The Crossroads of the World by Scott Ryan Schmidt

Everyone can tell you the name of their hometown. It’s the place they were born and lived in for a good portion of their lives. But what exactly about a town makes it home? It’s the familiar sights and sounds that make your town distinct. It’s the sense of community and belonging. But most of all, it’s the people. And lucky for me my hometown is Calwood, Missouri.

Who’d have thought that if you travel just a few miles east of Fulton on Route Z, you’ll find yourself at “The Crossroads of the World”? At least that’s what the sign says as you enter Calwood. Non-Calwoodians always snicker at the claim, but any chance I get I defend it to the best of my ability. “Look at a map,” I tell them and if they get that far, it’s still hard to refute. But a slogan isn’t the only thing that makes my town special.

If asked, most people will say that Calwood is little more than a four-way stop. I’ve even explained it to some people in that manner because they really wouldn’t understand that it takes more than a quick drive through to appreciate “The Crossroads.” Between a feed mill and a general store, a passerby would hardly notice they’d even entered a town, but at that four-way stop lies the heart of Calwood.

The Wright Bros. Store has been owned and operated by members of the Wright family since its opening in 1916. Since then, it has served as the social hub of the town as well as a gas station, general store, and at one time, a post office. I’ll never forget growing up, on Saturday afternoons, my dad and I would go to the store for lunch. Even though it was every Saturday, it was always an event to me.

Walking up to the store, there’d be someone my dad knew as he stopped to talk while I ran on ahead, anxious to see who was inside. Upon entering the store, the creaking of the wood floor never failed to welcome me. So many feet had treaded the worn planks over the years, leaving them slick. A “Hello” or just a smile from Terry Wright assured me I was as welcome here as I was at home. After the lengthy debate over which bag of chips to dine on and what soda to wash them down with, it was straight to the meat cooler. “Hooker” Wright, Terry’s brother, was always there, waiting to prepare the best, and only, sandwich in town. Once ordered, Dad and I would find a seat at one of several tables. I loved sitting at the big table where everyone sat with an empty chair in between each other. It usually depended on the time or the weather or other factors, but the cast of the big table varied from day to day.

“Mokus” and Doris Pitt, Chuck Cassidy, Guy Smith, Kenny Twillman and so many others all sat around, eating lunch and conversing about everything in and around Calwood. I never had much to say because I enjoyed listening to all their stories, all the news (which was more or less gossip) and all the joking. Everyone joked because they all knew each other well enough to do so. As I look back on our weekly visit to Wright Bros., it wasn’t about the food or even getting out of the house that made it special, it was all these people who, even though I was only a child, made me feel accepted into their ring of friendship.

This friendship I felt was simply the fact that I was part of Calwood. It didn’t only extend its hand at Wright Bros., it was there throughout the town.

As in every child’s life, Halloween was an exciting time and Calwood’s small town atmosphere was one of the best places to experience it. Nothing says Halloween like pumpkins and Ballard’s Farm was the place to get them. It was always a splendor to see rows and rows of soon-to-be jack-o-lanterns ready for carving. I was so anxious to get home after picking my prize pumpkin to put on display for everyone to see.

Before the big night, all the kids at school would talk about which towns they were going to trick-or-treat at and which places were ripe for plunder, but it never occurred to me to go anywhere else but my hometown. The thought of walking up to a stranger’s house asking for candy didn’t make much sense to me, not when I could go door-to-door to people that I already knew (which always resulted in more candy if you knew them well). I remember every stop was more than generous with the divvying up of treats and there were certain houses where I could always count on something special.

Depending on my chosen costume, walking or lumbering up to Lawrence and Martha English’s house, I knew I was going to get a huge flavored cornball that no matter how much I tried, I could never finish. They were so happy to see trick-or-treaters each and every year. Now, I appreciate the fact that Martha took the time to make candy each time instead of just buying it from a store.

Another essential stop to make was Madison Wright’s house, previous operator of Wright Bros. The invitation to “take as much as I want” from a big yellow bowl of candy would bring a mischievous grin to my face, but a stern glance from my mother told me how much was too much. Halloween was a special time in Calwood when the sense of community shone brightly and even though people I used to visit may not live there anymore, I’ll always remember their kindness.

I may not get dressed up and go looking for candy like I used to, but as I’ve grown up there are still things in Calwood that haven’t changed. Near every time I drive by Twillman Feed, I’ll receive a wave from Duke Scott, or “Duker” as he’s known around town. He’s been around for longer than I’ve walked this earth, working at the feed store, helping out anyone who’s in need of a good weedeater and being one of the friendliest people you’ll ever meet. Duke never fails to bring a smile to my face whenever I see him.

Every town has its special places that hold different memories for each individual. Every town has festivals, events and gettogethers. But it’s the people of each town that make them unique. There’s only one Duke Scott, one Terry and “Hooker” Wright, one “Mokus” Pitt and one of everyone else who resides in Calwood. Without them, it wouldn’t be any different than any other town and I’m glad that I can count myself among these fine people of my home. And who’d have thought that when someone asks me where I’m from, I can reply with an astounding statement like, “Well, I’m from the crossroads of the world.”

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Medium by Amelia Elliot

Monique Sabra, 1957

Each city is its own stage, a veritable theater of life, unique from others in that no player is insignificant; each has their own story—stories that become the lifeblood of a town’s existence, causing a town to die as they are forgotten.

My name is Monique Sabra, a resident of Fulton, Missouri, and the story I tell is not my own, but belongs to one of ages past whose voice was silenced and existence forgotten. She speaks through me to spin a tale that has never been heard and none who knew it cared to tell. Her presence is dimming with each passing moment, robbed of strength as time lengthens the shadows between her age and ours, so that she can no longer even touch the halls of her last abode…

Fulton, Missouri, 1940’s, William Woods College

Tess Johnson slipped into the shade of the stables, inhaling the scent of the horses and relaxing instantly in the comfort of familiarity. It wasn’t that Tess didn’t like her contemporaries, the few she knew were nice enough, merely that she was excruciatingly shy and found it painfully frightening to be in crowds—which made her situation all the more surprising to her.

Many times she’d watched from a distance and envied other lovers, wishing that she had someone to inspire the same rosy glow in her cheeks. At long last her time had come.

Softly she petted the nose of a fawn colored gelding. “He says we’ll be married soon and that we’ll go away and live, just the two of us—happily ever after, what do you think of that?

The gelding whickered in reply and Tess smiled.

***

His voice was soft and deep as he murmured goodnight, twining a lock of her dark brown hair around his fingers and kissing her softly on the cheek. He waited until she was out of sight inside before heading back towards the Seminole Hotel where he had his lodgings.

Cain Calhoun growled in irritation. He’d only been looking for a good time and the girl had seemed pretty enough; she looked the sort to enjoy a harmless fling. True to the old cliché, though, her looks had been deceiving. Though Tess was nice enough, she was also too shy and reserved to be considered anything but a prude. Still, he’d always liked challenges and had been certain he could persuade her to succumb to his attentions.

Cain’s mouth twisted in a mirthless smile. He wasn’t certain whether he should consider himself unsuccessful or too successful in his goals. She’d certainly fallen for him and still he hadn’t found the fling he wanted, though she was now convinced he would marry her and take her back to his family home. His wife Bella’d like that all right.

Any other man would simply disappear back to his home, but Cain didn’t like loose ends and could just picture Tess sharing her sorrows as she pined for her missing lover. He could also imagine what would happen when those tales drifted the few miles to his home—he didn’t like the thought of being shamed…

Tess hummed softly, her cheeks a rosy red as a small smile played on her lips. Cain had sent her a note. She wouldn’t see him tonight; he was gone to make last minute arrangements for their wedding, the day after tomorrow, as he simply couldn’t wait any longer. The thought of their, albeit brief, separation made her feel a little wistful, though the whinny of a horse, carried on the breeze, called to her and plans to bide her time began to fill the void.

At quarter to seven that evening, she sat down to dinner in Jones Hall, eating silently amongst her fellow students before hurrying back to her room to finish her preparations.

Late that night, finally satisfied that she would be ready when Cain called on the morrow, she slipped out of the dorm and headed for the stables. Soon, she was mounted and riding leisurely around the ring, the night’s silence and the beat of the horse’s hooves blending to envelope her in a luxurious calm.

A sudden clatter shattered the illusion and Tess found herself grappling to regain control as the horse bolted, feeling herself lift with the creature as it leaped over the ring’s railing…

***

Cain watched for a moment as Tess rode, going over again what he planned to say, how to explain his presence and his soon to be extended absence, checking the tale for plausibility. Then he strode towards the ring and nearly fell on his face as he tripped over his own two feet, knocking into an array of tack and sending it tumbling to the floor with an echoing racket. He lifted his eyes in time to see Tess and the horse vault over the railing with the girl barely clinging the horse and half out the saddle.

Tearing out of the ring and around the side he peered into the darkness to see if he could follow the horse’s path and tripped again, this time stumbling over something soft but solid. With mounting horror he realized it was Tess’s still form. Hands fumbling in the darkness he found her face with a sticky gash across the forehead and no breath issueing from her sweet mouth. “I didn’t mean to kill you, Tess,” he whispered before he took to his heels and fled.

***

Tess woke the next day with stiff bones and an aching head and rose slowly to her feet. Gingerly, she made her way back towards the stables, thinking to beckon help from one of the staff. Try as she might, though, she couldn’t succeed in gaining their attention. Weary from her efforts, she sank to a seat on a nearby hay bale and sank with surprise to the floor. Numbly, she sat in the dust as the reality of her situation set in and an awareness of details she couldn’t possibly have known otherwise served as final proof.

Journal of Monique Sabra, 1957

Tess never did garner the attention she needed to share her tale and so she wandered, following the same routine she had in life and suffering the same disappointments. For a time, her presence at dinner evoked a grim and chilled silence on her fellow diners, but as months and years passed her spirit-strength faded until only the fable of Jones Hall’s gray lady existed and even that has been banished in the flames of the fire that consumed the hall. She doesn’t wish vengeance nor does she wish to forgive Cain, though it might interest others to know what became of him. His guilt over Tess’s death consumed him, driving him mad until his wife, Bella, committed him to the confines of Fulton State Hospital ten years ago. Once Tess still longed for a chance at romance, but now she merely wants to be remembered and set free. The story I tell is not my own, but belongs to one of ages past whose voice was silenced. She calls to me to tell her tale and begs not to be forgotten.

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Cobblestones and Railroads by Allan Engle

Cobblestones, railroads, and brickyards on both ends. Tradition and condition, and old-time townie trends.

Harry and his famous book, Jesse on Sore’ead Hill. Miss Willie in her tent, and Socrates with his fill.

Court St. and Sault’s shakes.
     King’s Row and Spot Cafe.
               Tucker, Jameson, even Hockaday.

This was my hometown.

Kingdom Daily and The Sun,
     Kingdom Days in the sun,
               Kingdom of Callaway, southern fun.

The State Asylum, pre-Civil War. The North and South wards, in cold Octo’er.
Tunnels under 5th, shackles and stone archways. Lunatic screams from a mind that’s gone astray.

Jamesons and Branches.                Kemps and Galbreaths.
     Hartleys and Bells                     Craigheads and Cragheads

Hometown architects - school teachers - authors - businessmen - and farmers with goods to sell.
They made my small hometown.

Lover’s Leap and the ol’ Railroad Bridge, watching Stinson Creek. Pullin’ crawdads from the mud, of dirty ol’ ________ ________.

Woodsies, and their bridge, and “Westminister’s” Berlin Wall.
A bombed out British church with cake-eaters on the walk.

This was my hometown.

Wal-Marts and mini-marts, built in old land fills. No sign of old kooks painting on a hill.
Hot rods and skate parks, an eight-plex, newest in the town.

Crack heads and meth heads, selling off the crown.

Fast food and bland food, the Kingdom has gone South.
“This town is dyin’,” say the new word of mouth.

Coffee shops and antique shops. Banks on both ends.
Court St. is gone, lost tradition and its trend.

Kingdom Days? Or Frontier Days? Both are gone away.
Like ol’ Frosty says, “Nothing gold can stay.”

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