From Vox magazine: Our Blue Highways: Southwest

Partially Published in 12/4 feature of Vox magazine print issue. Fully published on Voxmagazine.com

Candice Brew & Jared McNett

It was a warm, Homecoming gameday, and campus bustled with energy. Jared and I were off to embark on something new and unforeseen. We were getting ready to go on a journey south of Columbia, away from the metropolitan bustle and into lands less-traveled. Once the clock struck noon, I found myself — all 106 pounds — lugging a tripod, camera kit and bag filled with Doritos and notebooks to Jared’s little blue box car, Laika.

Jared and I geared toward the highway as we inched passed drunken, tiger-stripe-clad crowds.

Once the buildings became sparse and the roads less smooth, we knew we were in Blue Highways territory.

Boonville

Not long after I turned onto Missouri Highway 5 South from Boonville, I spotted a gnarled wood sign that read “Hawk Hill” in faded jet black paint. It was hanging on by a few nails, but the time will soon come when it’s on the ground.

After a few more bends and turns, I couldn’t help but notice lazy, full-grown Black Angus resting under a corrugated tin roof on a hot day. The cattle had the immovable posture of Buddha and the patience of a child waiting in a long line for Santa Claus.

Thick clouds of dust curlicued over the gravel roads Candice and I passed every half mile. They continued to curl as my 2006 dark-blue Scion XB named Laika (for the canine Russian cosmonaut by way of an Arcade Fire song) passed under a railroad bridge that had “1927” carved in stone. Certain things in this part of Missouri have staying power, and that bridge is one of them.

I’m not used to longevity. In the northern-Kansas City suburb where I grew up, the duplex-style homes on either side of the McNett residence have hosted six different occupants in the past two decades.

Versailles

I was taken aback when I came across the Royal Theatre in Versailles (pronounced ver-SAILS). Other than a few a years in the late ’70s and early ’80s, the theatre’s been in operation since 1931. It played films from its opening until the early ’70s, and was reopened in 1985 as a community theater that houses local plays. The signage that lights up for the local play Mozurah Pippin is original, save for the bulbs. A massive projector thinly caked in dust stood out among the wedding dresses, fur coats and stray “diamond” rings of a second-floor costume room. It was brutish but beautiful, the sort of fixture more concerned about function than fashion.

The theatre’s sign lights up in neon. Built in 1931, the theater closed in 1970 and reopened in 1981 to house plays, concerts and musicals. Photo by Candice Brew.

Cindy Davenport herself is a fixture of the theater. She saw movies at the Royal from the time she came to Versailles from St. Louis at age 12 in 1964 and has served as the executive director for a decade. Her children acted in plays at the Royal in the mid-’90s. Her dark black hair hid her age, but not a fervent love for the Royal.

“Each and every person that attends or is involved becomes a part of the Royal Family,” Davenport said. “We have our own Royal Family here in Versailles.”

And like any family, the denizens of the Royal Theatre look out for one another. In March of 2014, when the interior of the theatre needed a new paint job, local artist Larry Hiller showed up with cans of red paint. A map located in the theater’s “Diamond Annex” showed that 50-plus patrons of the 272-seat venue continue to have the best seats in the house thanks to the generous donations they’ve given. Like the velvet seats and thick black stage curtain, the patrons won’t disappear anytime soon.

Downtown Versailles’ small bank displayed a row of colonial columns, and the quiet, red brick courthouse looked miniscule compared to Columbia.

After circling the area’s petite parameter, Jared conjured up a sweet tooth and we stopped at Dari Kup, a stark-white hut in the heart of town.

A few picnic tables are lined up outside the Kup. Traditional menu items such as corn dogs and onion rings are up for grabs, while the footlong hotdog, hand breaded tenderloin and chocolate marshmallow shake remain the family-owned shop’s signature items.

“We’re just small potatoes here,” employee Ginger Hinck says as Jared stood next to me slurping what was left of his butterscotch milkshake.

The food is made fast and eaten fast, but the Dari Kup itself moves at a glacial pace. Photo by Candice Brew Dari Kup has been in operation since 1950. Photo by Candice Brew

Halfway to the nearby village of Gravois Mills, we find Jacob’s Cave. The cave opened in 1932 as the first “commercialized cave” in the Lake of the Ozarks area. It was Saturday, but the gift shop sign that lead into Jacob’s Cave read “Closed.” That didn’t stop Jane Hurley, 73, from putting on her brown slippers and giving us a tour of the cave’s massive first room. Her dog Laura, named for former First Lady Laura Bush, wouldn’t budge from the weekend soaps.

Jane Hurley, who has lived above Jacob’s Cave for 50 years, gives a tour of the first room. Photo by Candice Brew

Jacob’s Cave was discovered by Jacob Craycraft in 1875, and I can’t imagine how he felt when he saw the sponge-work ceilings and “cave bacon,”or sheet-like calcite deposits formed by water flowing down cave walls and floors. Hurley wielded her chrome-red Maglite like an orchestra conductor as she proudly told us about the cave’s features, like the massive geode further in and how warm it can be when winter comes. She’s lived above Jacob’s Cave with her husband for 50 years now, a drop in the bucket when you stop to consider it took millions of years to form this landmark.

Gravois Mills

We truly found the road less traveled five miles south to Troutdale Farm. Once we approached an old wooden sign painted “Troutdale Farm,” Homer Simpson’s voice in the GPS system urged us to turn the opposite direction. We should have listened. Laika wobbled past a sketchy blue van and creeped over a narrow bridge over whitewater before she reached a pair of locked, rusted gates.

Jared whipped his car around and traveled a few more miles before giving up.

Barnett

As we headed east toward Barnett, Laika began to tremble across gravel roads. The tiny green Buddhist figure on Laika’s dashboard rumbled and piles of CDs tried to escape from their nook.

The quivering of the car seemed less apparent as old-school tunes blared from Jared’s speakers and rays of sunlight glistened through trees and spotlighted the dust that lingered over the road.

As we drove further, however, my comfort level switched gears. The unkempt road narrowed and trees began to cave in.

After coming to a dead end and turning around on what seemed to be narrow enough for a woodsy hiking trail, we encountered a “No Trespassing” sign.

After driving up a little further, Jared and I decided to turn the hell around and chase some other pavement.

Newburg

Candice and I were nearly lost in the woods when we scoured the Newburg area for the Central Ozarks Practical Shooterscompetition. The woods felt impenetrable, as branches of graying white oak and elm tangled together. I was left wishing we had followed the giant red Chevy pickup in front of us. At 8:30 a.m. on a Saturday morning, they were surely heading the same place we were.Owning a pickup truck seemed to be a mandate in the area, and for good reason – it wasn’t easily accessible country. Once we pulled into the shooting grounds, I stopped counting the trucks and began to count the discarded shell casings that crunched under my feet. Cardboard boxes of fresh Winchester AA shells were strategically placed on wood tables throughout the shooting “gallery.” It didn’t take long for the stinging smell of gunsmoke to filter through the cold morning air.

Despite the smell and the cold wind, the shooters were in high spirits. Jokes came early and often.

“Whoever wins this gets $70, so step up,” one promised.

“If I’m gonna lose I want it to get beat by a much older man,” another said.

Organizer Larry Fletcher smirked behind the start table. When he wasn’t precisely giving commands of “Ready on the right, ready on the left, standby,” he was chomping down on a straight-cut Robusto cigar.

The Central Ozarks Practical Shooters, or C.O.P.S., began 20 years ago with eight members on 100 acres of land, and now the group has competitors coming from as far away as Brazil and England. What Fletcher loves more than this expansion is the camaraderie. “These aren’t gun nuts,” I was told early on. They’re fierce competitors, even when the prize won’t buy a full tank of gas.

It’s common to drive along rural Missouri roads and spot a Confederate flag here and there. As an African-American woman, I didn’t know what to expect walking up to a shooting range in the Ozarks.

My heart pattered like pummeling raindrops as I inched behind Jared. I hoped his presence would dilute my own. As I walked up, I was greeted with a smile. One smile turned to several, those smiles turned to laughs and my tense shoulders melted.

“We’re not crazy here,” a man said to me. “These are good people.”

During our stay, we met a shooter of color from Illinois and a couple from Florida, all of whom disproved any misconceptions I had.

Jerome

As we prepared to put Newburg in the rearview, I shuffled through my iPhone and found Creedence Clearwater Revival’s unimpeachable record Cosmo’s Factory. Something about the loose, breezy feel of the album perfectly fit our reporting project. We were strangers in a “strange land,” but that wasn’t stopping us from exploring.

Larry Baggett’s Trail of Tears monument is in disrepair but continues to define the Jerome landscape. Photo by Jared McNett.

As the last notes of “Run the Jungle” wrapped, we came to the “Trail of Tears” monument created by Larry Baggett. The “Ozark Shaman” of Jerome passed away in 2003, but his heart-wrenching monument continues to define the area. Countless stone figures of Cherokee, Muscogee, Seminole, Chickasaw and Choctaw who died during the forced relocation following the Indian Removal Act of 1830 dot Baggett’s property. One weary traveler clung tight to a buffalo tail to stay upright, while another knelt down in a grass thicket, refusing to go any further. The Trail of Tears stands as one of the most shameful moments in U.S. history, but what Baggett crafted out of concrete was strangely comforting. While the bodies of those individuals rest in crudely dug graves throughout the Southeastern United States, their memories live on in Jerome.

Rich Fountain

Sadly, that sort of racial hatred and intolerance isn’t limited to 19th Century America. It can echo in the basements of church buildings.

Sacred Heart Catholic Church has been a landmark of Rich Fountain for 176 years. As Candice and I reached the top of the hill into Rich Fountain, it was hard not to notice. The setting sun beamed off of the church’s black steeple, and all of the town’s buildings seemed to circle around Sacred Heart.

Up close, the church and its grounds were spellbinding. The stone bricks it rests upon are roughly hewn. Staring at them up close, I could almost see the stonecutter’s chisel and saw marks. A weathered fallout shelter sign hung from one of the front-left cornerstones. Black oak trees dotted the landscape, and their leafless limbs hypnotically twisted in every direction.

Sacred Heart casts towering shadows over the property it rests on. Photo by Jared McNett

As Candice tried to photograph everything, I headed to the basement of the church to find the pastor. It was a crowded dinner scene, as people stood in line to be served salads of iceberg lettuce and spaghetti. I asked an elderly man holding a plate where the pastor lived, and he replied, “He lives two houses down. He’s a nigger,” without missing a beat. Hearing this slur was upsetting for more reasons than I can address. Chief among them was the unflappably calm and matter-of-fact way that he said it. He didn’t raise his voice at all, the only modicum of respect paid to the holy place he was standing near. I was thankful that Candice didn’t have to hear the bigotry herself.

We spoke with the parish father at length, but he didn’t feel comfortable being named or quoted here. So all I will say of the father is that he is a warm, kind man who embodies noble Christian principles even when select members of his church don’t.

Belle

To rest our minds, reflect on the day’s events and put a stop to our growling tummies, we made a beeline for The Country Belle Cafe. The gem of a restaurant is tucked away in Belle, Missouri, a town of about 1,500 souls. It embodies the small-town diner, right down to the close-knit customers.

Except co-owner Sherry Licklider refers to her regular customers as “irregulars” and serves Greek cuisine instead of run-of-the-mill diner food.

The Lickliders always knew they’d open a restaurant. They collected mismatched chairs and tables and kept them in a garage for about 20 years before finding their perfect location. A deacon’s bench from an old church in downtown St. Louis greets guests at the front door.

“Everybody said, ‘you’re crazy for collectin’ that stuff,’ but I used it, didn’t I?” Sherry says.

With a $200 commercial stove and a $150 loan for a cash register, the couple opened the restaurant on Sept. 5, 2013.

“People were like, ‘You need $600,000 to open a restaurant,’” Sherry says. “Well, no. If you move to Belle, you can have the American dream.”

The couple moved from the Dogtown neighborhood of St. Louis, where Gene worked as head grill cook at Greek restaurant Olympia Kebob House and Tavern, to the second floor of their vintage building in Belle.

Old wooden windows, gutted from the second floor, frame black-and-white images of Sherry’s family. An American flag hangs between the vintage frames and a dusty blackboard with the day’s specials. Vintage knickknacks, gifted from family members, are scattered around.

Sherry Licklider places her pile of old tarot cards onto the table. The stack was given to her at age 21 by an aunt of hers. Photos by Candice Brew

Gene smiled and showed us a plaque his mother gave to him, which read, “Welcome to the Belle Cafe’s Nut House. Where being a nut is a requirement!”

Sherry has other hobbies too. The mom of four had been seeing spirits since she was 8 years old and began reading tarot cards when she was 21.

“I used to do it a lot in St. Louis, but when we moved to the Bible Belt, I just didn’t do it,” Sherry says.

Out of curiosity, I asked Sherry to show us her cards.

She came down the steps with a balled-up scarf in hand. She laid the scarf down and revealed a pile of old cards that she placed on the table before me, one by one.

“You know what this is?” Sherry says, pointing to a card decorated with the grim reaper.

I looked at her, confused.

“This is the death card,” she says.

I now assumed I’d been cursed.

“It means rebirth,” Sherry said quickly. “Usually psychic people get this… You have a lot of spirit energy around you.”

“Oh,” I say with wide eyes. “Interesting.”

Spiritual consciousness wasn’t a foreign subject to me. I’d experienced lucid dreaming several times before, which is similar to an out-of-body experience. But being a Christian, I thought maybe she was talking about prayer energy. Or something. Whatever it was, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

As we left the restaurant and Sherry urged us to come back again soon, the spirit of Blue Highways lifted us.

Highway 42

We had a guide, our very own Huckleberry Finn. Nicholas Jones, a native of Belle and a friend of Jared’s from college, offered to take us on a countryside sightseeing odyssey. From wooden ruins to old sky-scraping structures, he helped us witness nostalgia and experience his imaginative childhood.

Like character in a novel, Jones spent his childhood near a pasture rich with abandoned buildings.

“I lived right across the highway from the mill,” Jones says of a larger-than-life antique mill on Highway 42. “I grew up swimming in the spring behind it, and playing around the mill.”

Walking down wobbly stone steps to the bottom of the mill wasn’t frightening. It was exciting.

Just on the other side of the road, we walked up toward a white, antebellum-style structure that overlooked what’s rumoured to be slave quarters. As I waded through overgrown weeds, seeds stick like Velcro to my denim.

Despite some things that scared a city girl such as myself, walking through the countryside was like venturing through a movie. The sky was a blue I’d only seen in my dreams and the clouds hung like fluffy cotton balls.

Vichy

Excitement reached a climax when we arrived at Vichy fire tower. The tower’s walkways were unprotected, the wind seemed to make the tower dance and the wooden steps looked rickety. The tower is like a lighthouse, standing above an ocean of green.

The Vichy fire tower overlooks the Spring Creek Gap Conservation Area. Photo by Candice Brew

A barbed wire fence keeps families and adventurous groups of friends away, but before the fence’s erection, people would scale its beams without boundaries.

The climb isn’t for the faint-hearted. The wooden steps creak each time they’re stepped on and the walkways narrow toward the tower’s peak. But the reward, if you make it to the top: The trees seem to meet the sky like a body of water and the hills look like waves.

Heading home

As Candice and I headed back home, the mechanical roar of International semi-trucks on Hwy. 63 North was enough to keep us both awake. The whooshes easily shook a small car like Laika. I would jolt up to grip the wheel whenever it happened, but it was useless. The moment was gone in no time.

Our countryside excursion made me want to coast the entire country or take the adventure across seas. In less than 24 hours, Jared and I met people with unpredictable backgrounds and we saw things we didn’t know existed in Missouri. We were definitely led by the spirit of Blue Highways, protected by prayer and given a story to tell.

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