THE RAPE OF
HOWELL AND HAMBURG, MISSOURI
(An American Tragedy)
by
Donald
K. Muschany
COPYRIGHT © 1978 BY DONALD K. MUSCHANY. ALL
RIGHTS RESERVED.
[Letter 5]
January
12, 1977
Dear Cousin:
Here, as I take my solitary
rounds
Amidst thy tangling walks and
ruined grounds,
And, many a year elapsed,
return to view
Where once the cottage stood,
the hawthorn grew,
Remembrance wakes with all her
busy train,
Swells at my breast, and turns the past
to pain. [1]
I wish that I could have said these
words—have written them, moreover. But since I did not, I must settle for their
being the theme for these family studies. As I go through the many documents,
data, and old letters, I drop into a reverie very easily, and my mind darts
from the early days of Howell through our childhood and schoolboy eras, but I
always stop short of the fateful year of 1940. Somehow, I seem to blot that
period from my memory, though I know it did exist. Nature has a marvelous way
of half-erasing unpleasantries from our minds, doesn’t she?
I am at present going over the early days
of my father, Morris, and I grin as I am doing so. I have a mental picture of
Tom Sawyer or Penrod Schofield, only with less idle time on his hands. I am
inclined to transpose my dad and yours with you and me, if you follow me,
although they most certainly earned their daily bread the hard way as compared
to our modus vivendi. (I secretly hope that our children get the same picture.)
Every year, I have an early Christmas,
December 21st, as this was the day of my father’s birth in 1890. I celebrate
that day for obvious reasons, because if that fine man had not appeared, there
would have been no chance for me. From your vantage point, you must agree.
Though you and I had some modern
conveniences not enjoyed by our fathers, they seemed to run the same gamut of
boyhood as we. While we had the modern news media to inform us, and to enhance
our curiosity, they had the wonderful facility of boy’s imaginations. It is
like the difference between our young days of wonderment in the magic of radio,
and our kid’s television upbringing. With radio we had to imagine; with T.V.,
there it is in front of you. More’s the pity. Especially in these last fifteen
traumatic years, I believe children have had to take giant steps into adulthood
rather than the slow gait of our youths.
It was not strictly a “frontier” type
scenario our dads followed. True, the outdoors provided the set, but the actors
ad libbed their fun. If they wanted to hunt, they didn’t refer to a calendar.
The same was true of fishing, or trapping for extra money. They obeyed the laws
of nature and fair play. They knew what an endangered species was without being
told.
And the “rural Olympics” went on and on.
Whenever boys got together, someone would say that he could jump farther, or
higher than the rest. One would say he could spit so far and would bet a pet
frog on his confidence. Who could “rassle” best was going on every day with a
constant turnover in champs. Running for speed or for distance usually gave the
more slender boys a chance to excel, so that everyone had a “thing” he could do
better than someone else. This certainly made for harmony and inexpensive
pastime.
As you know, my father loved all sports,
especially baseball. It made little difference if he were coaching boys or
girls. He coached several girl softball teams which won county championships.
He really was proud of those teams, and had some of the best players that could
be found in the State of Missouri.
Uncle Karl Muschany told me they were
entering the church yard one Sunday morn when they heard a gunshot. It was the
minister starting a pre-service horse race. Sounds better than Bingo to me, eh?
Further, every now and then, a boy would
be found practicing his specialty in some solitary spot. Or he would be working
on some other boy’s “thing” in order to spring a big surprise on the guys at
the next “Olympiad.” This may have been the sort of present-day coaches’
delights, hard and long practices.
In our area, boys and girls were not
taught to swim. They were taught to respect the dangers of the water and to
survive. You had respect for the Missouri River, or you were its victim. In
fact, the old swimmin’ hole was kind of a communal bath tub to kind of “wash
the country off you,” and, if you recall, this continued up in our teens, in
the Dardenne Creek and the “Hollow” swimming hole. In Dad’s youthful time, the
feet were given a good cleaning every night, especially in the barefoot days of
summer. (Doc, I think of that when I am gingerly making my way across a lovely
beach. I remember my barefoot days, but time does make a difference.) Different
strokes for different folks at different ages.
You and I were raised under the umbrella
of the largest shoemaking city in the world, St. Louis. I saw in the Muschany
Brothers Store Ledger where Karl paid $2.50 for a pair of shoes for Vera, his
wife. Of course, this was in 1934. Mr. and Mrs. William Kaut, a Brown Shoe
executive, built his dream home in “The Hollow,” which was formerly owned by
Calvin Castlio.
Our dads were lucky to have a teacher for
a father, though they probably thought differently from time to time. Either
directly or by osmosis, they realized that obtaining knowledge had its reward
and it also was the key to progress and success. Needless to say, common sense
played a real part in achieving success. Howell was an outstanding community as
far as educated people were concerned. There are teacher validations from that
area as early as 1876, before dad was born. They had Howell Institute, which
was as good for them as good old Howell High was for us. The University of
Missouri Alumni list was packed with Howellites, especially doctors and
teachers.
Our teacher-granddad did farm a very small
parcel of land solely for food and preservables. Six mouths to feed on a
teacher’s salary demanded sheer magic or a good garden. I think it was here
that your dad and mine learned a fine set of values: The Lord Giveth and The
Lord Taketh Away. Nature and the forms of weather kept you praying constantly
for necessities, not luxuries. I am sorry to say that the reverse is more
prevalent today. I think there is an eternal lesson in any form of tilling the
soil for survival, and the sooner we revive that principle the better.
Surpluses rarely instill appreciation. Why should we fear the hydrogen bomb and
ignore the philosophy of nature? As an old ad used to point out, ‘‘Nature in
the raw is seldom mild.”
In genetics, we learn that we inherit
certain characteristics; in sociology, we are told about the advantages or
disadvantages of our environment. You and I were winners in both cases. May our
children be as fortunate.
Well, the Muschany brothers grew in age,
size, and in the community in that they became the owners of the small town
Mecca, The General Store. Besides having all the needs of man or beast, this
emporium was the seat of learning. Not book learning, you understand, but REAL
learning like Democrats or Republicans, War or Peace, Gold or Silver, Wheat or
Oats, and just plain old humor. Jokes were passed along from the dry goods
drummer or the tobacco man or the shoe salesman, with the racier ones being
told in the warehouse room. According to today’s standards, these would be told
in the Romper Room. The men gathered here in droves, to sit by the stove in
winter, eat peanuts, and toss the shells at an empty plug tobacco box which
held a few ashes to catch any sputum that might come its way. Yes, they did
smoke and chew tobacco. In the summer, this occurred on the front porch of the
store. Young boys tried to grow up in a hurry by hanging around until told to
scoot, only to come back again until they finally reached man’s estate and
became regulars at the fountain of knowledge. The games of chess and checkers
were played regularly. To add real class to the Muschany Brothers’ store, the
second story of the building was the home of the Masonic Lodge. A more
prestigious tenant did not exist anywhere in the area. An added aura seemed to
adorn the already magnetic store.
Every Howellite remembers this general
store with its bunch of bananas in one window, lamps and dishes in another.
Strips of fly-paper dangled from the ceiling above the cabinets of J. P. Coats
white and black threads. In a fancier cabinet were kept the silk threads of
various colors and shades. (Simple . . . if it was a necessity, you went to
one; for a luxury, to the other.) Ribbons, lace, yard goods, all wearing
apparel had a regular spot, probably based on the buying habits of the rural
customers. The telephone—three longs and two shorts—was near the desk as was
the candy counter; inasmuch as most folks bought candy as they paid their bill.
Penny candies were the big thing, usually in bulk containers.
The kerosene or coal-oil pump stood in the
store to the right of the front door, but the storage tank was in the basement.
Many a time I’ve pumped a gallon or five gallons of the stuff at a mere 7¢ a
gallon.
On the porch of the store stood the
old-time gasoline pump. The first pump was a Bowser Pump and cost $175.00. It
was one of the first gasoline pumps in St. Charles County. The replacement was
another hand pump, and as I recall you could fill the glass basin, which held
twelve gallons. Each gallon was indicated by a metal mark. Of course, gas was
not too big an item because there was not too much motorized equipment around.
Muschany Brothers really operated a General Store. They, like Central Hardware,
had everything from soup to nuts or bolts or whatever. Memories! Yes, Roland
Boone, Roy Blize, Glen Yahn & Rudolph Ebert had their first jobs here.
It was not uncommon to see the three
brothers, Claude, Karl and my father, disappear into the warehouse. This meant
there was a problem brewing and through this meeting agreement would be reached
on how to settle it. I suppose you would call this the “Board Room” of today. I
never heard these three men have an argument in public. If there was
disagreement (which was seldom), it was settled through private conversation
with dignity, agreement, and no ill feelings.
The Muschany Brothers purchased the store
in 1916 from the Stewarts who had it in their family since 1883. That was the
year the old Kaiser was doing his thing in Europe, much to the chagrin of many
German-oriented Howell residents, who remembered a happier day in Baden,
Germany. Yet, many families had left Germany because they did not wish to serve
in the Kaiser’s Army. Again, it looked like young American boys were going to
be in the thick of it some day, and Howell would have its share of those. The
first man killed in World War I from St. Charles County was from our area, and
Pvt. Bowman’s monument stands in Thomas Howell Cemetery.
Uncle Karl has a supply of anecdotes about
the store. One day a man came in and mumbled something about a “. . . collar . .
.” Karl went to the warehouse and brought back two sizes of horse collars. “Not
horse,” yelled the man, “soft collar . . . SOFTE” (a soft collar on a shirt).
Another fellow wanted a stove part. When asked what number, the man didn’t
know. Next day he lugged the big stove to the store. However, the number was on
the lid.
Karl also talks about Rollins Jones, a big
black, who came every Saturday, blew a giant whistle, and ground corn for all.
Truly, this was free enterprise on the move.
In those days, getting to St. Charles or
St. Louis was more of a planned expedition than a store jaunt. As a result, the
store stayed on, and with something new being added . . . Morris Muschany,
Mortician. Necessity created flexibility in those days. Dad had been learning
this trade by helping in medical exams of the dead, and, as mentioned in an
earlier letter, earned as high as $2.50 per body, which was one heck of a lot
of money for the times. Enough, in fact, to cause him to think along these
lines.
On December 17th, 1919, Dad received a Degree
in Proficiency from Eckels College of Embalming and Sanitary Science and
graduated on May 21, 1921 from the St. Louis College of Embalming. On June 10,
1922, he received his Missouri License #2461. With the help and encouragement
of E. A. Keithly, O’Fallon, Missouri (another funeral director), Dad was in the
funeral business, serving the Howell Community. Through his endeavor and
ability, he established additional funeral homes in Augusta, Missouri, New
Melle, Missouri, and Wentzville, Missouri. He became Coroner of St. Charles
County and served for four terms from 1948 to 1960. In his early days, he was a
Deputy Sheriff of St. Charles County from 1918 to 1920. He was a member of the
Auxiliary Patrol of the Missouri State Highway Patrol for many years, as well
as a member of the local draft board for some 20 years. Dad was a member of the
Wentzville Lodge #46 AF & AM, Scottish Rite, Moolah Temple Shrine,
Wentzville Chapter #37 O.E.S., Odd Fellows of America, and an honorary charter
member of the Wentzville Rotary Club. He was active throughout his life in the
Methodist Church and taught Sunday School. He always had a keen interest in
young people.
I am sure you remember my mother, but I
trust I can refresh your memory and tell you about her.
Nellie Mae Keithly was born in St. Charles
County, October 28, 1889. After finishing the old Howell Institute, she went to
Springfield, Missouri around 1909 and worked in a 5 & 10¢ Store. She
quickly discovered this was not for her so she came back to Howell then went to
the Warrenton Methodist School and then to Warrensburg Teachers’ College. Upon
graduation she taught at the Old Monroe Public School and later at the Hamburg
Public School. While there, she fell in love with my father and, after a
two-year romance, they were united in marriage on April 8, 1913 in the Howell
Methodist Church. My dad’s brother, Claude, and my mother’s sister, Beulah,
stood up (like bridesmaid and best man) for them. Their first home was where my
Grandfather Muschany had lived. Dad started farming. The soil was poor and new
land had to be cleared. I remember Dad talking about pulling stumps. It was a
rough life. Mother was a most likeable person and an excellent cook. Canning
vegetables, preserves, washing clothes, quilting, making soap, making dresses
and bonnets, visiting friends on Sunday and always attending church, preparing
and cooking meals, sometimes making cottage cheese hung in a pillow case on a
clothes line to drip-dry . . . these are but a few things I remember about mother.
Just a few days before I was to graduate
from Francis Howell High School, mother became ill. Dr. Ben Neubiser from St.
Charles came to our home and after a brief examination told my father and me
that mother had had a heart attack and probably would not live. On May 16,
1934, at the age of 44 years, 6 months and 18 days, Mother died. On Sunday May
20, 1934, the funeral was held in the Howell Methodist Church with burial in
the Thomas Howell Cemetery.
Norman, I’ll have to close for now. I’m getting
into our Grandfather’s material and will write you all I find. Very best
wishes, with the hope that you are enjoying these sorties into Howell as much
as I do.
[signed:
Don]
(the
local Herodotus)
[1]
Author unknown . . . taken from CROW'S NEST by Lilian Hayes Oliver.
