe hesitated then turned and made his way back inside the station.

 By force of habit he took from the drawer his bottle of whiskey. Then he hesitated and held it up, thoughtfully examining the contents. He pulled the cork, but then as he watched the receding train out of the station house window, his hand slowly turned and let the whiskey flow into a spreading puddle on the station room floor.

    

Angel with an Attitude

 I filled my coffee cup and headed for the couch to watch the morning news. It’s a depressing habit I have fallen into to start my day. But its a routine that allows me to start slowly and by the time I’ve heard a little of that stuff I’m ready to do something, anything that will take my mind off whatever I’ve just heard. It gets me started moving and as a system it works pretty well most mornings.

 But this morning as I walked past the living room window I noticed something odd outside. I passed up the couch and went straight to the front door. Opening it and stepping out I found a total stranger in one of the lawn chairs on the porch.

 “And just who are you?” I demanded.  The guy’s eyes popped open and he had a stricken look on his face. It seemed as though I’d just woken him.

 “You aren’t supposed to see me” he stammered. He looked nervously left and right as though he was planning an escape.   

 “You haven’t told me who you are.” I repeated my demand.

 “Oh Hell”, he cursed, then looking me straight in the eye he stated, “I sir, am Oscar. I am your Guardian Angel. And I’m sorry but right now I’m just a little bit tired.”

  I looked him over again and decided even if he was a nut case I could take him.

 “A Guardian Angel”, I harumphed. “I think sir, you are a trespasser and it might be you should leave my porch while I step inside and get my shotgun.  Or would you prefer to discuss it with the Sheriff.”

 He looked at me with disdain and spoke again,”Calm down Walt. You really shouldn’t have seen me but I am right where I should be.”

 “How is it you know my name?” I puzzled. And with exasperation he answered. “I’ve known you for sixty years now, ever since I was given this assignment.”  

 That set me back. How did this kook know my name and my age, I wondered. Then he spoke again. “Look.” he said, “You’ve finally seen me. Its done. I shouldn’t have let it happen but you’ve worn me down boy.” he paused and then “Like I said, I’m tired and that whole invisibility cloak thing draws a lot of wattage.”  

 By now I’m more curious than indignant. “You don’t look like an Angel. Where are your wings and where is your halo?” I asked.

 With a tired sigh he said, “Ok listen, those wings were necessary when you were younger but, truth be told Walt, you just ain’t all that quick anymore and those things get heavy after a while. I haven’t needed them to keep up lately so I quit wearing them.”

I thought that one over and I hated to admit it but it kind of made sense. “And the halo?” I asked.

 “Oh, its there” he said, “but like the cloak it draws a lot of wattage too, so it’s a bit dim just now and doesn’t show up too well in this bright morning sunshine.” He looked at me, “You aren’t convinced, I can tell.” he said.

 “Ok, Oscar? You said your name was? Angels wear long white robes. You’re sitting here on my porch in a tee shirt and gym shorts and sneakers. And they’re all kind of cruddy at that.” I said. Then continued, “Those sneakers especially look horrible.”

 “Angels are nothing if not practical” he stated smugly. “And following you in a robe hasn’t worked since you were just a tike. “As for my sneakers they only show the dirt and wear from the path you’ve chosen.” he said accusingly. “I am required to just follow along. And a hard damn path it’s been at times, you know.”

 “Angels can’t curse.” I stated.

 “Why not?” he demanded. “You don’t make the rules and I didn’t take his name in vain.” That one set me back a moment and I sat open mouthed, staring at him without a comeback.

 “You could have offered me a coffee you know.” he demanded.

 Totally off guard now I answered, “Would you like some coffee?”

“No! But you could have offered” he answered petulantly. “You don’t make a habit of showing concern for me and my job”, he whined, “You haven’t been easy to handle, you know.”    

 By this time I was very confused. Here I sat on my own front porch, talking to a real live Angel, he says, and I’m getting chewed out. What’s up with all that, I’m wondering.

 “For an Angel you sure seem to have an attitude.” I accused.

 “And you don’t?” he demanded. “I’ve been watching over you for sixty years, remember? Its only natural I would pick up a few of your bad habits. I’m only one Angel and you are…..well, we both know what you are don’t we.” Again I was taken aback but that one made me uneasy as well.

 “And for your information”, he said, “I am definitely looking forward to a spell of R&R when this assignment is over. I’ve certainly earned it.”

 That one kind of scared me. “How soon will that be?” I asked more timidly now.

 “Not soon enough for my part” he said. “But I don’t make the rules, I just follow the fools!” And then he chuckled at what he obviously considered a joke.

 Then he stood up. His face didn’t look as tired now. His clothes seemed cleaner, except for the sneakers maybe. And as I looked at him I swore I saw the faintest outline of a dim halo above his head.

“I’d best be going now, your wife will be here in a moment and its bad enough that I dozed off and let you see me.”

 “Wait”. I said, “I have questions.”

 “You’ll always have questions” he said. “But don’t worry. The big guy assigned me to you on a full time basis you know. Not everybody gets that kind of treatment, ‘course most folks don’t require it either” he continued. “He’s takin’ care of things, don’t worry” he repeated. “But for my part, I would appreciate a little consideration when you make your plans, any plans, please. I do have to go now its going to be another long day, you know,”

 I heard the front door open behind me and as I looked over my shoulder my wife stepped onto the porch.

 “Who are you talking to dear?” she asked.
Looking around I saw we were alone.

 “I was talking to my Guardian Angel” I said slightly awed.

  “That’s nice” Kathy said. “I like to start the day with a prayer too. I’ve been doing that ever since I married you, you know” she said with a twinkle.