Two Pals on a Hilltop

by Audrey Smith Barclay

The daily trek through the woods to the high, bare pinnacle of rock overlooking the valley was the highlight of the day for nine-year-old Mike and Butch. The two had been inseparable companions ever since the huge, brown-and-white Collie had appeared at the Andersons' back door one rainy October night two years earlier, shivering with cold and half starved. He was little more than a half-grown puppy, but even then his enormous paws gave evidence of his size when he reached maturity.

Boy and dog grew together, each idolizing the other. Mike was an only child so, to him, the big dog had taken the place of another human being; he took him everywhere he went, confided all his secrets--in short, Butch almost assumed the role of Father Confessor. He was always waiting to escort Mike home from school, waiting with teeth and tongue bared in happy anticipation. The short side trip to "their" rock always made the journey home something to look forward to.

Tousle-haired Mike knew, aside from the beauty of the scene spread below them, there were all sorts of interesting things for a little boy and his dog to see. Sometimes a toad, disturbed from its reverie, hopped across the path before them; often a lizard or a terrapin, perhaps a snake, would be sunning itself on the warm rock.

There was one never-to-be-forgotten day they found the odd-looking snake stretched across the path. When gingerly attacked by Butch in an effort to frighten it away, the odd creature began to shrink in length while at the same time it grew broader and flatter. Mike and Butch watched it, bug-eyed, then backed away and left that one in full possession of their hilltop. They never saw the strange snake again.

The view from the big rock never failed to fascinate Mike. He spent hours lying spread-eagled, chin on folded arms, or sitting cross-legged, with an arm around his beloved pal, gazing across the valley. A highway wound in and out between the few farmhouses and fields and made its way to the hill on the opposite side, where it disappeared among the trees. The dreamy-eyed Mike looked after the few scattered cars as they sped along, wondering what was behind the horizon. Then, Butch, waiting patiently, would gaze wistfully up at the face of his little master as if he were saying, "Come on, Mike, please! Let's go see what's over there." And Mike always answered, "We will, Butch, some day we will!"

A Day Late for the 4th of July Festivities

Well, if I'd been paying attention yesterday, I'd have realized that the 4th of July was the perfect time to remember Audrey and Erna on the 95th anniversary of their wedding. That's right, they tied the knot in Springfield, Missouri on July 4, 1918, ninety-five years ago yesterday.

Here, I'll post their wedding-day photo again to make up for my tardiness:

It appears I also missed an opportunity yesterday to post another favorite photo that was taken on the 4th of July, this one from 1915:

(Remember to click on photos to enlarge them.)

That's Grandma Audrey standing on the wagon with her hand on her hip. A notation on the back of the photo reads: "July 4th, 1915 - Headed for picnic at 'Baptisin' Hole' on Spring River, Stotts City, Mo."

Let's turn that photo over:

Twenty-four people are identified here. Just in case someone is looking for information on any of these folks, I'll transcribe the names here so Internet search engines can find them:

On ground -- Mrs. Van Welsh -- Mrs. Fred Welsh

On seat -- Harve & Minnie Brower, Baby Velma

In tree -- Henry Schillinger

Below him -- Webster Welsh

Second row -- Mr. Schillinger, Audrey Smith, Janie Schillinger, Minnie Schillinger, Lena Welsh

First row -- Erma, Etta, Geneva Brower, Clieve Galloway

Top row -- Abb & Minnie Galloway, Former Dessie Schillinger and husband

On ground in rear -- Fred Welsh, Emery Welsh, Van Welsh

H. Brower's team & wagon

So, I've done a little research today to find out who these people were who planned to picnic at the "Baptisin' Hole" on that long-ago 4th of July. The Browers, of course, were Audrey's family. Minnie and Harve were her mother and stepfather; Velma, Erma, Etta and Geneva were her half-sisters. Audrey was 14, almost 15, in this photo.

Van Welsh was the white-bearded man behind the horses (or were they mules?) in the photo. His full name was Martin V. "Van Buren" Welsh, and he was a Union soldier during the Civil War. According to census records, he would have been 75 years old at the time of the photo. Van's first wife, Lorena, died in 1888. Nine years later he married his second wife, Annie (Anna, pictured standing at left on the ground), who was Harve Brower's widowed mother. I couldn't confirm the family connection of Mr. and Mrs. Fred Welsh, but Webster (shown peeking over the shoulder of the man next to Audrey) and Lena were children of Van and Annie. Webster was 14, born in the same month and year as Audrey. He died only three years and 20 days after this picnic; I don't know why.

I found Absolam H. "Abb" Galloway in a 1905 Joplin, Missouri City Directory. He was a miner, as was Harve Brower, so perhaps they knew each other that way. By the time of the 1915 picnic, Abb was married. He and his wife, another Minnie, had a son named Clieve, and the whole family lived in Stotts City.

The Schillingers were a real puzzle, but I finally tracked them down through young Henry Schillinger (the shadowy figure barely visible in the tree at the far left of the photo). The man identified as "Mr. Schillinger" (whom Audrey just missed poking with her elbow) was Andrew A. Schillinger, a widower. His wife, the former Margaret J. Arter, had died four years earlier. Dessie, Janie, Henry, Minnie -- and a couple of other kids who didn't go to the picnic -- were their children. Dessie's unidentified husband's name was James Allison Jay. Even after finding all these Schillingers online, I still can't figure out their connection to the Browers, the Welshes, and/or the Galloways, nor can I find any other reason for so many Schillingers to be in Stotts City for a 4th of July celebration. All the records I could find, before and after 1915, showed the Schillingers living in Kansas. Nevertheless, there they were in Stotts City on that day, and I'm certain it didn't cross any of their minds then that some old woman in Louisiana would be sticking her nose into their business 98 years later.

The Ultimatum

by Audrey L. Barclay

Bill Glover came leaping down the stairs, taking the steps two at a time until he looked up and saw his mother watching him, a speculative gleam in her eye. With only one more bounce to reach bottom, he stopped, laid the box of candy he carried on the newel post, and carefully readjusted his tie before sedately taking the remaining two steps.

He knew from her expression that his mother had something on her mind, but was hardly prepared for what was to follow. Finally, in sternest don't-you-lie-to-me tone of voice, Mrs. Glover asked her handsome, dark-haired son, "Where are you going all dressed up, Bill?"

Though it was but the middle of the week, Bill was dressed in his Sunday best for his date with the recently rediscovered playmate of his toddler days, Velma Denny. He knew his mother disapproved of Velma--she'd already expressed her disapproval as soon as she had learned Bill was seeing her. Nevertheless, he told her, "I'm going to see Velma."

Letting the paper she'd been reading fall to the floor beside her, she asked, "What, again?"

Considering a moment, Bill replied, "Yes, I am."

The words were spoken calmly, but inside the young man's heart was suddenly pounding wildly. The time had come, he knew, to declare his independence.

"Don't do it, Bill ... "

Bill interrupted, "And why not, may I ask?"

He had tried to be patient and respectful, but Mrs. Glover was beyond being reasonable. Her temper flared and she fairly shouted, "Because you know I don't like her!"

Bill countered with a flippant "So what?"

The angry woman seemed to have forgotten that her son was no longer a little boy; he was a man, with all the rights and privileges thereof. She knew she could no longer dominate him, yet she had to try once more. She began to sputter, "Bill Glover, don't you speak to me like that!"

Bill asked, "Mom, why don't you like Velma?"

The spiteful reply shocked him. "Because she's not good enough for you, that's why!"

"And I say she is." Bill remembered when once the two families had been next-door neighbors. He vaguely remembered how he had helped his tiny playmate learn to walk, helping her to hr feet when she lost her balance and fell, wiping dirt and ears from her baby cheeks. Then his father, an insurance salesman, had been promoted to a higher position in the company and Mrs. Glover had insisted they move to a location more in keeping with their new prestige. By stretching mightily to hang onto the higher rung in the ladder of success they had grown away from the old friends.

After a moment of speculation, Bill told his mother, "I happen to think she is. She's a lovely person."

Her voice rising another octave in her fury, the angry woman shouted, "She is not, and you're not to see her anymore!"

"If you'd only tell me why not ... " began Bill.

The only answer he got was a repetition of the statement that Velma wasn't good enough for him, to which Bill replied, "She is, and I'm going to marry her, if she'll have me."

Brushing his dark hair back from his smoky blue eyes now gleaming with bitterness in his pale face, Bill picked up the box of chocolates from the newel post and strode toward the door. He wanted only to put an end to the ugly scene.

Mrs. Glover, seeing her son about to shed his shackles, once more screamed to his departing back, "Don't you argue with me! I'm your mother."

Reaching the door, Bill turned the knob, then, speaking over his shoulder, he said, "I'm a man now, Mother, and old enough to make my own decisions."

Then, seeing Bill step through the open door, she issued her ultimatum: "If you go to see that girl again, don't bother coming back to this house."

Bill looked back at his mother for a long moment, unable to believe he'd heard the words she'd spoken. Then, raising his dark head high, he said, "Okay. If that's the way you want it. I'm sorry you feel as you do. I'll send for my things." He closed the door softly behind him and never knew about the bitter tears that drenched the cheeks of his heartbroken mother as she crumpled to the floor, as yet too proud to acknowledge her mistake.

Our Doctor, Our Friend

by Audrey Barclay

Dr. Arthur Knabb is one of the noblest men I have ever met and one who has spent all of his adult life serving humanity right here in our own city. The only time he wasn't available was during World War I when he was serving his country overseas.

All too often we fail to express our appreciation for such services until it is too late -- then we eulogize them to the skies. I'd like to pay my respects publicly, while he is yet around to receive them. I'm sure there are many who will join me in this tribute.

I doubt if there are many physicians who can equal, much less surpass, the record Dr. Knabb holds in our family. He has, since I first met him in the home of  relative in 1916, attended five generations of us. I had hoped, when our eldest granddaughter came for a visit a few years ago, that her infant son would be "ripe" for a routine shot of some sort thus making a sixth generation. However, he'd had his quota so it was not to be.

Dr. Arthur was attending my grandparents, Mr. and Mrs. Z.T. West, when my family came to Springfield. So my parents, Mr. and Mrs. H. H. Brower, automatically adopted him as their physician. It was not until he returned from the service, in 1919, barely in time to attend me when the first of our nine children arrived, that I, too, became a regular patient -- and I do mean "regular." He attended me at the birth of seven of our nine children -- including a pair of twin boys. We missed connections, timewise, for the other two. After all, he did have a FEW other patients.

Our children grew up idolizing our Dr. Arthur, and on an occasion or two, when it was necessary to call on another doctor for a small emergency, it was somewhat embarrassing. Such as the time, for instance, when one of the boys had a badly infected "boil" on his arm, and his daddy took him to another doctor. After a quick look, the doctor picked up a small instrument, turned to the child and announced, "That's got to be lanced." To the father's consternation, young nine-year-old Paul backed off and said: "Oh, no you don't! Dr. Arthur can, but you can't."

Our children, of course, made the fourth generation, and when they were grown and starting families of their own, they, too, relied on the faithful doctor until he had delivered several of the fifth generation. Then, time and circumstances (mostly when they began to scatter during World War II) broke the chain so far as our children were concerned, although they still love and respect him.

I could write a book about the experiences we shared, some amusing, others heartbreaking. Of the former, one that stands out most vividly in my mind is the time I called the doctor to our home because of the illness of one of the other children and asked him to examine another of the boys, who had a bad speech impediment -- when he spoke at all, which was not often. We were quite distressed, thinking the child was tongue-tied, and that he must go through life with the problem. Then, I read somewhere that the condition could be corrected, so I thought it a good time to ask advice on the matter. Dr. Arthur carefully examined the child, asking a few pertinent questions, then turned to me with a sly grin and said, "No, he's not tongue-tied. His tongue is as loose as a woman's." He ducked away in an exaggerated way as if he expected me to start swinging. His wonderful sense of humor is not the least of his qualities. He was filled with compassion and pity and never too busy to offer them when the occasion called for it, nor to offer a prayer beside the bedside of a dying man.

Some of our experiences are too heartbreaking to dwell on, but some of the lesser ones I can now recall with a sense of amazement. I remember when the twins were about six months old and they, (Nos. 6 and 7), together with the son just older, got whooping cough. Two weeks later the entire seven of them also contracted measles! Dr. Arthur came every day for two weeks or more and gave shots to the three babies to avoid the possibility of pneumonia. We didn't have all the "miracle" drugs then that are now so common.

A few years later, after the last of our nine was two or three years old, (I suppose the Barclays must have started this population explosion about which there is so much discussion now), the whole tribe -- with the exception of the middle child -- came down with the mumps. Talk about a SWELL time! Fortunately, there were no ill after-effects, and we can laugh about it now!

The story would not be complete without a brief resume of the other side of the picture.

As everyone knows, the Knabbs were a family of doctors. I claim the honor of having been attended, at various times, by three generations of them. It began shortly after my marriage in 1918, during the epidemic of influenza that was then sweeping the continent. It was necessary that I call a doctor, and, since Dr. Arthur was in service, his father, Dr. Enoch Knabb, was called to attend me, making the first generation of them to serve me. Then, [when] Dr. Arthur suffered a heart attack a few years ago and was out of service for a time, I found it necessary to consult a physician on a serious matter so, of course, I went to his son, Dr. Kenneth, who has attended me ever since, making three generations of the family to have been my personal physician -- and friend, I trust.

Now it seems but right and proper that I pay my tribute to a real gentleman:  Thank you, and God bless you, Dr. Arthur Knabb, for your kindness, courtesy and great Christian heart. I wish there were more like you!

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Editor's Note: The above article is one that Grandma did get published. Click on the image below to see how her words looked in newsprint.

Audrey's Angels

Yesterday we received the sad news that Olan Barclay passed away suddenly over the weekend. Olan was the son of Audrey and Erna Barclay.

Olan Barclay in Springfield, Missouri - July 1996.

Olan's twin brother, Alan, was the first of Audrey and Erna's children to follow his parents to the great hereafter, which he did in January 1996:

Alan Barclay in Springfield, Missouri - December 1948.

(No more recent photo available.)

The next of the nine Barclay siblings to join them was my own father, Paul, in September 1997:

Paul Barclay in Hanford, California - August 1997

It was eight and a half years before we lost another one. That time it was Wayne in February 2006:

Wayne Barclay in Springfield, Missouri - July 1996

In November 2011 the eldest of Audrey and Erna's children, Nina Barclay Beatie, left this earth to join her parents and three of her brothers:

Nina Barclay Beatie in Springfield, Missouri - July 1996

We miss all of these people and will remember them always, but today it's Olan's wife and children who are foremost in our thoughts. To them we extend our love and our deepest condolences.

We will hold you in our hearts.

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P.S. Sorry if this is an inappropriate place to say this, but take a second look at the picture of Alan. When I was an adolescent, I was excited that he was related to me. I thought he could pass for a third Everly Brother.

Notes About Childhood Events

Editor's Note No. 1:
Yesterday, after I finished transcribing Grandma Audrey's essay about the term "Senior Citizen," I turned the stapled pages over and found the following notes she'd written on the back of the last page. There was a list included in those notes, and many of the items on it had been crossed out. 

Not to get too technical, but the blog template I'm using for Audrey's Ambition doesn't accept the standard html code that would let me strike through the same words Grandma (I assume) did, so I've compensated for that by making those words red. 

Anyway, here's what she wrote:

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by Audrey Barclay

I lay awake a few nights ago recalling, in my mind's eye, other mem other events of my life in Stotts City, many of which I hadn't tho't [about] for years. Among them were these: Burning baby, funeral flowers, music lessons, scholarship, colt, cleaning cisterns, miner and the measles, country school. Walking typhoid -- 1st quilt top. Halley's Comet, inferiority complex -- Denver, Chester -- Halloween -- Who's what, and why in Mo. -- church activities, political -- schoolteachers. WW1 -- R.R. strike. WW2 -- dolls -- Hallowe'en in S. City. Grandma's knitting, caskets & wagon wheels -- strawberry crates. Writing -- Plays & other programs. K.K.s in 1920s -- Lillard fire -- Cherry St. farm. Division St. home. Mrs. Sears.

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Editor's Note No. 2:
I wonder if Grandma crossed off those topics after she wrote about them. If so, I wonder what happened to those stories. The topics intrigued me, so, in the absence of Grandma's version of events, I went looking to see what I could find on the Internet:

• Click here, then scroll down the page to the "History" section and read about Stotts City, Missouri, where Grandma Audrey grew up.
• It's probably not the exact "walking typhoid" story Grandma would have told, but Typhoid Mary was big news in 1908 when Grandma was a girl. Click here to find out more about Mary Mallon.
• Halley's Comet made a rare appearance in 1910. Click here to learn why Grandma might have thought this would make a good story.
• I Googled "wwi stotts city missouri" and was rewarded with a fascinating article about a World War I medal winner who lived in Stotts City at the same time Grandma did. His name was Charles D. Barger. Click here to read about him.

Okay, folks, that ought to keep you busy for a while.

From the National Federation of Guilt Dispensation, A. Barclay, Chairperson

Untitled Essay

by Audrey Barclay

Senior Citizens. I don't think I care much for the appellation, even tho' I fall in that category myself. It's only a sop to ease guilty consciences of those who claim it is meant to add more dignity to those who have grown old, but to whom aged parents--perhaps--or others have become a drag on their own activities, a ball-and-chain.

Naturally, age has a way of slowing down physical activities, but age alone does not dim the mind; often mental faculties become sharper with age if not affected by disease. And who is to say exactly when an individual becomes a "Senior Citizen"? Is it when he becomes eligible for retirement for his work, a specific age, but continues to work for pay, or the lady who becomes widowed a few years before she is old enough for Social Security or a widow's pension based on her husband's retirement plan? Just when?

I've known many who, age-wise, have many years to go before retirement, yet their actions would indicate they must be eighty if they're a day. I also know any number of people who have lived long beyond the Biblical three-score years and ten who are as active and alert as anyone. And intriguing company for the stories of the past they sometimes relate. I'm thinking now of a pair of sisters whom I shall call Julia and Donna. Both are in their eighties, Donna being eighty-eight. They are the darlings of our church. Donna has had to yield largely to illness, altho' she does get out on special occasions, and frequently calls some of us just to visit via telephone. Julia is spry as the proverbial cricket and full of fun and good humor. She seldom misses being in her place in church on Sunday. It's true they had a heritage of longevity. Their mother celebrated her 109th birthday. She was 102 when she walked down the aisle to present herself for membership in our church after moving into our community.

Only a month ago a man I've known nearly 60 years suffered a broken leg, developed pneumonia, and died. He was a physician and had continued practicing until 6 mos. previously. He was 85 years old. A Senior Citizen? You bet! But not in the sense in which the designation is generally used.

Last night a long-time friend called me for some assistance. She is nearing 76, but still very active in her church. She is in the process of preparing a program for a special service and, knowing my interest in old songs, she tho't I might help her with one she wished to use in her program. (Fortunately, I could.)

From my own observation I'd say there are about as many aches and pains attacking the younger generations as we oldsters have to contend with, and they groan just as loudly and long. I contend a pain is a pain, whomever--and wherever--it hurts, so why get all up-tight if an old person complains?

Yes, I'm definitely opposed to being categorized as a "Senior Citizen," when I'm just a lonely old woman who sometimes yearns for an evening--or afternoon--of attention--well, entertainment, if you will--from someone of my many offspring. I enjoy games as much as the next fellow, I enjoy matching wits with younger people, but do I ever get the chance?

They talk about evenings of games with friends, but when I'm invited into one of the homes simply because it's time to fulfill a parental obligation--huh uh. I'm made to realize I'm only that ball-and-chain, to be cast aside at the earliest possible moment. I suppose that's why it gags me to be called a "Senior Citizen." Why not just stick to the old way and call us "old people"?

The various clubs that have been formed for our benefit are only to keep us out of the way of younger people, like quieting an infant with a rattle or a teething ring. It eases consciences and makes those promoting the project feel very proud of their strategy. But how many are there who really reap any benefits from such clubs? There are far more who, like myself, are unable to participate in such activities. Transportation is my big problem, as I'm sure it must be of others. I couldn't support a car on my meager income, nor can I afford taxi fare. And it's too far to walk!

No doubt I'd enjoy a session with one of the club groups now and then, but there are other activities I'd like to attend, if only someone cared enough to accompany me two or three evenings a year. There are concerts and plays, but I dare not go out alone at night.

The only recreation I have is TV, and I never turn that on during the day. I sit alone in the evenings with one eye on the set and play solitaire until I'm bored stiff. I like to read, but visual problems prevent much of that.

Senior Citizens? Bah! Sour grapes? Perhaps. But people, a small amount of attention--and please, for love's sweet sake rather than because it's a duty--might someday pay big dividends when you become an OLD man or woman yourself. As you surely will, if you live long enough.

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Editor's Note: Please know that I meant no disrespect when I titled this post. It's just that all of Grandma Audrey's writings we've read up until now (with the exception of "The Doll Story") have shown the lighter, happier side of her personality. Not to discount Grandma's complaints in this essay (she made some good points), but the peevishness of it just tickles me. I realize I was only 16 the last time I saw her, but it feels so darn good to finally, finally read something she wrote that reflects a different side of her personality I remember. Grandma was a real person, with real feelings, and, as I recall, she didn't hesitate to share them. If this is a place where we're all going to get to know her better through her own words, let's appreciate her for who she really was--warts and all.

I also think Grandma's sense of humor was probably sharp enough that she could take a joke, so unless you tell me I'm wrong about that (and maybe even if you do), I'll keep that smart-alecky title and up the ante a little bit: Click here to listen to the song that began to play in the back of my mind about midway through this essay.

And, yes--before you feel the need to point it out to me--I know:  I'm already 70, and I might one day eat these words.