The Shoot-Out At the Red Crown Tavern

Near my house in rural Platte County, Missouri stands this historical marker.

The Red Crown Tourist Court and the Red Crown Tavern stood just off of Highway 71 (now I-29), ready to provide shelter and nourishment for weary travelers. On July 18, 1933 (or maybe July 19th according to some accounts), just such a group checked into the adjoining cabins. Clyde Barrows and his girlfriend Bonnie Parker, along with members of their gang needed some time to heal up from a spate of robberies and shoot-outs.

One of the double cabins

Bonnie had been badly burned in a one-car accident nearly a month before, but a bungled robbery by W.D. Jones and Clyde’s brother, Buck, had forced them to keep moving. Now, Clyde, against his brother’s advice, decided the Red Crown Tourist Court would be the place to hole up for a few days.

The Red Crown Tavern with cabins behind

One bad decision led to another…and another. Clyde thought to disguise their numbers by renting the cabins for three people instead of five, so when Blanche, Buck’s wife, kept ordering food for five, the cabins’ owner began to get suspicious. Clyde had also backed the car into the garage “gangster style” and subsequently covered the cabins’ windows with newspaper.

Well, Platte City might not have been a sophisticated metropolis, but its citizens knew odd behavior when they saw it.

Unfortunately, local sheriff Holt Coffey had trouble convincing the sheriff of Kansas City’s Jackson County to assist. The man simply didn't believe there could possibly be notorious gangsters in Platte City. Sheriff Coffey was finally able to wheedle a couple officers with weapons and an armored car.

Blanche, acting as the go-fer for the gang, began to notice some rather unusual attention from the locals. Clyde told her it was her imagination.

Consequently, on the morning of July 20, 1933, when Sheriff Coffey armed to the teeth and carrying a shield made of boilerplate pounded on Clyde’s cabin door, the gang was completely unprepared.

After a brief burst of gunfire, Clyde and Jones bundled Bonnie into the car and waited for the other two to join them, but the officers had pulled the armored car across their path. When Buck and Blanche made their dash for the car, the law opened fire, hitting Buck in the temple.

Meanwhile, the officers in the armored car, having sustained considerable damage, pulled the car away from the cabins.

Blanche succeeded in getting her injured husband into the car and the gang took advantage of their opportunity.

The lawmen offered no pursuit. Four days later, the gang found themselves in another gun battle with the law—this time just outside Dexter, Iowa.

The already critically injured Buck and Blanche were captured, but the other three escaped. Buck died a few days later. Blanche was tried and sentenced to ten years in prison. She died in 1988.

Sheriff Coffey, who sustained two scratches from buckshot, got a lot of mileage out of being shot by Bonnie and Clyde. The other officers decided not to ruin his story. He’d actually been hit by friendly fire.

When Highway 71 became Interstate I-29, all traces of the Red Crown Tavern and Tourist Court were obliterated. But it still makes for a great local story!

Any good stories in your neck of the woods? 

~Lora Young

The Never-ending Quilt

I have some unique and special quilts from my husband’s two grandmothers. They aren't particularly beautiful, but I love them. I used them to give my oldest son some privacy in his loft bedroom.

When my middle son was about ten, he started begging for a quilt for his loft room. Since my husband was fresh out of grandmothers, I scoured the quilt books, determined to make him a special quilt of his very own. A friend of mine heard about my project and gave me a single quilt block as inspiration. I settled on a pattern called Wagon Tracks.

My friend’s quilt block had been made in the thirties so I decided to use thirties-inspired fabric in primary colors. I dutifully made four or five blocks and then life shoved the project to a back closet. A few years (!) later, he mentioned it, and I promised him it would be finished for his high school graduation…er…college graduation...uh…marriage?

He’s twenty-five now, graduated from college, and married. <sigh>

I thought better of promising its completion before their first child’s birth. Now I’m hoping to finish before the youngest grandchild goes to kindergarten, but I’m not making any promises.

Do you have any unfinished crafts lurking a closet or drawer? 

P.S. This poor quilt has been so neglected it took Bill and I three days to find it. I needed the pictures. Now it'll be tucked away again until I'm inspired (or pressured) to work on it. Don't judge. =op

Lora

Blooming Blessings

This is a little longer than most posts. I wrote a short story about the history of a plant in our yard that I didn't plant. I hope you enjoy it. Lora

May 1878, Five miles west of Smithville, Missouri

Sarah Anderson dribbled water onto the cloth surrounding a wilting vine. She could kick herself for letting it dry out. If Mama’s precious wisteria died, Sarah would bear the loss for the rest of her life. There’d be no going back to Virginia to get another cutting.

“Sarah?” Her husband, Will, held the hand of their toddling son. “You about finished? Little Ralph needs a diaper change, and we need to get this wagon unloaded.”

Sarah bobbed her head. “I hope it makes it. I’ve done my best to nurse it along.”

“I don’t know anybody better with plants than you are. You’re gonna be handy to have here on the farm.” He gave her the dimpled grin that had won her heart three years ago. “I know the train would’ve been faster, but the freight prices would’ve cleaned us out.”

“You don’t have to explain. I remember our reasons. It hasn’t been as bad a trip as some I’ve heard. The ferry over the Mississippi—that was pretty hair-raising, but the rest has been uneventful. We’ve been very blessed.”

#

May 1923

A welcomed rain shower splashed onto the purple-flowered vine climbing the fence. Looking out the farmhouse’s front window, Wilma Anderson whispered a prayer of gratitude. The dry spring had her new husband, Albert, fretting somethin’ awful. No rain meant no crops and no repairs to the roof. Wilma smiled as his brawny hands traced her waist and pulled her into a solid embrace.

“You’re as grateful for the rain watering that worthless wisteria vine as you are for it saving the corn crop.” His warm breath tickled her neck. “Wisteria don’t put food on the table, you know.”

“I know, but it puts joy in my soul. Your dad would grieve if his mama’s plant died.”

“Yeah, he would. I’d be kinda sorry myself.”

Wilma stroked Albert’s stubbly cheek. He acted tough in front of folks, but deep down, he was quite a softie. She was so very blessed.

#

May 1992

“Bill, could you cut out this rotten vine on the fence-row?” Lora Young brushed the hair from her eyes and shoved the garden trowel back into the tool bag. “It’s wrapping itself around my lilies, and I’m afraid it’s going to kill them. I’d do it myself, but there’s poison ivy in there too.”

“Let me grab the brush cutter.” He opened the shed and got to work.

Thirty minutes later, the once robust vine had been trimmed back to a few straggly bits clinging to the wire fence.

Not many husbands would have so readily done that job. Bill was first among her many blessings..

#

May 1993

Lora looked out the passenger seat window as Bill slowed to turn in the driveway. She frowned. “What are those flowers on the fence-row?”

Bill leaned forward. “Don’t know. Let’s take a look.”

A few minutes later, after getting her little girl out of the booster seat, Lora followed Bill and their two boys across the lawn. As she walked, a heavenly fragrance filled her nostrils. Deep green leaves covered twenty feet of the fence. Clusters of purple florets hung like grapes and dotted the vine

“This is the vine you trimmed last year.” Lora set down her wriggling daughter and fingered the dangling flowers. “Cutting it back must have encouraged it to bloom, and now we get to enjoy the blessing it brings.”

Could it be that God’s pruning will help us bloom?

Don't forget to post a comment to be entered into this week's giveaway!

Lora Young

Pack-rats Anonymous

It’s interesting how our parents’ experiences shape our lives. My dad was a young adult when the Great Depression hit. I’ll never know all the ways that experience affected him, but it did give him the tendency to save things. He wasn’t a hoarder—I don’t think… But when my sister and I cleaned out his house after his death, we found stacks and stacks of…things. Empty margarine tubs, electric cords that had been cut off appliances, way out-of-date canned goods.

I came into married life as a pack rat—inherited, I suppose, from my dad. To compound things, Bill has pack-rat leanings as well. About ten years ago, we decided to fight those propensities tooth and nail. We’ve done pretty well, I think, but I still have too many clothes. I’m always hoping my favorites will come back in style or that I’ll lose weight and fit into those cute jeans again.

Recently, though, God’s been reinforcing the “give and it shall be given to you” truth. When we hang on to things we don’t need, it’s either greed or fear driving that act. For my dad, I’m sure it was fear. For me? Umm…not so sure.

What do you think? Keep or give/throw away?

Lora Young

Revenge is Sweet

You know how sometimes you’ll be driving along, doing the speed limit and a car whizzes by you as if you were standing still? Then a couple miles down the road, you see that car again. Only this time, it’s stopped on the shoulder and there’s another car behind it. One with red and blue flashing lights. That feeling of elation. Of justification. Of smugness. If we’re honest with ourselves, we’ll acknowledge the little song playing in our brains. Nana-nana-boo-boo.

Every now and then, we hear of someone who gets a ticket they don’t deserve. They have to go to court to defend themselves. In other areas of our lives, sometimes we get criticized unfairly. We want to defend ourselves—and perhaps we should.

Sometimes we get criticized fairly, and we still want to defend ourselves.

I occasionally make a grammar or spelling error in a Facebook post. And get dinged for it. Publicly. As a writer, I feel those censures deeply. “It’s Facebook, for cryin’ in the night,” I want to scream. “I’m not getting paid for this. Don’t you have anything better to do?”

The critique is justified. But it burns. I think about it for hours. I come up with zingers that go unsaid to anyone except my family…and God.

He’s very good at reminding me of my desire to be like Jesus. Of my desire to show forth his glory through my writing. A writer has to have a thick skin. After all, not everyone is going to like what I write. If I’m ever published, I’ll have to deal with that. In a Christlike way. Might as well figure that out right now. After such a gentle rebuke from the Lord, I usually acknowledge the grammar mistake in a Facebook comment and endeavor to refrain from making excuses.

Then, weeks later, the grammar nazi makes a mistake in one of her posts. Oh, the temptation…the struggle within. The self-righteous longing to GET EVEN. I could correct her in love. Make sure he knows the rule.

But every time I refuse to act on those impulses, I win. I win the battle against my flesh and bring a smile to the face of Jesus.

That…that is sweet.

Can I get an Amen?

Red Scarves for Heart Health

I enjoy keeping my hands busy while talking with family or watching a movie. (If my hands are full of a craft, I can’t fill them with food. ) Unfortunately, I’m not very good at reading a crochet pattern. (Which is weird, because I read to learn everything else.) Consequently, when learning a new pattern, I make a scarf. I have so many crocheted scarves, I’m sick of them. But I really need to keep crocheting to keep from gaining any (more) weight. What’s a girl to do?

I tried to make baby afghans, thinking to donate them to a crisis pregnancy center, but  remember how I can’t read patterns? I refuse to show you a picture of my one attempt at a baby afghan.

My husband, who works at a hospital, found me the perfect opportunity to make my scarves and bless someone else in the process. WomenHeart, The National Coalition for Women with Heart Disease, provides local support for women living with heart disease. Local chapters deliver handmade red scarves, along with the WomenHeart “Red Bag of Courage” to women in hospitals throughout the country. The scarf and the packet of information remind women that they’re not alone in dealing with their illness.

The yarn must be any shade of red, and the scarf should be 4-5 inches wide and between 50-70 inches long. That’s it. It can be any pattern you choose. (What a terrific way to learn new patterns.)

You can find out more information here http://www.womenheart.org/?page=Programs_HSGetInvolv and here https://www.facebook.com/groups/172473329576212/?ref=ts&fref=ts .

This would be a great way to introduce knitting or crocheting to a daughter or granddaughter. Fun. Easy. Heartwarming. (No pun intended.)

Any other ideas for ways to bless others through easy crocheted or knitted projects?

~Lora Young