THE RAPE OF
HOWELL AND HAMBURG, MISSOURI
(An American Tragedy)
by
Donald
K. Muschany
COPYRIGHT © 1978 BY DONALD K.
MUSCHANY. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
[Letter 1, undated]
Dear Cousin Norman:
Who am I? Don’t get excited, I’ll explain.
Over the last two decades or so, it has
become the “in” thing to ask that question. I’ve never understood why, but the
young folks were busy trying “to relate to something or someone.” They said
they were seeking “their own identity.”
Now, I’ve never even had to look at my
driver’s license to know who I am; I only look at the bills as they come in and
there’s my “identity.” The IRS knows who I am, as does the FTC, the CIO, the
AFL, and Channel Nine.
If I am wrong (what a terrible thing for a
father to say), then I must seek the eternal truth regarding “who my children
are.”
At any rate, for years I have been an
antiquarian, without knowing it, and with no thought to worldly gain on my
hobby, just curiosity. Now I find that I have a mini-Congressional library on
Muschany memorabilia, wherein to search for identities or people to relate to,
or for my progeny to do so. And who better than relations?
Cousin, you and I have a last name which
presents a wonderful problem. When the name is heard, it conjures up the idea
of “Irish,” but when it is read, it declares loudly and proudly, “German.”
Now, this is wonderful because the Clan
Muschany is from Baden, Germany, but somewhere a leprechaun paid them a visit,
leaving traces of Irish wit, along with that staunch German fortitude. This has
been a happy amalgam and has led to a lively blood line. Long may its
corpuscles wave.
So far, so good with our forbears. These
early Mushanies (as the name was spelled in Germany) were people I like; not
rich, nor world famous, but happy, hardworking folks who really enjoyed life.
In the very distant future, I hope someone writes the same epitaph for
your obedient servant. These folks were successful, in my judgment, and I hope
that my children and their children emulate them.
Furthermore, I want my children to share
in the marvelous semi-wilderness of my own childhood. As I recall, William
Faulkner warned us that “man is snuffing out the wilderness and urbanity will
consume him.” Howell and environs were victims of man’s inhumanity to man:
World War II, the ultimate act of “snuffing out.” The area is still rich in my
memory and I’d love to exhume this phase of my life to show the children what
made the Muschany clock tick.
Norm, if this is corny, let them burn me
at the stake (medium rare).
And still further, I have always had the
idea that History should be taught backwards, in that we have a fairly good
understanding of today’s happenings; but do we know what caused them to be? I
hope to take the present and weave a most pleasant link to the past, and
without taking too much poetic license.
Being a funeral director I am constantly
running into these kind of questions. Who is related to whom? Who likes whom?
Who will ride in the family car or as the French say, “en famille”? It is
certain that families will surface and seek identities at some time or other. I
want to know mine better so that my heirs, et al, won’t have to ask that
super-dumb question, “Who am I?”
In reciting the family decalogue, I am
going to take the Germanic approach of Father first, with my dear wife’s
approval (or without). Ha, I’m feeling power drunk already! (Remember the old
story: an hour after you eat a German meal, you feel hungry for power?)
Well, cousin, this is the prelude. I must
get back to my mini-library, get a new quill for my trusty pen, and cause history
to erupt.
More later from your archivist cousin,
[signed:
Don K.]
