SYCAMORE LOG CHURCH

North and West of Branson Missouri along the hilly curving back-roads of the beautiful Ozarks you will find the Sycamore Log Church established in 1933 and from all indications still having services today.

 Drip Gasoline

January 18, 2021

 

It has finally come time for me to confess. I have carried this burden for so long and now my conscience will no longer be quiet. Surely, I believe the statue of limitations has, had to run out after all this time. So at least now its safe for me tell this tale.

You see I am a criminal. My life of crime began when I was very young and my Father and Mother were the ones who led me astray. I only helped break the law two maybe three times, and to be truthful it was a lot of fun. Even though now its been sixty years and you know how memories go, what follows below is my best recollections of my crime.

In the darkness of the night this far out in the country it was unlikely anyone would notice, but Dad turned the headlights off as he drove over the cattle guard into the field and we traveled down the dirt path that wasn't much more than a cow trail. It was a clear cold winter night, the full moon and stars shined down on the frosty pasture making the grass shimmer and glow.

 Pulling up as close to the pump-jack as he could Dad and I took the five gallon cans from the trunk of the car and carried them to the drip line. As we walked across the grass you could hear it crunching with each step we took while the North wind was blowing so cold it was chilling me to the bone. I wondered who up North had opened up those gates and let that freezing wind blow through. Oh how I wished I was back in the car with Mom the heater turned on high keeping her warm.

 Putting the gas can under the condensate valve Dad opened the line and began draining the White gas into the can. As he was doing so he said “Son be careful carrying them cans back to the car any old spark can cause this gas to explode. I looked at him squatting next to the line one hand on the valve while the other hand held his Lucky Strike cigarette. I nodded my understanding and really hoped the smell off the drip gas wouldn’t strike the spark on that cigarette.

We filled up four cans of Drip that night about twenty gallons all told. Dad and I stored three of the cans in an Lean-to shed out back of the house. The fourth can Dad topped off the tank on his car.

 It seemed like I had just went to sleep when the sound of an explosion sent me straight up in bed and then a series of more explosions sounded. I didn’t know what dynamite sounded like, but those explosions were at least as loud as the cherry bombs I set off on the fourth of July.

 In my sleep befuddled mind fear entered my heart and made it race. I just knew the lean-to shed had exploded and a wall of white gas flames were going to burn down the house. I was frozen in place, wrapped up in the bed covers. there was no way I could run, no way I could get loose, so I did the next best thing, I screamed at the top of my lungs “Momma, Momma, Mommmma!” And here she came running saying Jim, Jim, Jim! what’s the matter. Or you having a nightmare? I said Momma didn’t you hear those explosions? That White Gas has done blown up and the house is going to catch on fire! We gotta run Momma! We gotta save ourselves!

Well she stood there looking down at me, trying hard not to laugh, but there was no way she could hide that smile on her face as I was still trying to unravel those bed covers. She said, now Jim don’t be scared that drip gas didn’t blow up and the house isn't on fire. What you heard was your Daddy starting his car and going to work. That old Chevrolet didn’t care for the drip not a bit and it started backfiring, and then she busted out laughing. You should of seen the white smoke coming out the tailpipe. If you didn’t know better you would of thought that old car had caught on fire.

Gosh it seemed we’d never run out of that drip gas every morning when Dad went to work the old Chevy would cough and backfire so loud it made the windows rattle in the old house and with all the white smoke coming out of the tailpipe it reminded me of one of them Sherlock Holmes movies we watched on channel four Saturday nights everything was always foggy in those movies. In the evenings just like the second hand on a clock you knew Dad was getting close to home because you could hear the car hitting and missing on those six cylinders and with the wind just right the smell from the drip was the foulest of odors that lingered for a while after we were all in the house eating supper.

Like I said I didn’t think we would ever get those cans empty because all three of us were ready to go drip hunting again.           

 

The Thrill Of the Chase

January 14, 2021

When I first heard of Forrest Fenn’s poem and his hidden treasure, my thoughts took me back fifty years. My mom through her work became acquainted with a new employee whom her and her family were treasure hunters. Hunting treasure when they had money, working when they didn't have money. They travelled across America living a vagabond life driving a Dodge van pulling a pickup bed trailer with a shell topper behind the van.

The lady whose name I seem to remember was Shirley explained to mom that with her tips working as a waitress and a couple of weeks on the payroll they would be heading to Texas looking for Spanish gold, but at the moment they didn't have the money to rent a camping site and did mom know of someone who would let them camp on their property until they could head to Texas. Since we lived in the country and had plenty of room, mom said they could camp on our place for a couple of weeks.

Back behind our house was a grove of Locust trees which offered shade from the summer sun making it a good camping site. I watched with curiosity as they unloaded their van and camper, cleaning an open area of sticks and vines and digging a fire pit. With all of this completed they finally pitched a tent large enough for the family to sleep in.

For the next two weeks mom and I would go out to the campsite each evening and listen to the Tall tales and adventures this family had experienced over the years. They told of visiting local libraries and historical societies to research records of any robberies or stories of hidden gold. In some locations they met up with like minded people and they would hunt together. Small tokens are the odd coin was all they ever admitted to finding, but their passion and joy of the hunt was infectious to a fifteen year old boy. Then on the night before they were to leave mom told her story of possible hidden loot or gold and strange markings and emblems she had seen on one of the farms she had lived on as a child.

Now fifty years to the present and having followed this treasure hunt off and on for close to ten years it has been confirmed by Mr. Fenn that his treasure has been found and the man who found the treasure does not want his name released.

Again my memory of those two weeks sitting around the campfire in the Locust grove comes back to me and the fire of my imagination is fueled with thoughts of that treasure hunting family could it have been the boy now a man or perhaps a grandson or great grandson who figured out Mr. Fenn's poem and found the treasure! My imagination says yes! And the father and mother who are still around, maybe camped out in grove of trees with the family sitting around the fire ring celebrating the hunt.

Thanks for the Treasure.