Blue Jay Soup, part 1

Author’s Note: What was to be an article, has now turned into a book (in progress).

Lord willing, in the coming months, I will be offering a condensed version for the newspapers; this is first of the series. Without dispute, men much more qualified than I have analyzed this subject at length, but I dare say few have shot at the target at which I aim. With that being said, I humbly release the first arrow of “Blue Jay Soup.”

Earl Arthur Paxton was born Dec. 30, 1923, and he lived on his farm of 400 acres just south of Mansfield, Mo.

On this particular day, it was late October, and the many shades of Autumn leaves were falling down from the trees in his yard. That is where we were standing, leaned up against a Farmall tractor. It was an old one – but not as old as Earl.

Well, what he shared with me, he remembered vividly – for he lived it; others did also.

“We lived quite a ways north of here” (I think he said Nebraska). “It was 1929, and dad knew something was wrong.”

Immediately, I envisioned an ol’ Bluetick hound – one that nothing got past – his nose up in the air with an ill wind blowing right in his face. Just stiff enough to make his ears flop a little, and him, a-squintin’ both eyes and a-whinin’. Yeah, trouble was comin’, and the old hound knew it.

Mr. Paxton paused for a moment, and stared at me, as if measurin’ me up to see if I was takin’ him serious. Then he proceeded.

“Dad called the auctioneer and told him he wanted to have a sale, but on one condition: Cash on the barrel head the day of the auction– no checks, for we were headed south after the sale.  Right here,” his finger pointing down at the ground.

He paused again before continuing.

“Dad’s suspicion was correct; we only made it half way to Mansfield when the banks closed and people all over the nation lost about all their savings.”

Then, like an old prophet, came a long stare from the frugal little man, who was wearing a belt tied around his coat with a broken zipper. He proceeded with caution.

“Folks think I am silly; even my family thinks so, but it’s getting ready to happen again. It has too, and people ain’t ready for it.”

It has too? Now just what did he mean by that? Given time, I hope to answer this question, but first I want to address that which is most dire: “People ain’t ready for it.”

An elder friend of mine, Norman Sigman, raised right here in this valley, shared with me that he was in his teens before he saw his first deer.

Another friend, Don Andrus, a long time dairyman south of Cabool, told me a similar story.

It was the old Weedy Anders place, the winter of  ’52, and Don was headed out to his trap line when a neighbor told him of a doe he spotted feeding under a persimmon tree. Don lit out like an Indian to track her down – not to kill her mind you, just to get to see her!

So where were all the deer? Well, most of them had been killed during the Great Depression.

The late Willie Piatt, born 1919 in the hills of Shannon County, shared that men had to hunt critters in the 30’s with dogs and axes, because “they couldn’t afford shells an’ the like of that!”

Couldn’t afford ammunition? No, many could not, and this poverty proceeded in the Ozarks well after the depression had officially ended.

Later, when money did begin to trickle, it was spent on essentials; items such as .22 ammunition, as opposed to what one could make on their own such as shoelaces, and door hinges. Shoelaces and door hinges?

Say, are any of you acquainted with Jay Deatherage of Pomona – craftsman, barber, gospel song writer and breeder of exotic poultry?  No? Well, you should be.

Born in ’43, he is a very interesting old timer who has not forgotten the past. A good friend, he and I were recently sitting on his porch visiting when he shared with me the following: “The depression had taken its toll, our people were poor, and I remember the men stretching and fleshing squirrel hides; they would rub a solution of water and ashes over the furs to make the hair come loose. They would then dry them and cut strips of rawhide for shoelaces. Also, the men would cut chunks out of an old tire and use them for door hinges.”

Jay proceeded.

“A man in the community owed my parents $3. As payment, he brought us an old Stevens single-shot .22 rifle with the front sight broken. Mother had a man fix it for me; the old gunsmith cut a dime in two and soldered it to the barrel for the new sight. Just a young boy, I helped keep the old folks in our community supplied with meat after that.”

Jay paused, spit over the porch railing, and looked down.

“People don’t understand what’s coming, Mike.”

A picture of health for 81 years young, Jay still digs dandelion root and gathers herbs for making medicinal teas and such; valuable knowledge handed down from folks who knew how to survive.

The late Theta Porter of Squires, Mo., Christian and friend, was born Feb. 23, 1928. Shortly before her passing, while visiting in her cafe, Theta shared with me the following: “Grandma and I would go for walks, she would gather greens of all sorts from the wild and place them in her basket, bring them home and prepare with a meal.”

Theta then looked at me with stern eyes that were full of good sense, leaned back in her chair, and replied, “Now, who does that today?”

Who could?

With great heaviness, I ponder the depth of so many admonitions; asking myself two questions. When the scurry of God’s nature warns of a coming bad winter, what is to be said of the man who owns no coat? Worse yet, what is to be said of the man who has not the ability to discern the scurry? (Jer. 8:7)

These uncomfortable truths reveal the spiritual condition of a nation. And these uncomfortable truths echo a man’s voice on a windy autumn day, “It’s getting ready to happen again, it has too, and people ain’t ready for it.”

But there is much more to this story, and Lord willing, I will share more in part 2. In the meantime, does anyone know how to pluck a blue jay?

Michael Everett Jones is a Texas County native, old fashioned historian and purveyor of traditional Christian values. Email ozarksgrandpajones@gmail.com.

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