THE PATH TO A PROMISE, CHAPTER 1

 

CHAPTER ONE 

Southwest Missouri Ozarks, 1908 

Olive Johnson waited on the grounds of the county courthouse to hear the verdict of the murder trial. At only twelve years old, Olive wished she had a camera to capture the raw tension, the flicker of fear in people's eyes, and the moment of hope turned to despair or relief. With a camera, her secret desire to be a newspaper reporter would come true. Like Nellie Bly, with fearless determination, Olive would travel the countryside, uncover the darkest secrets and expose the wickedness hidden in plain sight. But the money in the glass jar at home wasn’t enough to get the box camera at the mercantile in Rocky Corners.

An ancient oak tree’s green canopy rescued Olive from the hot July sun. Sweat beaded on her face and trickled down her back. Locusts and other insects droned on and on with their summer song. Summers in the Ozarks could be brutal, searing the fields with hot winds or pouring rains that left puddles deep and wide. Humidity ran high in this part of the region.

Laughter from the opposite corner of the lawn caught Olive’s attention. People leaned against the wooden fence encircling the foursquare brick courthouse. Some sat on the grass under the trees, fanning themselves with their hats or paper fans. All waited for the outcome of the trial. A few birds flitted through the trees, their chatter interrupting the solemn morning.

Olive’s gaze drifted toward the imposing courthouse doors, her mind racing about what unfolded inside. The trial had dragged on for over a year, each delay stretching the tension tighter until it felt ready to snap. Joe Tanner had shot her sister's husband, Dan Winters, in cold blood—at least, that's what many in town said. This was the second time the case had come to trial, and Olive prayed it would be the last; please, God, let this nightmare end. Her chest tightened, and she blinked back tears that stung the corners of her brown eyes. Today was reckoning day, and its weight bore down on her like a heavy stone.

Clara Mae, Olive’s two-year-old niece, lay curled up on a worn patchwork quilt beneath the shade of the sprawling oak tree. The little girl's chest rose and fell in the steady rhythm of sleep, oblivious to the turmoil surrounding her. A pang of sorrow tugged at Olive’s heart. Clara Mae would grow up without her father, no matter the trial's outcome today.

The memories of that fateful day played out in her mind, vivid and relentless. The quarrel between Dan and Joe Tanner had simmered for years, starting over something as simple as joining the local Farmer's Union. When Dan blackballed Tanner, citing his shady past, it was like pouring oil on a smoldering fire. The tension between the two men erupted into violence, ending with Tanner pulling the trigger and sending a bullet straight into Dan's chest. The image of Dan collapsing, blood spread across his shirt, sickened her.

Glancing at the sky, the sun was directly overhead. Time dragged on. Sweat tickled her ear, and she wiped it off with her embroidered hanky. Sitting up, she straightened her dress and leaned against the tree, watching her niece. Pushing Clara Mae’s hair away from her chubby face, grief swelled in Olive’s chest as she realized the child would never know her daddy.

Seconds later, the courthouse door swung wide. Men and women stormed onto the grassy lawn. The crowd was upset, their voices high-pitched. Arguments broke out with shouting and raised fists. Olive’s father appeared, his battered brown hat cocked on his head, parting the crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea. Her mother followed, and her brother Ben tagged behind. Bud Johnson’s long legs ate up the ground as he stopped before her. "It's over. Tanner's a free man!" His long, white mustache bobbed with the motion of chewing tobacco. Dark eyes blazed hot, and his mouth set in a grim line.  

Olive picked up Clara Mae as her mother gathered the blanket. Her heart accelerated when her father's words shocked her into disbelief. "Pa! No, it can't be!" Her eyes searched for her sister. “Where’s Lizzie?”

A small crowd of allies formed around Bud. Press Horton, Cole Lawson, John Haddock, and the Madison family gathered close to hear his words. "They had them fancy lawyers talking the witnesses in circles. Wouldn't even let most of the men testify!" Bud jabbed his hands into his overall pockets. His breath was muffled, and a sob escaped.

Olive turned to her brother, Ben. “Did you tell them what you know?” Ben had been with Tanner that morning, just hours before the shooting. The law had questioned him thoroughly and picked apart every detail of the day's events. They said Tanner had carried a gun with him, that he had intended to use it. But was it premeditated murder, or had things spiraled out of control?

Ben nodded. “I told them, but the Emerson boys lied about everything! I’ll bet somebody paid 'em to lie! The jury says it was self-defense.”

Clara Mae fussed, wiggling, and almost slid to the ground, but Olive held her tight. She sucked in a breath. "How could they decide that? Dan was shot in the chest, and he didn't have a gun!"

Ben’s face twisted into an ugly smirk; his eyes were wild. “Tanner’s daddy sold everything he has to get his sonny-boy off the hook.”

“That’s gossip,” Nancy Johnson accused. Her dark brows drew to a deep ‘V.’

Bud drew a quick breath. “That’s enough, Son.”

“You know it, as well as the whole county! Look around you.” He swiped his right arm wide and pointed to the crowd. “They ain’t upset for nothing, Pa. I’ll bet…”

Bud eyed his boy. “Enough.”

Press Horton comforted his old friend. “I’m sorry for all this trouble, Bud. I feel halfway responsible for the shooting in my store.”

Bud shook his silver-haired head. “Can’t feel bad, Press. It’s part of life.”

Charley Madison stepped around his brother; his cowboy hat precariously plopped on his head. Rattlesnake-skin boots peeped out from sheepskin chaps. A droopy mustache and spirit-filled eyes defined the man known for taking the law into his own hands in the past. “Tanner’s true self will get him someday. You can’t be that mean and get away with it forever.”

The other men agreed, their low murmurings sounding like a drone of bees gathering in a hive. Their anger would sting if provoked. Bud stood tall, staring ahead. “Soon as Lizzie gets out here, we’ll be gettin’ on home; I got logs to hew and rails to split.”

Olive blinked back, scalding tears as she marched to the wagon. The baby's weight was lost to the anger over the judge’s decree. Her poor sister! Lizzie, crippled with a bad back, was left a widow to raise a child on her own. The big farm and the blacksmith shop Dan had owned would be a hindrance to a woman alone. Grief covered her like the dirt over a coffin.

She took one last look at everyone on the courthouse lawn. Most were allies and friends of the two families involved. Today, their lives were changed forever. They would all find out just how much in the months ahead. 

***

Minutes later, the courthouse door burst open, and David Winters and his family hurried toward the Johnson family. Dan's brothers held Lizzie, guiding her along. They encircled her as if protecting her from the devil.

Lizzie’s long black dress, gloves, and boots signaled her widowhood. A black straw hat shielded her face from onlookers. Bringing a white hanky to her nose, she wiped it. Her lean body trembled and shook. “Oh, Pa!” moving to her father. She fell into his long-armed embrace. Her tears wet the front of his overalls while he stroked her head and rocked her gently.

Olive’s knees threatened to give way, and her head pounded. The heat and exhaustion from the day were getting to her. She held Clara Mae fast even though the child wiggled and fussed when she saw her mother. The child was almost out of her arms. One wiggle—

In an instant, Henry Winters caught the girl before she hit the ground. “There now, sissy!” He patted his niece’s back, then turned his attention to Olive. “You alright?"

Olive nodded and stared into Henry’s darkened blue eyes. His tanned face was inches from hers. She sensed his eagerness to help and serve. A swath of sleek black hair hung down his forehead. A black string tie circled the collar of his white shirt, and a navy vest hugged his trim waist. If he leaned any closer, their noses would collide.

Henry handed the child to her mother. Turning his attention back to Olive, he touched her shoulder. A smile tipped his mouth, and he stayed beside her.

Olive mopped her face with a hankie and thanked Henry. She needed to gather her wits. It was only half-past noon, but it had been a long day. She tried to concentrate on what the men were saying, but the nearness of Henry distracted her. The scent of leather and sunshine tickled her senses.

The Johnsons and the Winters were neighbors. When Daniel Winters married Lizzie Johnson, the two families grew closer. The neighboring farms helped one another with anything and everything. In good times and bad, neighbors were there to help in any way they could. That was the way of the people in the Ozarks.

Hiram Matthews appeared, focusing on the elder Winters man. Hiram’s long-sleeved white shirt was held tight by cross-back suspenders. A dressy Derby protected his head. He was a veteran newspaper reporter for the Pine Hills Herald. Pulling a stubby pencil from over his left ear, he poised it on a writing pad. “Mr. Winters, do you care to comment for the Herald on the outcome of this trial?”

Henry bristled. His hands clenched before his father could answer, and he leveled his gaze at the reporter. “Our daddy’s got no comments, Hiram, at least not anything fit for printing in a newspaper. Best be gettin' on.”

Hiram shoved his glasses farther up his thin nose and swallowed. Beads of sweat lined his forehead just below the brim of his brown wool hat. “It’s my job, you know…”

David Winters' voice was low and monotone. “We understand, Hiram, and we respect your desire to do your job. What's done is done. My Dan’s in heaven now. It’s best to let it be.”

“Nothing to say about the acquittal? Or to the Tanner family?” Hiram continued, pushing his luck, a wide grin rimming his mouth.

“Judge not, lest ye be judged is what the Good Book says.” It was David’s final answer as his mouth set in a determined line. Turning his back on the reporter, he spoke to Bud Johnson.

Bud shook hands with his long-time friend. “Guess you’ll still send the boys to Lizzie’s farm to help her? Or do I need to take her home with me?”

David’s cropped blonde hair glistened with sweat. His slim face grimaced, forcing his stylish goatee to bunch into a deep ‘V’. Sorrow-filled blue eyes blinked away tears before he answered. “There’s a problem, Bud. The boys complain that they can’t continue helping at Dan’s farm when they have their own farming and families. Tom will take up the slack of the blacksmithing, and I’ve been thinking about sending Henry in place of the others. He's got free time since he's not working.”

At David’s comment, Henry moved so close to Olive, he almost knocked her over. She wondered what he thought about it. It was the logical thing to do since Henry was the only child left at the farm who wasn’t married and had a family to support.

“I understand.” Bud nodded. “And I'll send Ben to help. Probably need to sell most of the cattle.”

After handshakes, one by one, the crowd dispersed. The Winters boys helped Lizzie and the baby to the family wagon. Henry followed Olive, helping her into the back of the wagon, his lips curved upward. His blue eyes pierced her chocolate ones. “Guess I’ll be going over regularly to help Lizzie. Are you staying with her?”

A warm blush crept up her neck as surprise settled on her face. She nodded. “I’m still there.”

Henry grinned at her and chuckled. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yes.” Her answer was barely audible, but it was ripe with wonder. Her heartbeat increased with the possibility of a change coming. His eyes were so blue, like ocean water! Why hadn’t she noticed that before? The ride home was quiet. The Tanner family was celebrating a victory while her family was defeated. Why in the world did the jury conclude that Tanner was innocent? He was a skunk! Worse than a skunk. His reputation told a lousy story.

Bible verses shot through her mind. The ones she learned in church about judging and gossip. The ones her mother spoke about often. People should not gossip about others or judge them. Was she guilty for holding hatred in her heart for that skunk? No matter, she would never change her mind about Joe Tanner! She secretly hoped for revenge against the man who caused such heartache!

Henry Winters invaded her thoughts again. She had never seen the ocean, but when she looked into his blue eyes, she felt like she was there. He was nine years older than her and didn't attend school anymore. She didn't think much about boys and girls liking each other beyond friendship. She always secretly dreamed about being another Nellie Bly.

Her face warmed as romance entertained her. She replayed how Henry's eyes lit up at their conversation and the lopsided grin that framed his mouth. Henry Winters captured her with his beautiful ocean-blue eyes.

 

WOMENS HISTORY MONTH: Ozarks Hills and Hollows Granny Women

My 2nd great-grandmother, Nancy Smith Johnson, was a Granny Woman. She practiced midwifery and the healing arts in the hills and hollows of Donald County, Missouri. Her obituary notes, "The nights were never too dark nor the times too hard for Nancy Johnson to willingly lend a helping hand in time of need. She could count the dozens of babies she helped into the world and the lives she practically saved. Her cheerful disposition and pleasant smile made her most enjoyable to all around her."

Nancy was short and petite, with black hair, a thin face, a sharp jutting chin, and high cheekbones. She bore five children: Chloe Adele, Eva Oder, Otis Benjamin, Ollie Francis, and Osie May. She passed away in 1949 at Rocky Comfort, Missouri. Her parents were Benjamin Franklin and Anna Smith. Here is a photo of her with her daughter, Ollie. 

 

Her Smith family sailed from England to settle in the British Colonies before migrating to Northern Missouri. Here is a photo of the Benjamin Smith family.

In 1943, her daughter, Ollie, returned to the old home place to care for Nancy. This photo is of Nancy, her husband, Tom, Ollie, Ollie's son and two sons. The little boy standing is my father. 

Women have always been the backbone of families. They served many roles, including caring for their children, husbands, elderly parents, siblings, neighbors, and friends. Homemakers did not need a job outside the home, for homemaking included everything from making soap and doing the laundry to caring for the needy and the ill to helping perform the farm work when needed.  

 

In days long gone, women learned from their mothers and grandmothers how to care for the sick and help bring babies into the world. Their medicine usually came from the earth; the plants, flowers, and trees provided remedies to cure the sick and afflicted.

 

The most knowledgeable and experienced of these women were healers and midwives, often called Granny Women. They were known everywhere for their giving service and helping hands. Folks depended upon them to come when the need arose, and they relied on the Granny Woman's unique knowledge of herbs, roots, and concoctions. Those women had the skills and the wisdom to use the native plants for healing.

 

In the early days, doctors sometimes traveled a great distance to reach a patient, which was a hindrance for the gravely ill. Before the turn of the century, many doctors needed to be trained about germs and their deadly consequences. The states lacked standardized licensing requirements, and the quality of their education varied, so their medical practices were managed with crude effectiveness. 

 

Many women preferred the familiar Granny Woman to treat them with mild herbal remedies and deliver their babies. Traditional midwives met the concern for modesty during the birthing process, an important consideration in areas where the use of male doctors might offend an entire community.

 

 Some midwives carried a "midwife's book" to reference when complicated childbirth procedures arose. Sometimes, they used superstitious rituals to give mothers psychological relief, such as having the mother hold something that belonged to her husband to symbolically bring him into the delivery room. Their use of herbal remedies and teas helped speed up the birth process. Still, they might also use morphine tablets or quinine if the medicine was available.

 

 After the baby's birth, the Granny Woman might stay a week or longer to help with the housework and allow the new mother time to heal.

 

 Many times, Granny Women were not paid with money. Instead, they accepted whatever offering the family could provide at the time, possibly giving her meat or chickens, vegetables from the garden, or enough material to make a dress. If the family had nothing, that was all right, too.

 

As midwives became certified within their home state, they could charge money to attend births. The going rate in 1906 was $3.00. Granny Women knew how to prepare herbs, roots, tree bark, and other native plants and flowers to make healing ointments, teas, poultices, and concoctions. 

 

For example, Southwest Missouri Ozarks midwives combined sage, peppermint, black walnut, slippery elm bark, pokeroot, horseradish, elderberries, and dill weed with honey, black strap molasses, lard, onions, vinegar, and whiskey to make tonics, potions, plasters, poultices, and teas. Many a child with an earache had tobacco smoke blown into their ears as a cure. (I’m one of those children.)

 

The Missouri Medical College was initially organized in 840 as the Medical Department of Kemper College. It was the first medical school established west of the Mississippi River. In 1845, it became the Medical Department of the University of Missouri. There are a few midwives listed on the Missouri History Program website, all of whom lived in St. Louis, Missouri, for the years 1888-1892.

 

The American Medical Association was founded in 1847, and doctors eventually began to resent midwives. They looked upon the granny women as competition for business. The medical profession grew and insisted upon education, standard examination procedures, and licensing requirements for all practicing physicians. Doctors waged a campaign throughout the nation to run midwives out of business. They portrayed the women as being ignorant of medical procedures and lacking cleanliness.

 

Even though European countries were establishing schools of midwifery, American doctors were refusing to admit women to medical schools. When the American Medical Association demanded that all people practicing medicine be trained and licensed, midwifery was demolished.  

 

However, Granny Women continued to use their skills to serve their communities into the twentieth century. Ozark's folklorists have collected information about these women and their healing practices.

 

Until the New Deal programs and World War II changed the region's financial system and transportation, bad roads and the lack of money forced most country people to rely on native remedies prepared by the family's womenfolk.

 

Eventually, pregnant women began to enter hospitals to give birth, and Granny Women went by the wayside. The science of medicine scoffed at the nurturing and holistic care midwives provided for their family, friends, and neighbors.

 

The era of women's healing art in domestic medicine is now history. But if we look closely into our family history, we will find Granny Women.             

 

Among the McDonald County Historical Museum acquisitions, I found a midwife certificate. Issued on October 20, 1884, at the State Board of Health in Hannibal, Missouri, it certifies that Mrs. Delphia Hall Laughlin had practiced midwifery for ten years and was legally authorized to practice in the state. Laughlin received her certificate at Powell, Missouri, on January 1, 1885.

 

Today, midwifery is an internationally recognized profession. The American College of Nurse-Midwives includes the primary health care of women and their newborn children. A Certified Nurse-Midwife (CNM) is a woman who is educated in nursing and midwifery and who has certification according to the requirements of the American College of Nurse-Midwives. 

 

The nurse-midwifery practice manages women's health care, focusing on pregnancy, childbirth, the postpartum period, care of the newborn, and the family planning and gynecological needs of women. The Certified Nurse-Midwife practices within a health care system that provides consultation, collaborative management, or referral as shown by the client's health status.

 

Despite the evolution of medicine, Granny Women continued to practice the healing arts that had been handed down from mother to daughter. Instilled in the women, they did whatever was necessary to care for their family and friends, in sickness and health. 

 

The herb garden was grown right alongside the vegetable garden. In the fields and woods, native plants, trees, and flowers grew abundantly, offering healing properties for those who gathered and gleaned. 

 

In this modern world, some scoff at and become quite angry with the thought of people seeking holistic health and "folk," "home," or "natural" remedies. And, of course, after doctors spend countless years of study and pay for it all, they do not want to hear of someone seeking backwoods cures. 

 

But herbs are a big industry. Herbal stores and natural food stores run a brisk business. Women have always known how to care for themselves. I remember my grandmothers using herbs and plants to put a meal on the table and to heal what ailed us. I remember the herb garden near the smokehouse in the old home. I'm proud to have documentation of a Granny Woman in my family history, and I celebrate my 2^nd great-grandmother, Nancy Smith Johnson.

 

References for this article

Missouri History Museum: Genealogy and Local History Index

Missouri Medical College (http://digitalcommons.wustl.edu/missouri); an online workshop, "Herbal Lore and The Historic Medicinal Uses of Herbs"

The obituary of Nancy Johnson from the Wheaton Journal on DVD, courtesy of the MO Historical Society, of which I own a copy 

Disclaimer: In writing this article, I make no claims to persuade people to choose folk remedies over a medical doctor should a person have an illness. I write historical articles about exciting topics and especially enjoy researching women and history. With that in mind, I will give you information about midwifery in Southwest Missouri.