I Remember Trenton – Fourth Of July 1947

By Rex Burress
Uncles were always special to a Trenton farm boy in the 1940’s; at least my uncle, Lynn Moore was always a highlight hero of my youth.
It is July 4, 2013 as I write about those recollections and I remember a super special Fourth in Trenton on a hot 1947 summer day when Uncle Lynn and family drove up from Brookfield. My mother’s brother was a Metropolitan Insurance agent and always had the latest model of car always filled with hunting and fishing equipment and other surprises. He indeed enlightened my common-place life.
Uncle Lynn had grown up on the Moore family farm south of the Highway 6, Dunlap Corner, and, like me, was keen on hunting and fishing, a trait that lingered into his adult life. On the ‘47 Fourth, he had a new red Ford in keeping with his business life. But as usual, he wanted to go fishing. Although he was quite at home with No Creek’s bullheads, he proposed to go out to “Grand” River to catch a big one. That was an awesome treat for creek people when going the six miles to Trenton on Saturdays was a major trip.
We took shelter from the firecrackers under the Charlie Dye bridge, even though cherry bombs were tossed from passing cars. That didn’t help our fishing luck and it wasn’t until Tidy Kincade came down to get away from the firecracker war in town and to cool off with a little handfishing that I made the catch of the year. Tidy scared a big channel catfish out of the rocks and it streaked directly to my perch-baited hook.
Uncle Lynn, my Dad and I stumbled around on the rocks wrestling that fish. Finally, the streamlined cat was landed and we triumphantly returned home. But not before Uncle Lynn stopped at a fruit stand in Trenton to load some melons. He never passed a fruit stand without stopping and considered himself an expert “thumper,” a carryover from his farm days. He would thump some choice mushmelons and watermelons and usually they were ripe. The word “cantaloupe” was not en vogue in those Missouri melon days.
You see, Lynn had been raised in a time of “truck patches,” just as I was; a rugged garden of a few acres tucked on a hill at the backend of the farm, where so many “roasting ears,” squash, tomatoes, watermelons and mushmelons were raised it took a truck to haul them out, and in our case, a horse-drawn, iron-rimmed wagon with sideboards.
Our patch on the Buckert farm was tended once a week in an all-day session with a picnic in the shade of the wagon. When I could hoe no longer, I was allowed to go exploring down the ditch with my little rat terrier “Boots.” Then there was new-found energy to chase the groundhog, climb drifts and hunt arrowheads.
Uncle Lynn’s dad, Albert Moore, had his truck patch along a hedge row overlooking No Creek. And even though it was isolated, some teenagers found the lush watermelons and decided to “share” a few. Grandpa got word of the thievery, grabbed some shells and sped back there in the dusk. Well, he had forgotten the gun, but when he confronted the five thieves, he pointed a shell at them and yelled, “Stop, or I’ll shoot.” The sheepish neighbor boys meekly carried the watermelons they had picked back to grandpa’s house and then he cut one and shared slices with the thieves. You don’t always need to go to court to settle conflicts.
Another notable holiday with Uncle Lynn happened on Uncle Frank Meeker’s farm, also adjacent to No Creek up by Bunker Hill. Uncle Lynn, cousin Richard, age 6, and me, age 9, decided to walk the mile across the bottomland to the creek, where the original waterway meandered amid some good fishing holes. Of course, Uncle Lynn had his fine steel rods and reels and a minnow bucket for bait. We settled down to lure some bullheads from a good spot, but with Uncle Lynn’s first cast into the middle of the hole, he was struck with a startling strike. He heaved back and then was pulled down over the high bank with a shout of “Jesus Christ,” either praying or otherwise – an incredulous exclamation of surprise. There was no trouble in pulling the giant channel cat out of that small hole of water. I knew Uncle Lynn to be somewhat religious, but I had never heard him vocalize like that. We laughed all the way uphill, and even Uncle Frank couldn’t believe such a big fish came from that small No Creek. It could rage in flood times, though.
While the war against firework use is raging now, especially in eastern America, the 1940’s was almost a continual roar of giant explosions. Although I find them objectionable in present times, not only from the noise, but from the fire danger and the fright they give animals, I’ll admit I was caught up in firecracker stuff as a boy. No place in Trenton was free of explosive expressions. It got devious as dangerous combinations were experimented with; bottle bombs, “rockers” and the more noise the better. Firecrackers were so cheap you could afford to set off a whole string of 100 crackers in one gallant show of patriotism. Of course, it was to celebrate the Declaration of Independence, even though very few could explain that story or why it took fireworks to do the job.
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