Bradley Roberts Wyatt

Christmas at Grandma’s as told by Ruby Roberts

When I was just a little girl, I dearly loved going to my Grandma Mary’s for Christmas.  My earliest memories are from Christmas Day when I was four or five years old.  Daddy would get up very early in the morning while it was still dark outside and build a fire in the fireplace.  At first light, he would wake up the boys first, then the girls.  We lived in a big two story house.  Mom and Daddy slept downstairs in a large room with a bed at one end, a fireplace in the middle along the wall, and a couch and some chairs at the other end.  We had two rooms upstairs.  My five brothers slept in one room, but sometimes my little brother Perk would sleep downstairs with Mom and Daddy.  My four sisters and I slept in the other room.  We had wonderful feather mattresses on the beds and quits to cover us, but it was still very cold upstairs.  I always tried to get in the middle of a bed between two of my sisters and sink deep into the mattress to stay warm.

Daddy and the boys would go outside to feed the chickens and livestock, gather eggs, and milk the cows.  Mom and the older girls would go to the kitchen to cook breakfast.  We always had plenty to eat; fried eggs, salt pork, corn bread with butter, and fresh milk.  Our kitchen was separated from the main house by a dog-trot porch.  We were very lucky to have a water well in the middle of the dog-trot where we could draw fresh water to cook and wash dishes regardless of the weather.  Mom had a big wood-burning cook stove that kept the kitchen the warmest room in the house.  Daddy made certain the boys kept plenty of kindling and dry wood stacked under the roof of the porch.  We had a big table at one end of the kitchen that had enough room for all twelve of us to sit and eat together as a family.

After breakfast on Christmas, Daddy hitched the horses to the wagon, loaded it down with fresh hay, and covered the hay with quits.  Mom sat on the front bench and Daddy would hand my brother Perk up to her wrapped in a blanket.   Then, Daddy would get on the other side of the bench seat to drive the team.  All of us kids would climb into the back of the wagon and settle into the quilt-covered hay; I was little, so my sister Opal or Dora (we called her Bill) would help me.  Then, with a click that I guess was like Santa Claus, Daddy would get the horses to lean into their harnesses and begin the trip to Grandma Mary’s house.  The horses would pull the wagon slowly over the creek bank where we would ford Beaver Creek below the Job Hole.  The creek was generally low in the winter so it was easy to cross.  Sometimes in my prayers, I would ask Jesus to keep it from raining so much that the creek would be too high and force us to spend Christmas at our house.  I knew it was selfish to ask such a thing, but I really believed if Jesus was like they said he was, he would understand.

Once we crossed Beaver Creek, Daddy would guide the horses up Caney Creek.  Sometimes they would pull the wagon in a field along the bank of the creek, but most of the time they simply waded up the shallow creek with their hoofs ker-plunking into the water and their iron shoes clanging against the rocky bottom of the creek.  The iron-rimmed wagon wheels would crunch the gravel as they rolled up the creek and, all to often, would roll over a large rock and drop into a hole with a jolt.  I remember one winter when it was particularly cold and the horses had to break ice as they waded though the shallow pools in the creek.  Icicles formed on the wagon and some even hung from the long hairs on the horses’ coats.  But, they didn’t seem to mind as large clouds of fog formed as soon as they breathed heavily out their nostrils and steam rose off their hot backs.  I so wish I were more like those horses and didn’t stay cold all the time.  I guess Opal saw that I was shivering because she pulled me close.  She said she needed me to keep her warm, but I thought she already felt plenty warm to me.

Before noon, we would get to my Grandpa and Grandma’s house where all of my cousins, aunts, and uncles would be gathered.  We would climb down from the wagon and race to join our cousins.  CT and I were the same age and were best friends growing up and through our school years.  I had five uncles – Roaten, Roy, Williard, Claude, and Johnny and lots of cousins.  I had one other uncle named Floyd, but I never knew him because he died of the flu during the war.  They say that my brother, Sam, was named after Uncle Floyd, but we never called him Floyd.

Soon, all thoughts of being cold would disappear in the laughter and fun as we played  together in Grandma’s yard.  When the dinner bell rang, everyone crowded into Grandma’s house to enjoy a wonderful Christmas meal together.  After dinner, Grandma would ask Grandpa if he had anything for the children.  He would search around the house and soon produce a large flour sack full of treats – candy sticks, chocolate drops, apples, nuts, and sometimes even oranges.  Afterwards, we would go out onto their front porch where he would pry open a large wooden drum that was shipped on a train.  It was full of new shoes of every size and shape. We would dig through the shoes until every single one of us found a pair that fit.  And everyone would get a brand new pair of shoes for Christmas that weren’t even hand-me-downs.

If we were particularly good, Daddy would let us spend the night at Grandma’s while he and Mom took the wagon back to our farm to do chores before dark.  As I would lay in the soft, warm bed at Grandma Mary’s with my cousins by my side, I would think that this had to be the best Christmas that anyone could ever imagine.  Sometimes, if I wasn’t very careful, I would be so warm and cozy that I would drift off to sleep before I finished saying my prayers.  I sometimes thought about baby Jesus and wondered if he was cold while he slept in that manger so many years ago.

“Walking with Dad”

Mom told me that when she and Dad were first married, he and Granddad Wyatt made all the decisions and she and Grandma Amy had to “walk behind them”.  After Granddad Wyatt passed in 1961, Mom said that Dad begin to rely more upon her and her judgement and she begin to “walk beside him”.  (After I was grown and had moved to Texas, she would tell me from time to time about an idea that she suggested that worked particularly well and how surprised Daddy was that she knew as much as she did.  She would simply say, “I guess he didn’t realize I grew up on a farm and we had to know how to fix fence, put up hay, handle cattle, and all the things that come with a farm”.)  In the later years as Dad became ill with Alzheimer’s disease, Mom said that she had to “walk in the lead with him”.   I have never known anyone who handled all three roles with more submissive grace.  As she put Dad to bed each night during those difficult Alzheimer years, she would kiss him, tell him that she loved him, and ask him if he loved her, to which he would simply reply, “Yes I do”.  She once told me in one of the greatest understatements of all times, “I think your Daddy truly loved me”.  It gives me great comfort to know that they are once again walking together in total submission to one another and the Lord Jesus Christ.

“The Fishing Contest”

Mom and Dad loved to float fish on Beaver Creek.  For years, we would put in the flat-bottom boats and float from the Job Hole at Old Hilda to Kissee Mills, or from the Narrows at Union Flat to the Job Hole.  As Mom and Dad became older, we switched from flat-bottom boats to canoes and eventually quit floating a long distance, but would continue to take our canoe to McHaffee’s and simply fish the upper and lower holes of water.  In one of our last fishing trips with both Mom and Dad, I had Dad in the front, Mom in the middle, and me in the back paddling the canoe.  On this particular day, the water and light were near perfect even though we had a late start on the trip.  When we launched into the hole, Dad caught a nice goggle-eye on the first cast, then Mom caught a fish, then Dad, then Mom.  Eventually, the score was Dad with 16 fish and Mom with 15 fish.  The shadows continued to deepen on the creek and I knew that we needed to get off the water soon, but I desperately wanted Mom to tie the score.  Earlier, when we arrived, we had seen a cottonmouth snake swimming on top of the water from the bluff toward us.  Dad let out a squall like you would to jump a racoon out of a tree and the cottonmouth turned and quickly slithered across the water and up the bluff.  As I turned the canoe before the shoals to paddle back up the hole of water, the corner of my eye caught some sycamore leaves drifting on top of the water toward the canoe.  But, as the sycamore leaves came out from under the canoe, I realized it wasn’t sycamore leaves at all, but the cottonmouth snake coiled on top of the water and ready to strike.  My mind was racing, I pointed the paddle at the snake trying to squall like Dad to scare the snake away, but all I could get out was “Oooh, oooh, oooh!”  Fortunately, the snake drifted past without striking while Mom and Dad, focused on the fishing contest, continued to cast oblivious to the serpent on the water.  Mom hooked a tiny sunfish off the gravel bar tying the score – Dad with 16 fish, Mom with 16 fish.  I declared the contest a tie and told Dad to put his rod in the boat, which he reluctantly did, not because I asked, but because he knew how much it would please Mom to tie him fishing!

“The Prettiest Girl in the World”

(Today would have been my Mom & Dad’s 69th Wedding Anniversary.)

Mom was never a person given to much jewelry.  But, Dad would buy her a necklace every year for Christmas.  After Dad begin showing signs of Alzheimer’s, I would go with him to buy Mom’s Christmas present.  I would ask Mom what she wanted and she would reluctantly suggest a few things, but knew in her heart that Dad would get her a necklace.  I would take Dad around the store and look at the items on her list, but he would eventually spot the jewelry counter.  He would beeline to the counter, select a necklace, and say that your Mom really likes necklaces.  On Christmas Day, Mom would open her package from Dad, put on her necklace, and tell him that she loved him, and the necklace was exactly what she wanted.  He would look at her and tell her, “You are the prettiest girl in the world”.

(ADVISORY:  THIS STORY MAY NOT BE ENJOYABLE FOR ANYONE WHO IS SENSITIVE TO HUNTING.)

My son Justin first began deer hunting with me in Missouri in 2008 after graduating from college.  It was a great opportunity to spend a week at Grandma’s and Grandad’s with the bonus of deer hunting.  In the first few years, he hadn’t mastered the basics of deer hunting – sit still (a comfortable deer blind helps), stay alert (too comfortable of a deer blind doesn’t help), and gun handling (several days at the rifle range builds safety skills, and confidence).  Pictures from those early years shows a dejected young man posing with other hunters and their trophies.  However, over the years, Justin gained these skills and learned of one additional vital skill.

In 2017, my nephew Beau joined us at the Missouri deer camp for the first time.  On Saturday of opening day, I bagged a young doe and a nice 9-point buck and my brother Steve bagged a forked-horn buck.  On Sunday, Justin and my cousin Basil both bagged does.  Beau was seeing limited game and certainly no opportunity to take a shot.

Our family has always “processed” our own venison.  My mother graciously allowed us to transform her kitchen into a meat processing plant.  In the early days, you worked your way up through the ranks from wrapping the meat in butcher paper and labeling with the hunter’s initials, cut of meat, and year, to packing the meat in plastic snack bags, to running the tenderizer, to slicing the meat, to deboning and trimming the meat for slicing.

On Sunday afternoon of 2017, we were processing the first three deer.  I was deboning; Justin, Beau, Steve, and Basil were slicing; Scott was running three positions – tenderizer, bagging, and wrapping/labeling.  We always start with the backstraps or loins, then the hams, then the shoulders.  As I fished the hams out of the ice cold water in the meat cooler on the front porch, my hand came across two small delicacy known as the tenderloins.  I put them into the processing pan and carried them inside.  I simply lay them on Justin’s cutting board and said, “You know what to do”.  Beau took a particular interest in this activity as Justin sliced the tenderloins, bagged them, and handed the bags to Scott with the words, “Wrap these for Paw!”.  (Paw is what all of the grandchildren call their maternal grandfather.  The moniker Paw was Bill’s second choice when Pat and the girls vetoed the suggestion that the grandchildren call him Big Daddy.  Beau was surprised when Justin was giving all the tenderloins to Paw.  He seemed almost indignant when he said, “Why are you giving all of the tenderloin to Paw?”  To which Justin replied, “It’s the ‘Vital Ingredient’.”

I first learned of the “Vital Ingredient” while hunting with my father-in-law Bill in Marion County Texas in the 1980s.  Bill loved to stay in his pop-up camper while at the hunting lease.  Forever the optimist, he would bring all the essentials to the deer camp except meat, confident that the Lord would provide.  On one particular hunting trip, neither Bro. Voss nor I had managed to get a deer, so it appeared that we might have to take the “drive of shame” back into Jefferson to join other unsuccessful hunters buying meat at the Piggly Wiggly.  Fortunately, Bob, one of the day hunters on our lease, came into camp with great news – he had shot a deer, but couldn’t find it.  Desperate for “camp meat”, Bro. Voss and I agreed to forgo our evening hunt to help Bob find his deer.  Eventually, we found the deer, dragged it to camp, skinned and processed it, and packed the meat for transport back to White Oak.  I was incredulous that Bob had left without offering us some camp meat.  With a twinkle in his eye, Bro. Voss said, “I was afraid he might do that.  That’s why I took the tenderloins and hid them by the carcass!”  Later that evening, as Bro. Voss and I sat down in the camper to a delightful meal of fried tenderloin, he told me, “There’s only one thing better than fried deer tenderloin, that’s STOLEN fried deer tenderloin!”  I guess the Lord does provide, sometimes in “mysterious” ways!

Justin grew up hearing the story of the stolen tenderloins.  After a couple of years without success at the Missouri deer camp, he made a commitment to give Paw the tenderloins from any deer he was blessed to harvest.  Soon thereafter, Justin began routinely taking a deer every year.  In 2015, he harvested the largest deer every taken from our farm.  Faithful to his commitment, he continues to “tithe” the tenderloins to his Paw.

On Sunday evening, as Beau, Justin, and I drove to the deer check station near Branson, we called Paw on speaker phone.  When he inquired about the deer camp, Justin and I related our success hunting and told him that Beau was still struggling because he hadn’t committed to the “Tithe of the Tenderloins”!  On the spot, Beau made his commitment with Justin and I as witnesses.  We fully expect Beau to be successful soon!

For many years, my mother carried a worn out wallet that was very masculine.  When my brother and I were old enough to begin buying Christmas gifts for Mom, I would suggest to Dad that we get Mom a new wallet and coin purse set.  Dad would always respond that he didn’t think Mom would want a new one, so we would choose something else.  After I was married, Pam would suggest that maybe my Mom would like a new wallet for Christmas or her birthday.  I would always reply that Dad said she liked the one that she had, so we would purchase something else.  One Election Day after Dad begin experiencing the effects of Alzheimer’s disease, I was staying with him while Mom worked as an election judge.  While we were sitting in the living room, Dad started talking somewhat into space and said, “You know, that family was never the same”.  I was desperately trying to determine which family when he continued, “Your Mom’s family, they were never the same after Little Doc died”.  Mom’s brother Eddie, or Little Doc, was killed tragically in a car wreck in Idaho in 1952.  “He was the one who kept everyone laughing when he told a funny story or played a practical joke.  All of the sisters and brothers loved him.”  Then Dad turned and looked directly at me saying,  “You know the wallet that your Mom carries was Eddie’s”.  With those brief words, I learned, very late in life, the reason Mom treasured that worn out, masculine wallet that she carried throughout her adult life.

Like many WWII veterans, Dad didn’t openly express his feelings.  I have always felt that the horrors of that war; seeing so many close friends killed and maimed, caused these veterans to withhold their feelings as a defense mechanism to avoid additional pain.  Regardless of the reasons, Dad seemingly couldn’t express his feelings and struggled to accept our expressions of love.

I was in my early fifties and Dad was beginning to show the effects of Alzheimer’s before I ever heard him express something as seemingly simple as, “Your Mom and I are proud of you boys”.  Even then, he tempered his expression with “your mom and I”.  Dad simply could not verbally, much less physically, express his love for us.  We knew he loved us, but he simply could not hug or kiss us, or allow us to hug or kiss him.  Mom was much more expressive when we were little, but became less so as we grew into our teens.  I vividly recall the visit to Missouri when I told Mom, “I can’t go back to Texas without first hugging you and kissing you goodbye”.  It was awkward at first, but she allowed me to hug and kiss her from that visit onward and soon looked forward to a hug and kiss when I arrived and again when I headed back.  Dad was very nervous that first time, fearing that I might hug him, and likely wanted to let me hug him, but he just couldn’t.  Instead, he would fake like he was going to fight if we got too close.  He had the same struggle with the grandchildren; he would play with them, he would dote on them, but he struggled to hug and kiss them.

As Alzheimer’s disease began to take its toll on Dad’s memory and his physical health, he required more and more help to accomplish the simple tasks of everyday living.  At first, he might only need to be helped up from the chair or to be reminded of something that needed to be done.  Later, he became totally dependent on Mom, Steve, Scott, and the social workers from the Veterans Administration and Hospice.  In those last years, we would lift Dad from his recliner into the wheelchair, roll him into the bathroom, and lift him again from the wheelchair to the toilet or shower.  Before lifting him, I would always tell him in a gentle voice what I was going to do, do it, then tell him what a good patient he was.  Dad was one of the most appreciative patients I have ever encountered and, before he lost his ability to communicate, he always thanked us each time we helped him.

In those final days, I would always hug and kiss Dad as I lifted him.  All the early resistance had long since passed.  He seemed to genuinely like the affection I showed him.  I knew he liked what I was doing; because if he didn’t like something, he might bite, kick, or pinch to let you know.  He never responded to my affections in that manner.  After Dad passed, Mom often told me how proud she and Dad were of me, and my brother, and our families and how very much she and Dad loved us.  I would never wish that anyone should experience that dark path that we call Alzheimer’s, but it was on that path that I could, for the first time in my life, hug and kiss and openly express my love for my Dad.  It was one of those rare blessings that came with that horrible disease.

In the middle of the Depression, a billy goat went wild and was eventually spotted in the sharp ravine that splits the bluff along the Barker Hole on the White River.  Locals called this ravine by a derogatory name for blacks followed by the word Holler because a runaway slave was captured there prior to the Civil War.  The owner of the goat told my Granddad that he could have the goat if he could catch it.  Since Granddad Wyatt had lived in Colorado and was familiar with deer hunting, he was confident he could get the goat.  He, my Dad, Dale, and Dewie got up before daylight the next morning and took a Winchester Model 62, pump action .22 rifle to the ravine.  He showed the boys how to pick out the trail frequented by the goat and find a suitable rock to provide cover and a rest for the rifle.  “Boys, this is as close to deer hunting as you will ever experience in Missouri” since there were no longer deer in this part of the country.  “Now, we have to sit very still and wait for the goat”.  Soon, the unsuspecting goat came down the trail.  It was no match for Granddad Wyatt, who was a crack shot.  Unbeknownst to Granddad Wyatt, that one hunting trip and a tasty feast of cooked goat meat instilled a lifelong love of deer hunting in my Dad.  When deer were restored in the Missouri Ozarks in the 1950s, Dad became an avid deer hunter even though opening day fell uncomfortably close to his and Mom’s wedding anniversary of November 14th.

Eventually, Dad stopped hunting in the National Forest with the group on Frisco Hills and began hunting our farm with me, my brother Steve, Uncle Dale, Dale’s son Art, and Dad’s nephew Basil.  Dad became an expert, but unconventional, hunter.  He got up late (deer don’t like to move until the frost melts), didn’t stay in the stand long (if they haven’t moved by now, why wait), took a long afternoon nap (deer have to sleep too), and always seemed to bag a nice buck (always shoot the first one that comes along).  He described deer hunting as “hours of boredom followed by seconds of pure exhilaration”.  He had an uncanny knack of sitting absolutely motionless on an uncomfortable limb in a walnut tree for hours.  He always had a humorous story about his deer.  When asked by the game warden, “Why does this deer have berries in its mouth?”, Dad told him, “Because I fell asleep and didn’t see the deer until it had already put its head in my berry bucket”, which would have been totally illegal in Missouri . . . if any part of the story had been true.

In November 1992, Dad and I were hunting together – he was in his favorite walnut tree in the new ground and I was on a rudimentary stand on the high-line right of way in the meadow.  It was a crisp Sunday afternoon in November.  Dad insisted that we finish the football game on television before leaving.  I was frantic, it was already 3:30 and Dad seemed to just mosey along.  I rushed to climb the hill and get on my stand, but before I could climb the tree I caught movement in the cedars coming toward me.  It was a large deer, alone, antlers, lots of antlers, my heart was pounding, my glasses were fogging up from the perspiration of rushing to the stand, the adrenaline was causing my hands to shake, but the deer kept coming toward me.  I raised my gun, the deer bolted, somehow I managed to get off a good shot despite the fogged glasses and shaky hands.  It was a 10-point buck, the largest I had ever bagged and one of the best from our farm.  I waited several minutes for Dad, but when he didn’t show, I dragged the deer over the hill to the house and Mom.  She wanted to be happy for me, but really didn’t care for venison and preferred to see the deer alive beside the road instead of dead in the back of the pickup.  We took some pictures, loaded the deer into the truck and drove past Bill and Beulah Halters to show it to them, more pictures, then to the Conservation Check Station at Kissee Mills Junction.

When we arrived back at the house, Dad came out to meet us and said, “Did you get it?  I jumped two nice bucks coming to my stand.  One went your way.  I thought you might see it.  I heard you shoot.”  (He was as giddy as a school girl about the prospects of me getting a nice buck.  It was unusual to see Dad that excited.)  “The other buck stopped just out of sight.  I suspected it might come back if I didn’t make a lot of noise.  I climbed my tree and waited.  It came back shortly after I heard you leave in the truck.  I didn’t think you would hear me shoot.”

I didn’t know it at the time, but that deer hunt in November of 1992 would prove to be our best hunt ever and one of the last with my Dad.  Regretfully, my camera was stolen before I had an opportunity to develop the film, so a grainy photo from the Taney County newspaper is my only record of that memorable day.

As the years passed, Mom and Dad spent many evenings driving the backroads of Taney County breathing in the scenery and counting deer.  Like most things around our house, it wasn’t really a contest, but Mom always kept score and Dad would often continue driving well past dusk trying to spot one more deer to tie or take the lead.  After Dad’s illness kept him from driving, Mom would wait anxiously for me, Steve, or Scott to take them on a deer drive during the evening hours and would write down the number of deer spotted and the date on the chalk board in the kitchen.  The evening before Mom was hospitalized and passed in June 2013, Steve took her on her last deer drive.  She saw several deer and was very pleased to record the number on the blackboard.

I recall the first time I heard my Dad read aloud publicly.  It was painful for all involved – every other word was followed by an “uh” as he struggled to make out the next word.  I couldn’t understand how a man who could calculate the cost of lumber in his head and repeatedly tell a story hitting the punch line precisely, could not read aloud.  Somehow, Dad had “slipped through the cracks” in public education without anyone- his teachers, his parents, or his siblings, recognizing he had capabilities far beyond what he demonstrated.  Eventually, through a lot of effort by Mom and the grace of God, Dad became an accomplished reader who was honored to conduct Ray Roberts’ funeral and kept a handwritten copy of the message that he had read aloud.

But, I get ahead of myself in this story.  Mom seldom asked Dad to do anything.  When he was at home, he always sat in his chair, watched television, and smoked.  Mom never missed Sunday School and insisted that Steve and I attend with her, but Dad either worked at the Boat Dock or went up on Frisco Hills and helped barbecue.  Mom would also drive herself to Wednesday Night Prayer Meeting alone while Steve, Dad and I watched TV.  On one cold winter Wednesday evening, she simply said to Dad, “It seems that you could at least drive me to Prayer Meeting”, so he did.  He would drive her to Prayer Meeting, let her out, and then sit in the car and smoke while she was inside.  One bitter cold Wednesday night, Dad decided whatever was going on inside would be better than freezing in the car, so he got out of the car, went inside, warmed his hands by the wood-burning stove in the middle of the church house, then sit down by Mom.  Wisely, Maudie David proceeded with the lesson, hardly acknowledging Dad.

Over the next several Wednesday nights, Dad continued to drive Mom to Prayer Meeting, would come inside, and warm himself by the wood burning stove.  As he listened to the lessons, he discovered something he never expected.  Like most of us, Dad assumed Christianity was all about doing the best we could and hoping that God would be pleased with our efforts.  But, these Christians were very different from what he imagined.  They believed the Bible taught there was absolutely nothing we could do that was good enough to win God’s favor.  Instead, they believed God loved us so much that He sent His only Son Jesus to die on the cross in our place and to forgive every wrong thing we had done in their entire lives.  Eventually, Dad trusted this Jesus to be his Lord and his Savior and received this new life.

Early on, Dad didn’t talk a lot about his faith, but it was evident to everyone; he had been a very impatient and demanding, now he was becoming more and more patient and understanding and was noticeably less demanding.  He read his BIble and attended church with Mom, Steve, and me.  He was asked to become the Assistant Sunday School Superintendent.  Initially he hesitated, but agreed after he learned the Assistant Superintendent only filled in when the Superintendent was absent and the Superintendent had only missed one Sunday in twenty years.  Ironically, the Superintendent resigned within the year and Dad became the Superintendent and was responsible for reading a devotional passage from the Bible aloud, which is where we started this story.

Dad almost “slipped through the cracks” EDUCATIONALLY and SPIRITUALLY.  Fortunately, by the grace of God, he had a second opportunity to learn about God’s provision for us and to accept that provision by confessing Jesus as Lord and believing that God raised Jesus from the dead.  Dad also had a second chance in education and learned to read in his forties.  He spent the next forty years reading his Bible daily.  How thankful we are that he didn’t “slip through the cracks” the second time.

On May 13, 1952, the United States of America exercised eminent domain to purchase approximately 50 acres of bottomland from Dad for the construction of Bull Shoals Reservoir and Beaver Creek Park.  At this point, Dad and Granddad Arter switched from farming to operating a floating bait shop and enclosed fishing dock on the new lake.  They initially sub-leased from Claude Johnson and later from Frank Bartholomew.  Granddad Arter would open the dock in the morning and Dad would work the evening shift.  Having survived the Depression and WWII, Granddad and Dad were shocked that city people would pay good money to buy bait and fish in an enclosed, heated dock.

Dad was gifted at telling fish stories in an entertaining and engaging manner.  One of his favorite stories began by asking about the largest catfish anyone had ever caught, seen, or even heard about.  Invariably, someone would mention that scuba divers had observed catfish the size of cows while inspecting one of the hydroelectric dams on the White River.  With this lead, Dad would begin, “Those stories are true.  Several years ago, I was noodling catfish above Powersite Dam in Lake Taneycomo when my hand entered the cavernous mouth of the largest catfish I have ever encountered.  My arm was nearly up to my elbow when my hand reached the creature’s gills.  As I grasped its gills, the huge fish clamped down on my arm.  At this point I realized the fish was too large for me to handle.  But it was too late as the fish began swimming downstream toward the water flowing over Powersite Dam . . . with me in tow.  Since escape was impossible and going over the dam would be certain death, I turned and waved farewell to my family and friends on the shoreline with my free arm.”  At this point, Dad would simply stop the story and wait until someone asked the inevitable, “What happened?”  Without missing a beat, Dad would continue, “When the fish saw my arm waving farewell, it thought I was signaling a left turn.  Making a sharp left, it ran aground in Empire Park a mere 50 yards above the dam.”  With a twinkle in his eye, Dad would add, “I sure am glad that fish knew his traffic signals”.

Following Granddad Arter’s passing in 1961, Uncle Dale left construction (having built flood control dams at Table Rock and West Virginia and worked on the Saint Lawrence Seaway in Niagara Falls) to stay in Taney County and work on the boat dock.  In May 1965, Dad and Dale purchased the main portion of Beaver Creek Boat Dock from Frank Bartholomew and in 1966 the remaining docks from Virgil McPherson.  Mom and Dad and Uncle Dale and Aunt Maxine were nearly perfect business partners – Dale was a man of action, Dad was a man of planning; Dale and Maxine brought business sense, Mom and Dad brought relationship building.  Everyone in the family worked in the business.  Steve and I gained invaluable business experience that helped us throughout our corporate careers.  I was so shy growing up that I would hide behind the oak trees in our yard when cars drove past, but after working on the boat dock and asking a million total strangers, “Can I help you?”, the shyness disappeared.  Without Dale, Maxine and their family, we might never have survived and our lives would certainly have been less without them.

In the late 1960s or early 1970s, the Corps of Engineers required Dad and Dale to replace all 55-gallon oil drums with styrofoam flotation.  We might never have completed this arduous task without the help of Skip and Bob Kieffer.  The Kieffer boys had moved from Chicago to Forsyth briefly in the mid-1960s before going back to Chicago.  Each summer, they would come down and spend time with us.  Skip and Bob were stout, cornfed, midwestern boys that were not afraid of work. We spent the summer fishing, swimming, waterskiing, and putting styrofoam drums under the boat docks. Dad loved the Kieffer boys – Skip and especially Bob.  He and Bob were kindred spirits with a shared love for spicy food.  One evening, Dad (who never cooked) and Bob decided they would make chili for supper.  As the chili simmered, they would sample the chili and one would shout, “A little more salt”, and the other would echo, “A little more pepper”.  Finally, Mom had enough and said the chili was done.  The six of us sat down and, with the aid of crackers and Pepsi, ate some of the hottest, and saltiest, chili ever served in Mom and Dad’s home.  For the remainder of the summer, as we were working, Dad would instruct, “A little more salt” and Bob would reply, “A little more pepper”.  These simple phrases captured Dad’s outlook on working at the boat dock – a little more effort and a little more time, and any task could be accomplished.