The following story was written, probably in the 1980s, by Hope Carol Varner for the Missouri Women Writers Guild with the purpose of documenting a small part of Missouri history:

LIFE AT THE OZARK HOMESTEAD

          Life was wonderful.   I had married a cowboy.  Tex and I had met in a romantic setting, Silver Spur Ranch, nestled in Wisconsin’s picturesque north woods adjacent to the Menominee Indian Reservation.  Tex had gone there as stable manager to recuperate outdoors from severe injuries suffered in World War II when he had been blown off a high cliff in the South Pacific, breaking over twenty bones.  He also had recurrent malaria attacks for which he took atabrine which gave his skin a yellow cast under his tan.  I had gone to the ranch as a guest, originally for a one-week vacation, but when Tex asked me, an experienced horsewoman, to stay on and conduct trail rides since his severe malaria attacks came weekly, I did not hesitate.  With our mutual interest in horses, people, sunshine and music, we soon were married and embarked on a lifetime of adventure.  Little did we know it would take us to life in Missouri’s Ozarks, starting in 1947.

          We were driving to Arizona for the winter season, traveling through Missouri.  A sign near Eldon announcing it to be the Gateway to the Ozarks intrigued us, so we stayed there overnight in order to enjoy the beauty of the Ozarks by day.  Stopping at Bagnell Dam for breakfast at Bartlett’s Café, we were approached by the owner who noticed Tex’s easy rolling gait and our western clothing.  He asked if Tex was a real cowboy.  Red Bartlett explained that the State of Missouri was looking for someone to bring horseback riding to Lake of the Ozarks State Park.  Since our trip was intended to be a leisurely one, we followed his road directions taking us off Hwy. 54 to Hwy. 42.  At the state park entrance we rode about seven miles down a rough gravel road through breathtakingly beautiful wooded country.

          There it was: the Ozark Homestead, an old dogrun (or dogtrot) log cabin.  A place with an interesting history, it would become our summer home for many years, a challenge in daily existence and a joy.  Surrounded by toppling rail fences and a few log outbuildings, the cabin had been transplanted in the early 1930s from a deep valley then to be inundated by the newly-formed Lake of the Ozarks (originally designated Lake Benton, which name quickly went out of favor).  Now, according to native Ozarkians, this old cabin, built soon after the Civil War, was dismantled.  Each log was numbered and reassembled on high ground in the area of the park still known by old-timers as Jeffries Point.  When the CCC (Civilian Conservation Corps) reset the logs, they chinked (filled in the spaces between the logs) with concrete colored like clay.  That method, however, was not as long lasting as the original mixture of clay and straw.  The concrete did not expand and contact with the changing weather, so chunks would fall out.  Tex remedied those gaps by first filling the largest holes with old Levis and then using the original mixture to seal them inside and out.  The real charm of the dogrun cabin though was its unique construction.

          There were two rooms, a living/sleeping room and a kitchen separated by a roofed open-ended hallway, the dogrun.  The interior of both rooms was the same as the exterior, with rough oak plank floors.  In the living/sleeping room there was a huge rock fireplace and also a ladder that led to a loft unused by us.  There were two doors in the living/sleeping room, one leading to a covered porch and the other to the dogrun.  The door had a hole with a leather thong extending on the dogrun side.  When one pulled it, a wooden latch on the inside would be raised, allowing one to enter.  If you wanted privacy, you only had to pull the thong inside.  The expression “Our latch string is always out to you” was derived from that early practice of door locking.  The kitchen also had two doors, one to the dogrun and the other to a side porch where we set our bowl and pitcher for washing ourselves.  With no running water and no electricity the first year we had to revert to early, more primitive practices.

          Our first job on returning to the Ozarks was to smoke out the bats in the fireplace chimney.  That done we swept out the cobwebs and eliminated, if only temporarily, the bugs and other critters that had easy access through the wide cracks in the plank flooring.  We repaired the rail fence and constructed a rope corral near the stable entrance for our five horses to let park visitors know about our trail rides.  We were not permitted by the park board to advertise during those early years.  It was thought to conflict with privately-owned businesses on the main highway.  Having no water the first season, we would lead our horses to a neighboring park warehouse where a water trough had been installed.  The second year when electricity was added and water was piped in, we rigged up a primitive shower outside the kitchen.  A concrete slab was set, and a canvas curtain circled it.  Our big problem was with mosquitoes which tormented us.  Those showers were not leisurely but necessary after a day in the saddle.

          Our first local friends were Eunice and George Trusley, horsetraders from Brumley.  One vivid memory of their hospitality is of our first music party at their home.  Since they knew I was a professional musician, they invited us to an event that I doubt exists today.  I took my guitar and joined with Gene and Bob, their sons, playing guitars and with others playing banjo, mandolin, and fiddles.  A great feast to which we all contributed was spread outdoors, one we enjoyed as soon as we had all arrived, in order to beat the swarms of flies that were attracted to those tantalizing smells.  Then we settled down to serious music making, each musician soloing, after which we all picked and strummed together.  At one point an elderly woman with a long black dress and with her thin gray hair tied in a bun got out of her rocking chair and danced a lively jig while energetically clapping to the music – an unforgettable time.

          On another occasion when Tex and I were leaving for yet another winter in Arizona, we drove our horses to the Trusleys’ pasture and spent Thanksgiving Day with the family.  I was really puzzled when a platter of meat with FOUR drumsticks was set on the table.  It turned out to be groundhog – delicious.

          In those times one did not even give thought to locking doors or taking saddles and bridles off the exposed stable racks.   Having already packed what we needed for the trip, we stayed overnight at the Trusleys.   It was a four-quilt night.  That meant that we counted down four quilts and slid into the comforting deep pile of still other quilts beneath.  Early in the morning, after enjoying Eunice’s homemade biscuits with pork gravy and copious amounts of coffee, we were on our way southwest.

          At the beginning of our Ozark Homestead season, before we had trail rides, we had to have trails.  Chuck Grimes and Porter Rodden were exceedingly strong, energetic young men who, with Tex, cut miles of trails.  Together with park workers they constructed a log corral.  Both men were experienced horseshoers, and the rocky park trails kept them busy shoeing between rides. 

          While the wranglers were in charge of the stables, I was responsible for keeping them well fed.  Fried potatoes, ham, and beans were staples.  One time when they were clearing land and digging post holes, as they drove in the gate, Tex said he wondered if “Maw” had the beans on.  Chuck answered that I would either have to feed them or bury them.  The three men worked like loggers.  Chuck and Port were the most important people in our lives outside of our immediate families, as friends as well as invaluable employees.

          The time came when we expanded our business by having horsemanship classes for Junior Achievement youths, Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, and the Young Men’s Hebrew Association (YMHA) summering at Camp Hawthorn.  While one group would be on the trail, I would instruct the others in horsemanship, colors, markings of horses, brands, and learning how to tell a horse’s age, usually as we squatted on the dogrun floor.

          Another time, Chuck was getting ready to take out a group from Colorado on a crisp autumn day.  He was planning to ride a black horse of ours just recovering from distemper.  That lead horse had lost a considerable amount of weight.  The gelding had not been ridden in weeks but had been continually grained and brought back to health.  Check decided the horse needed some exercise, so he saddled up, bridled him and led him out to the mounting area to “top him off” before starting on the trail ride.

          We were assembled waiting to mount the riders.  Chuck eased into the saddle, and the action began.  The horse bucked and bucked. Somehow he got his head between his legs.  Before Chuck realized it, he was on the ground, the saddle still between his legs, both feet in the stirrups.  Also he had stripped the bridle as he and the saddle went overhead; the cinch was not even broken.  The horse had just backed out of the whole thing.

          Chuck shook his head on seeing his horse running away without a stitch of leather on him.  He was also slightly embarrassed, but an old gentleman grinned at him and said, “Well, Son, you did a pretty good job.  You stayed as long as the saddle and bridle did.  You couldn’t ask a man to do any better than that.”

          The most spectacular of our Ozark Homestead projects were the hayrides – eight horses of four teams strung out ahead of our twenty-eight foot hayrack with a twelve-foot rack attached behind when needed.  The team drivers, usually Tex, with Chuck or Port, drove the teams from a seat on springs about nine or ten feet above the ground.  A comfortable swivel seat that we had retrieved from a discarded old hearse was permanently embedded at the back of the large rack where I sat with my accordion for sing-alongs.  The rides had grown from our first with two horses and twelve guests when I played on the guitar to the spectacular eight-horse hitch pulling a group of one hundred twenty-five Girl Scouts, the most we ever had at one time.

          One catastrophe came on a hayride with those Scouts.  We were using our eight-horse hitch and my personal mount, Rumpus, was one of the lead pair.  He was a born leader, and the men continually tried to train others like him.  But the trainees would start loafing, and Rumpus was not a loafer.  When the drivers would start to indicate a turn, most horses would cut the corners, but Rumpus would always walk out straight ahead as far as was needed and then turn.

          That particular night the wranglers were driving from the “Crow’s Nest” high over the wagon holding eight reins, four each, and had made a large turnaround at the old rock quarry where the Lee C. Fine Airport is now located.  We were on our return with me playing the accordion and everyone tossing hay, laughing and singing.  Then someone shouted that a girl had fallen off the hayrack, so we stopped.  She got back on and everything was set to go again.  That’s when the trouble began.  We had a couple of green (unseasoned) horses as the wheel team.  The six horses ahead all hit the traces at the same time, snapping the clevis off the ring fastened to the wagon tongue (the long iron pole between the horses).  It broke loose.  Chuck looked right and left, knowing he had to get off, so he jumped to the left, landing on his feet.  The only line he had was a right-hand line, to which he held.

          The horses swerved and Chuck glanced up to see Rumpus looking straight at him.  That horse, leading the others, had made a complete U-turn and was facing Chuck.  A passerby stopped to see if we needed help.  He drove Chuck to the Ozark Homestead to pick up a new clevis.  All during this time the Scouts and I were singing camp songs.  After his return, the men attached it, hooking everything up, and we were on our way.  To this day Chuck says he has never seen a horse as dependable a leader as Rumpus. 

          Our hayrides were said to have been the lake area’s first night entertainment.  A large concrete slab had been added to the stable.  There we had square and round dancing called by me.  We had large campfires blazing and told tall tales around them.  Then Tex and Chuck would perform in the corral.  Nugget, Tex’s trick horse, would be a favorite.  The horse, as a finale, after sitting down on his hind legs would take a bottle of Coke, raise his head and appear to guzzle.  The bottle top was carefully covered with electricians’ tape to eliminate any chipping of glass or causing damage to the horse’s mouth.

          Tex also jumped horses over rail jumps, and both he and Chuck demonstrated their skills with bullwhips.  Chuck usually took three or four whips in to the arena, one of which was a short whip about ten feet long.  He could crack it very easily in his right hand and used it well, cutting a cigarette from Tex’s mouth.  When it came to cracking it behind him, he could perform with either hand if he used a lighter-weight whip.  One night he cracked the whip behind him and jerked off the popper.  He walked over to pick up a spare whip, heavier than one he normally used in his left hand.  When he popped the whip behind him, he jerked his left shoulder out of place.

          Tex immediately saw what happened and asked if there was a doctor present.  There was none.  “Well,” he said, “I guess I’ll have to put the shoulder back in place myself.”  He had Chuck lie on his back in the arena, with anxious spectators watching.  Then he took a hold of Chuck’s left hand, put one of his feet under Chuck’s armpit and pulled until the shoulder snapped into place.  It was that simply done, and it did not stop the show.  The performance drew great applause from the crowd.  However Chuck’s shoulder was weak for a few days.

          We also had a trick mule Harry – named for Harry Truman because of his stubborn traits.  After performing with Tex on the dance floor, the mule would raise on his hind legs, put his forelegs on Tex’s shoulders, and walk with him from the floor to much laughter.

     After these performances, the campfires would have red-hot coals ready, usually for hot dogs and marshmallows.  I poured cowboy coffee cooked over the open fires, filling tin cups.  With handshakes and good fellowship, that concluded our ranch parties.

          Through the years, Tex and I had fulfilled out dreams of incorporating horses, people, music, and sunshine while living at the Ozark Homestead.  The wisteria that had draped the front porch in beauty is gone, as are the burning bush and the honeysuckle.  The rail fence has been replaced by a board fence.  Yet the dogrun log cabin still stands, although in dilapidated condition.  Silently it holds within it many tales, the memory of children’s laughter, and the conversations of cowboys reliving over cups of steaming coffee those extraordinary days of long ago.