Footprints in the Ozarks: A Memoir

By Ellen Gray Massey

This collection of short essays, written over a period of years, pictures the true Ozarks and its people as Ellen Gray Massey has experienced them. While it captures the scene it also shows how the area has influenced her personal and professional life. From her childhood attending school in Washington D.C., and living all her adult years in the Ozarks, came the material and background to become a writer, her life-long ambition.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Goldminds Publishing
• Release date: Sep 10, 2012
• ISBN: 9781942905295

Book preview

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PART ONE

HOME AGENT IN LEBANON

Working in the County Extension office, I learned a lot about the area from assistant county agent Homer Massey, Lane’s cousin. He helped me get acquainted with the people and the area. Among other things he did to help me, he gave me two pieces of advice. Never cross a low-water bridge when the river is up, and Orla (a place in the southern part of the county) is pronounced ORLY. He emphasized the Y sound at the end. He often teased me with local sayings. One day when I complained about some minor problem with my work, he replied, You’d complain even if they hanged you with a brand new rope.

NOW THIS IS THE WAY TO CAN YOUR BLACKBERRIES

My first demonstration as County Home Agent was with the Stony Point Extension Club. I drove out of town for fourteen miles on a black-top road and turned off on a rocky public road. I wound around the hills, crossed a low-water bridge and forded a couple creeks for five more miles. The road followed the creek bed for a hundred yards or so before another narrow lane turned off. I followed that lane. Up and down and around. Shifted into second to get over a badly washed place. Couldn’t make it, so tried low. With much scraping on the rocks, I made it. Around and down and up some more. The road turned, but I had to back to make the turn. I opened three gates before arriving at my destination—a lovely homestead nestled on the bench land bordering the Osage Fork of the Gasconade River. Flowers and a few trees inside the woven-wire fence separated the beautiful lawn from the barnyard.

As I drove there I was thrilled with the scenery and backwoodsy location. Pleased with my new job, I felt good that I could help these women with the most up-to-date information on canning fruits and vegetables. It was midsummer and I was to give a demonstration on canning foods. I had never canned except once in a home economics class at the University. But I read carefully the directions in the pamphlet from the Extension Office. I gathered up some fresh wild blackberries and all the utensils and supplies I’d need. I practiced until I had my talk down pat. I looked forward to showing the ladies how they could use nature’s bounty to stretch their food budget.

But I knew I was in trouble the minute I walked in the door. There in a row decorating the kitchen shelf were about a dozen cans of blackberries sealed with zinc lids and rubber rings. My entry and introduction to the ladies interrupted a conversation between two older women about how many quarts of wild greens and tomatoes they had put up during the week.

I had at least one ally. When I was fumbling with my equipment at my car when I first got there, I saw Hazel Massey and her sister and mother walk through the gate in the road that separated this farm from the next. I knew Hazel already as she was on the Laclede County Extension Council.

Looks like you need some help, Hazel said, hurrying up to help me.

Thanks, I do. I looked across the fence to what I could see of a big white house, some smaller outbuildings and a tall, oak bank barn all silhouetted against the checkered fields and the line of trees that hid the river.

Yes, that’s our place. Hazel answered my question before I even asked it.

The hostess introduced me as the young (she emphasized young) new County Home Agent. Realizing my inexperience, I gulped but went bravely on. I had my berries and glass jars all in order on her table for my demonstration. I felt better when Hazel smiled at me and held out her hands as if to say, Go on. You can do it. Then I caught the eyes of a couple other younger women about my age watching me in anticipation.

I relaxed. The older women smiled encouragingly and listened to every word, though they knew more about canning than I’d ever know. When I stressed some point such as to be sure to sterilize everything, they all nodded in agreement.

Since it was obvious that they already knew what I planned to say, I talked about some dangers in using a pressure cooker. That was a natural topic since I was in the mid-point of my meetings throughout the county in general stores where I tested pressure cooker gauges the women brought in to me to be sure they were safe. After long use, I said, holding up the lid of a pressure cooker and unscrewing the gauge, the gauges sometimes get clogged up. Then the cooker might explode from the built-up pressure. I reminded the group about my planned stop the next week at the nearby Morgan General Store and invited them to bring their gauges for me to check.

I’m glad you told me about the danger, one lady said. I’ll be sure to come. There was a general feeling of approval. Apparently this safety procedure was something they hadn’t thought about.

I was doing great. I was really teaching them something. So I ended on a roll. After I finished the ladies were very kind to me. They visited and were genuinely interested in getting to know me.

We’re happy you could come to our meeting.

It’s good to see a young person so interested in us farm folks.

One by one they introduced themselves. I’m Florie Chambers and live just down the river around the bend a ways. Come see us sometime.

Not a single one of them told me that even though I had stressed the importance of cleanliness in canning, I had forgotten to sterilize the rubber rings as well as the caps.

Mary Elizabeth Mahnkey, a Taney County homemaker, wasn’t in my session, but she captured my experience in her poem about sugar rationing in World War II. I very much admire her talent and though I never knew her, I was well acquainted with her family who asked me to write her biography. Except that I never wear nail polish, I could have been the lady with the painted nails.

RATIONED

Now this is the way to use your sugar,

Said the lady with the painted nails.

Wisely she spoke of plums and

peaches and berries

and food values and nutrition.

Aunt Lucindy gazed at her

with tired old eyes,

Eyes that had grown dim

watching bubbling pots of richness,

Eyes that had studied

cool cellar shelves

and the best way of marking

jams and jellies,

Cunning old eyes that flicked momentarily

from the stained nails to the stained lips.

Yes-sum was all she said.

When the meeting broke up, Hazel and her mother, Cordie Massey, helped me load up my car. I’m glad to finally get to meet you, Cordie said.

Hearing the sound of a tractor, I glanced toward the river bottom field.

That’s my brother, Hazel explained. Even though I was feeling both stupid and exhilarated from my first major demonstration as a home agent, I didn’t miss Hazel’s inference when she emphasized ‘brother.’

Lane has been home from the army about eighteen months now, Cordie said as if I needed to know that fact.

On October 22, 1945, Lane Massey received his honorable discharge from the Army and, as quickly as the bus could take him, returned home to continue his partnership farming with his dad on their 160 acre river bottom farm. In February 1947, as home agent in the county, I organized a youth group for those over 4-H age called RYO (Rural Youth Group). Lane and his sisters attended. Our relationship grew. I often visited him at his home farm.

WOODS, FIELDS, AND STREAMS

I let Redwings rest on the crest of the hill and looked down the steep path we just climbed. I gazed at the little valley below me and understood why Lane told me to ride his mare up to the hill pasture. Here he hoped I might find the right answer to his question. I hooked my leg over the saddle horn to relieve my position in the unfamiliar western saddle and looked at his beloved