Meet the Man from Hobbtown

By Dennis R. Smith

In Dennis' words: "Meet the Man from Hobbtown is a record of my life, written now when, at the present date, I am eighty-eight years old. After being asked many times by my two daughters, Pamela (Smith) Hill, of Portland, Oregon, and Angela Smith, of Springfield, Missouri, I have finally yielded to their wishes and put in print a great part of my life. I have not done this for any financial benefit, but I hope that my entire family will appreciate this history, which has its start in the year I was born, December 11, 1929."

 

The e-book version of this book was published posthumously. Dennis joined his beloved wife, Carolyn Smith, on August 31, 2023, after eight months apart. The family has opted to publish the book for free for anyone who wishes to know more about this incredible man.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dennis R. Smith
• Release date: Sep 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223768944

Book preview

Preface

Meet the Man From Hobbtown is a record of my life, written now when, at the present date, I am eighty-eight years old. After being asked many times by my two daughters, Pamela (Smith) Hill, of Portland, Oregon, and Angela Smith, of Springfield, Missouri, I have finally yielded to their wishes and have put in print a great part of my life. I have not done this for any special financial benefit, but hope that my entire family will appreciate this history, which had its start in the year I was born — December 11, 1929. The Great Depression had its start when the stock market crashed and all the banks in America had runs on them and lost all their operating funds. The date of the beginning of this Depression was October 1929, just roughly two months prior to my birth. This resulted in thousands and thousands of businesses, private and corporate, closing and laying off all employees. As history will verify, there were very few jobs available for anyone anywhere. What a difficult situation this put on so many people. Such was the case of my parents, who at that time had two girls, Willa Deen and Helen Odessa. Hard times made it hard on them. What's more, the Great Depression hung on long especially for those who lived in the foothills of the Boston Mountains in northwest Arkansas.

Years ago I wrote a similar story about my parents in a book entitled A Dollar in His Pocket. I have chosen to use portions of that book to give emphasis to this document. I trust that readers will appreciate this as I hope their hearts and minds will be touched by the people of that time, and allow that memory to serve as a warning not to be too smug in our own ivory palaces today.

Dennis R. Smith

Part I

A Short History of the Community of Hobbtown

Let me share some of my memories along with others which my mother has passed on to me. At one time, Hobbtown was a thriving community, having a good-sized grocery and mercantile store, a large Methodist church building, blacksmith shop, cotton gin, sorghum mill, saw mill, and a dipping vat. All of these things provided services for the local populace as well as other communities bringing their business needs to these hardworking and honest merchants. Often people would come from miles around to gather in front of the store to take part in the hominy-making days. Equally so, farmers would drive their livestock several miles to dip them in my own Grandpa Morrison's dipping vat or to have him grind and cook the juice from their sugar cane. Most of these things I can personally remember. Many was the time that we, as local boys, have played in the ruins of the old cotton gin or watched and sampled the sweet juice of the pulp of the stalk from the cane after its bark had been peeled away. To those of us today who grew up in these surroundings in our minds as old men and women it was our Utopia. To my children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, as well as to the memories of those long since gone, I dedicate this record of my life and pass on all my experiences to them. Maybe it will help others meet and conqueror the difficulties that will surely enter their lives as they seek after their own life and liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Some of these things mentioned here were still operating as late as 1925 - 1935.

— Dennis R. Smith, Fall 2018

Some of My Earliest Memories

My birth took place on what most people who lived in the Hobbtown community called the Old Wheeler Place. Some of the details I will share with you probably came from my parents and others, especially the dates verifying the length of our stay there. But no one will ever convince me that my first memories were anything, more or less, than the absolute truth. Before I reveal these stories, I feel compelled to lay a little background information.

The first three years of my life were spent in the area around the community of Eighty-Eight. I was told that when several communities were first laid out, many of them were simply numbered. To this day, some are still so called: Eighty-One; Eighty-Eight; Old Seventy; and Figure-Five, just north of Van Buren. Most of these communities could easily be reached from one to another on foot by following cattle trails from one farm to another; or by horseback, if you knew where each farmer’s wire gaps were located; or by car, taking the right roads and hopefully in dry weather. My Uncle Claude, Dad’s youngest brother, lived on a rather marshy road almost impossible to pass in wet weather. Often the more brave drivers would try to go on through only to get stuck in deep mud. Uncle Claude, being himself a Baptist preacher and following the example of the Good Samaritan, would hitch up a team of mules and pull their cars out, sometimes collecting a dollar for his kind act. It also was told on Uncle Claude that when dry weather finally came, he would throw the bath water in the same spot just to freshen it up again. I wonder if that was the only reason. When I was a little boy, Dad would have to tell me the reason. How long did it take you to figure this out?

Having shared that true story, I shall go back to my first memory as a young child. I was around three-years-old when several of Dad’s family, with their children, came to stay all day with us. We not only had a house full of people, but equally so, a yard full of children, running and playing. They had raked up a huge pile of leaves and were playing in it. As I came outside, some of my beloved older cousins grabbed me and started to cover me in the pile. I can still hear my mother’s strong voice warning those boys to, STOP THAT! YOU MIGHT SMOTHER THE LITTLE FELLOW!

My second and third memories were possibly around two years later, just before I turned five. By this time, we had moved away from the Old Wheeler Place to another small community west of Alma by the name of Concord. This was the old home place of my father. The house set on the northeast corner of two country roads, forming a T. If you sat out on the long porch, you could see people coming and going, east and west, as well as north and south. There was a family who lived east of our house by the name of Rogers. They had two or three boys, possibly approaching their teens, who loved to come down the road behind their goat wagon, usually filled with all kinds of necessities little twelve or thirteen year old boys think they need—like maybe their "bean flippers—a can of pebbles at the ready—their fish stringers—grasshopper cages and who knows what else! Their power source was a handsome but extremely mean-looking ram with horns turned backward. What a scary thing he was to me!

One day as they came by our house, this beast broke loose from his handlers and started running a half-moon circle to the low east side of the porch, then jumping west off the high side, pulling cart and goodies with him as he went. This was very impressive to a boy not yet old enough to start in the first grade at Alma. Please note the picture attached and see if you might have been frightened, especially if you were only a little boy not yet five years old.

The goat & cart are similar to the one in my memory!

The goat & cart are similar to the one in my memory!

Christmas at Hobbtown

My article, Christmas at Hobbtown appeared in The Quill, a publication produced by the Journalism department at Crowder Junior College in Neosho, Missouri. Each year the staff invites children, young people, students, and adults from all over the state to contribute to their publication. There are five categories for entrants: nonfiction, fiction, poetry, art, and photography, which are rated First (Gold), Second (Silver) and Third (Bronze). The Awards ceremony is held at the college in the spring. My article won the Gold in the Nonfiction category. (To the best of my memory the date should have been 1999 or 2000)

Christmas in Hobbtown, Arkansas, in the late 1930s and early 1940s always started early. About six weeks before Santa was to make his appearance to the local children, the community was buzzing with news about the annual pie supper. This was the official kickoff to the upcoming holiday season. It was at this event where sufficient funds would be raised to cover the price of apples, oranges, nuts, candy and inexpensive (but useful) gifts for the children in the community. It also proved to be a project which brought out everyone, including the lovely young ladies to tempt the eyeing young men with favorite pastries and flashing glances.

The sale always started with great enthusiasm. Nowhere could you find a more exciting pie salesman than Uncle John H. Hobbs, for whom our community was named. This crusader for rural electrification in the four-state area was also the justice of the peace and a great believer in community projects. He not only served as the auctioneer, but also wrote and produced the annual Christmas play given the night of the tree.

Not one child must be overlooked, said Aunt Dorothy, as my own mother planned to help with the purchase of the gifts. We must be very careful to include every youngster, agreed my mother. With this, they began listing all the names they could remember. Saturday they would go to Fort Smith and purchase the necessary items.

The shopping had ended. The list checked and rechecked and now it was time for the ladies of Hobbtown to package the gifts and fill the sacks with fruit and candy. No child was to have more than another! Carefully they rationed out the items and placed the names on the sacks. There was something about the individuality of each child’s name being called out the night of the tree that was a thrill to long remember. Along with the gifts purchased from the pie supper money, there were also the gifts from the school’s name drawing. This was an exciting event too, as the secret of the name one drew was carefully guarded until this night. The one-room schoolhouse was just across the road from the church and this was perfect as the church offered better seating and better viewing for Uncle John’s Christmas program.

Finally, the night of the tree arrived. The suspense had been building for weeks and now everyone was assembled for the event. The play was not always biblical as Uncle John’s imagination extended itself to all parts of the world. But whatever he chose would be appropriate for Christmas. Relatives watched with pride as the children performed with each child having the chance to express himself or herself.

Finally, the play would be over but the climax was yet to come. This set the adults buzzing about Santa’s failure to show up with talk of snowdrifts being too big and other horrible thoughts until the suspense became unbearable for the children. Suddenly the jingling of bells could be heard outside and then a shout of joy from the children as Santa came in with a bound! Cheers and squeals expressed the excitement.

Santa took his position by the tree and began the hour-long task of calling out each name on the sacks. The children would go down and take their gift from Santa. He would also call out the To and From names on the packages the children were exchanging with some cute little expression as he read the names where he knew a little boy and girl were kind of sweet on each other.

When the evening ended each child had received gifts of labor and love from the adults of the community. As each family made their way home, the memories of this night lingered long with them especially with the children. However, the high point of the season was yet to come at home when the Real Santa would leave toys and gifts. But in later years when these children would have grandchildren of their own the one great event of the years to be remembered and recounted was the Christmas tree at Hobbtown. I know! Merry Christmas! Have a happy Hobbtown!

The Old Wheeler Place

The trees had turned early and the geese had also begun their southern flights in that beautiful fall of 1929. The slopes of the Ozark Mountains in Arkansas were aflame with the annual fall review and that part of God's earth looked as though He had chosen it as His own private beauty spot. Unfortunately, the grandeur of the land and the actual situation of the times were not aligned. Times were hard! That fateful year had brought misery to countless thousands across the United States, but in this area that was already more poverty-stricken than most, it had really hit hard. Men were walking the streets in search of any kind of labor. Homes were already experiencing great shortages. Food and clothing for the coming winter were the chief worries of men, and some were not sure if the soles of their shoes were more worn than their own inward being. Depression and desperation had come to the Ozarks.

Jim and Callie Morrison - Late 1930s, early 1940s

Jim and Callie Morrison; late 1930s, early 1940s

There were, of course, those who were older who had land and property that could provide the necessary food to keep them alive, and they did much to share with others who were less fortunate, but for the young couples who were just getting a start, it was most difficult to say the least. Old, forsaken home places were sought out by some because the rent was practically nil. Here they could house their families and make some similitude of a home. Such was the case in the lives of Reves and Trudy Smith. They chose the Old Wheeler Place in that lovely fall. Their reasoning, like most young folks of the day, was several fold. First, it was available; second, the rent; and third, because it was the closest to Trudy's parents, Jim and Callie Morrison.

The old Morrison place was a spot that came forth from the history of the early settlers of the Arkansas and Missouri Ozarks. It was nestled in the foothills of the Boston Mountains, twenty or so miles north of the county seat town of Van Buren. It was here that James Franklin Morrison (or Jim as he was called) and his wife Callie had chosen to settle. The house was constructed on the ridge above Cedar Creek for not only was it a beautiful view, but the land broke away down the valley and made a perfect place for cotton, tobacco, corn and other cash crops. In those days of the ten-cent cotton and forty cent meat, the thought of cash crops was all but abandoned. Jim was now more concerned with whether they had butchered enough hogs for all the children and grandchildren. Bessie and Will lived across the valley; Dorothy and Fred north of the creek; Arlie and Tressie on the Park's Place; and