Tanglefoot Tales

Act One

It’s been called the Great Famine. The nineteenth century’s wide-spread starvation of the poor and landless Irish people not only decimated Ireland, but cut a wide swath through Scotland as well. The loss of revenue had a devastating impact on the lives and economic conditions of the Scottish people. The Adams clan hailed from Perth, Scotland. For over one-hundred years the family’s inn, situated close to the River Tay, was a magnet for weary travelers. But by 1850, after five long, hard years of barely having enough food to eat, Clyde Adams and his extended family, along with hundreds of other Scottish people, set sail for America.

A few weeks before this momentous decision to journey westward, on the 13th of November 1850 to be exact, W. J. ‘William Jasper’ Adams came into this world with a club foot. Now, as a wee babe of six-months, with no awareness at all of his surroundings, except his mother’s breast, W. J. left the mountains and heaths of Scotland forever. By 1850 boat fares for immigrants coming to America had radically dropped in price to a new low of $10-per-adult, $5 for children under the age of twelve. Infants such as W. J. rode free.

Once the Adams family disembarked at Ellis Island, they lined-up with the rest of the oppressed, destitute and hungry. After their papers had been examined with a magnifying glass by customs, then stamped ‘U. S. A. Approved’, the family patriarch, Clyde Adams, chose not to remain on the East Coast. Instead, the thrifty Scot with the thick sandy-colored beard, along with the rest of the Adams family, trekked overland to the West.

The Adams women-folk were given the option of riding in an ox cart, but true to their stout nature, most of the females, even Granny Lillian Adams, made the trip on shank’s mare. St. Louis, Missouri was the “Pray to God we make it” ultimate destination. After passing under the wooden arch that led to the Gateway to the West, Clyde Adams settled in South St. Louis. He found work in Gussie Busch’s brewery, and by the sweat of his brow, the former innkeeper made the beer by day, but at night he secretly longed to be back in Perth.

****

It was the middle of August. The year was 1871. To stay cool, Clyde and W. J. Adams sat on the front porch sipping lukewarm lemonade. W. J. had just recently married his American sweetheart, Sallie McKinney. The newlywed held his glass containing the murky liquid up to the light.

“Ice?”

Clyde took a sip of lemonade, then answered, “This winter we harvested enough ice to fill half the root cellar. But there’s none left, now.”

“Ha. Harvesting ice? Father, that’s the old-fashioned way. Why, I hear-tell someone invented a machine that can make water solid as—as a rock.”

Tanglefoot, Missouri

Clyde’s voice was almost a whisper. “I’ll tell you one thing, whoever invents that--that ice machine will wind up a rich man.”

Since the conversation had switched to the accumulation of wealth, W. J. said, “You know, Father, I’ve saved up enough greenbacks to purchase some farmland.”

As he sat tugging on his grayish beard, Clyde studied his son for a long time, then chose his words carefully. “You are twenty-one-years-old. That’s old enough to make your own decisions.” Clyde let his gaze drop down to look at his son’s foot. “Some might think that club was a curse from God, but for you, my Son, it’s been a blessing.”

“You’re right, Father. The suffering has allowed me to see things as they are, a competitive, dog-eat-dog world that’s up for grabs to whoever has the nerve to strike out on his own. Don’t worry about me, Father. When the pain in my foot becomes intolerable, I take a dose of Godfrey’s Cordial. The opium soothes the sting.”

“Ah, Godfrey’s Cordial,” Clyde whispered. “A mother’s friend. Yes, Son, that should do the trick.” The old man leaned back and eyeballed W. J. “Where do you plan to invest your savings? Not in St. Louis, I hope. The prices are too high. Too many people are coming to the city. In St. Louis, they hold real estate dear.”

“I know that, Father. It may be dirt to you and me but to the locals their land is good as gold.” W. J. nodded in a southerly direction. “I’m headed for Tanglefoot.” There were questions in Clyde’s eyes. W. J. explained, “Tanglefoot is south of here--about thirty miles as the crow flies with maybe six or seven houses, or I should say shacks. Main Street is nothing but a muddy rutted cow path with no buildings of note. So, what do you think, Father, about my plan, that is?”

Clyde picked up his well-worn briar pipe, then stuffed the blackened bowl with tobacco that had been grown on his neighbor’s huge backyard. With aromatic smoke drifting slowly from his nostrils, Clyde nodded. “I think you’ve made the right decision, Son. But take heed, farming might pay the bills. How will you become a rich man?”

“I’m going to be like you once were, Father, when you lived back in Perth. My dream is to one day become an innkeeper.” 

W. J. Adams did move to Tanglefoot. His wife, Sallie, was a stay-at-home mom, who kept busy with four little Adams’, Jasper, William, Esther and Beulah. It wasn’t long before the clubfooted son of a frugal Scotchman became the largest landowner in Jefferson County Missouri. By 1881 the thirty-one-year-old entrepreneur had accumulated enough wealth to make his dream of owning a grand hotel come true.

Facing south, W. J. stood in the middle of Tanglefoot’s Main Street. He shielded his eyes from the sun’s glare with his hand while looking at a weed-choked lot. Except for an old log cabin squatting on the very back of the property, the narrow space was an empty no-man’s land. Most of the other lots on Main St. were also vacant. A few had been marked-off with wooden red-head surveying stakes that stuck out of the ground at odd angles.

W. J. turned to the man standing by his side, and asked, “What is the exact legal description for this lot?”

The smallish man with a long nose and a black handlebar mustache opened a green ledger book. After adjusting his spectacles, he scanned the entries, all entered by his wife who earlier that year had won the Penmanship Blue Ribbon for calligraphy at the Missouri State Fair. Finally, the man looked up and said, “Let’s see, Mr. Adams, you purchased this particular lot five years ago from a Mr. David Stewart. The legal description is--number thirty-eight Main Street. Lot number two, part of Block thirty-two.”

“What about the lots on either side, do I own those?”

The man nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes you do, Mr. Adams. And many of the other lots on Tanglefoot Main Street. Plus, all the farm land east of town.” The man cleared his throat, then asked, “Not that it’s any of my business, Mr. Adams. But, what sort of establishment do you plan to build, another watering hole for all those thirsty Missouri mules?”

W. J. struck a kitchen match on the grip of the derringer sticking out from his vest pocket, then used the flaming tip to light a Partagas cigar, a large one that had been hand-rolled in Cuba. With his face hidden in a cloud of white cigar smoke, W. J. declared, “I plan to build the Adams Hotel on this land. It will be something that all Tanglefootians can be proud of. And a hotel is something the town will one day desperately need.”
The man snickered. “Mr. Adams, don’t you know? There’s only one thing folks in Tanglefoot need?” The man lifted his hand and pretended to chug-a-lug his thumb. Then, he snickered, again.

“Ha, don’t fool yourself, my boy. One day Tanglefoot will be a town filled with people. There’ll be buildings up and down Main Street, some as tall as three stories--maybe more.”

“But Mr. Adams, why would anybody want to come here?” the man asked, pointing at one of the ramshackle, lean-to juke joints that had been hastily nailed together. “All we got here is saloons and whorehouses.” Then, the man turned. “Saaay,” he said, drawing out the word. “W. J., ah--is there something wrong with your face.?”

“No, no. Everything is fine. I’m just doing my daily face-exercising routine.” A perceptive W. J. could tell from the look on the other man’s face that the little guy wasn’t satisfied with the brief explanation. “For many years,” W. J. rumbled, “I’ve been addicted to opium and morphine.” He pointed to his left foot. “I was born with a club, it’s a constant reminder of man’s fragility and source of pain. To relieve my suffering, I became addicted to patent medicines. But now, by the grace of God in heaven, and Professor Anthony Barker from New York City, I’m kicking my drug habit by exercising the muscles in my face.”

“Why, Mr. Adams, I had no idea,” the man said, his mouth dropping open.

“Professor Barker guarantees that after six months of making faces, four times a day, if I’m not drug free, then I’ll get my ten dollars back. Now, to answer your question on why would anyone bother to come to Tanglefoot.” There was fire in W. J.’s words when he raised his arm in the air, and declared, “Because Tanglefoot is going to become a God-fearing town. How, you ask? Through reason, or by God with force if necessary. I swear, the good citizens will one day kick their alcohol addiction. I know bad habits can be eradicated. Why, hell man, look at me. Alleluia, I’m almost cured.”

The man had an incredulous look on his face when he asked, “You mean, Mr. Adams, to make them stop boozing, you’ll have everyone in Tanglefoot make funny faces?”

“No, no,” W. J. boomed. “We’ll invite the Women’s Temperance League to town. That should get the females stirred-up. Not only will we bring the fear of God down on the thirsty sots, I will rename Tanglefoot.”

The man gasped. “Mr. Adams, no.”

W. J. snorted and inadvertently thumped cigar ashes on the man’s boots. “Oh, yes. As a matter of fact, I’m going to do that very thing right here and now.” W. J. looked down his nose at the smaller man. “You’re the city secretary, are you not, Mr. Finnigan?” The man nodded. “Plus, you’re a notary, right?” The man nodded, again. “Good, now go get the little Bible I carry in my surrey and bring it to me.”

When the Bible was in his possession, W. J. held it high in the air. He took a deep breath, looked at the man, and said, “Wherever the Good Book falls open, I want you to tell me the first name you see. Got that?” Finnigan slowly nodded. “Okay then, here goes.”

The Bible fell open. After adjusting his bottle-glass wire-rim spectacles, the man leaned in closer to study the small print. It took a moment, but when the word finally came into focus, the man gasped.

“What is it, man?” W. J. barked.

Finnigan turned to look up at heaven, then whispered the word of God taken directly from the Bible, “Festus.”

To be continued…

Act Two

#38 Main St.

Before construction began on his grand hotel, W. J. Adams paid a visit to his sister Beulah, who owned an herb shop in New Orleans’ French Quarter. While taking a leisurely stroll along Bourbon St., W. J. stopped dead in his tracks. He pointed to a three-story building across the street. “By Jove,” he exclaimed. “There it is.”

Beulah shielding her eyes from the bright sunlight with a Chinese parasol, asked, “There what is?”

“My hotel.”

“B-but, W. J.,” Beulah sputtered, “that’s a house of ill repute.”

“Nonetheless,” W. J. said, pulling a daily diary and a sharpened lead pencil from his coat pocket.

He started making a sketch of the building. When he finished, W. J. held up the out-of-proportion rendition for Beulah’s inspection. “My hotel in Festus will look exactly like that whorehouse.”

****

W. J. was a man true to his word. It was at 38 Main St. that he constructed a square, three-story French Colonial building with a steeply pitched roof and wide hipped overhangs. The windowed gables on all four sides of the hotel gave all the guests rooms with a view. In anticipation of a Mardi Gras parade that never materialized, an outside balcony was installed on the second floor facing Festus’ main drag. To keep the ever-present mud from soiling dainty button-up pumps, or white satin spats, a wood sidewalk fronted the building. Everything wooden, including the hitching post out front, was whitewashed.

By the late 1880’s Adams’ Hotel was ready for occupancy. W. J. Adams, his wife Sallie and their four children occupied two rooms on the hotel’s third floor. Much to the family’s dismay business was slow. As a matter-of-fact the green frog hides were barely trickling in. It was a somber W. J. and Sallie who sat in the hotel’s empty café. Sipping his third cup of chicory coffee of the day, W. J. sighed. His voice was almost a whisper when he asked, “What are we going to do, wife? Building this hotel has just about cleaned us out. If it wasn’t for the sharecroppers on the east side of town, we’d be scratching dirt with the chickens.”

Sallie wiped breadcrumbs from the smooth round wooden table into her apron. “This town you renamed,” she said. “This Festus. It’s still way out in the sticks. That’s why nobody comes to our hotel. Why is it that we don’t have a big company in Festus, like they do in Crystal City?”

“Our twin city.” W. J. spit out the three words. “And, P. P. G. They can both go to--.

“W. J.”

“Bah. The company bigwigs at P. P. G. built their Crystal City Hotel right next to the damn glass plant.”

“If it wasn’t for that glass plant, husband, we’d have no business at all.” Sallie quietly stewed for a couple of minutes, then said, “Here’s what we’re going to do. You will start driving a hack. We’ve still have that bay mare.”

“A hack?” W. J. exclaimed. “I’m not a taxi driver, I’m an innkeeper. Besides, Dolly is what? Almost twenty?”

“That nag’s not dead yet,” Sallie commented. “Right now, you’ll do any job that keeps the wolf from our door.”

“Okay, okay,” W. J. said with a sigh. “I drive the hack. And where may I ask do I pick up my fares?”

“At Bailey Station.”

“But that’s clear out in Hanover, west of Festus. The road is terrible.”

“I know, husband, I know. But that’s where your fares get off the train. Instead of them staying at that flop-house in Crystal City, you pick them up and bring them back here, to the Adams’ Hotel.” Sallie finished the remainder of her black, honey sweetened chicory coffee. She started to rise, but stopped to look at W. J. “Now, what are you going to do about Charlie Conners?” she asked.

W. J. had a small grin on his face. “Old Charlie’s been living in that log cabin since way before we got to Tanglefoot. Maybe even before emancipation.”

“But keeping a Negro man on the property? Are you sure that’s wise, husband?”

Making eye-to-eye contact with his wife, W. J. said, “The color of Charlie’s skin is of no concern, to me, nor should it be to you or anyone else. Charlie stays right where he is. Besides, wife, it’s wise to keep the hotel’s number-one shoe-shine boy, janitor, maintenance man, cook and porter on the property, right?”

“Fine,” Sallie huffed. “Now, husband, will you please stop making those ridiculous face contortions. You’ve been doing that all morning.”

“Yes, I have. And thanks to Professor Barker, I’m—I’m almost drug free.”

****

In 1890, to further supplement the Adams family income, W. J. ran for Festus Tax Collector and won. Sallie, along with the four children, opened a shop in the Adams’ Hotel where they sold confections, notions, toys, school supplies, cigars, loose tobacco, but no liquor. Much to his dismay, W. J.’s face exercising experiment had started to fail. His opium habit had returned with a vengeance. In 1900, W. J. traveled by train to Hot Springs, Arkansas, for the water cure. While he was convalescing in the steam baths, Mrs. Pat Portell took on the job of hotel manager. Then, on October 14, 1913, for some unexplained reason, Mrs. Portell hurriedly left Festus to live with her son in Desoto.

A Mrs. Butts from the lead belt took over as Adams’ Hotel manager and Charles B. Robbason opened a hack stand in the lobby. On November 7th 1919, the Adams’ Hotel and the property it was situated on, was sold to P. S. ‘Philip Samson’ Terry. After the hotel changed hands, Mrs. Butts continued as manager. Mr. P. S. Terry moved his law office into a suite of three rooms on the third floor that had been renovated by Sam Snider a local contractor.

A month after the Adams’ Hotel changed hands, on December 5th, 1919, W. J. Adams decided to bid farewell to Festus. But not before the town’s ex-mayor, Mr. P. S. Terry, dedicated a street in the departee’s honor. The wide avenue that ran mostly north/south, divided the farmland to the east from the general business district to the west. At the bon-voyage ceremony, held at the intersection of Main and Adams St., W. J. waved to the assembled crowd of Festonians and Crystal Citians.

“Thank you for this most cherished privilege,” W. J. said. “If my father were alive today to see this—this Adams Street, he would have been honored. I know for a fact that it made him proud that I called Festus my hometown.” Once the crowd’s cheering died down, W. J. continued. “But now, dear friends and gentle hearts, I must take leave of you and Festus.” W. J. had to stop and wheeze for a moment. The patent medicines he was taking for his drug addiction weren’t any better than the opium laden quack remedies. When he finally caught his breath and was able to speak, W. J. addressed the man standing to his right. “I can only depart knowing that Mr. P. S. Terry will helm my beloved Adams Hotel.” Another cheer from the crowd, then, “So, farewell, Festus, and to all of you. To everyone, I bid a fond adieu.”

Act Three

Terry, Terry and Terry 

P. S. Terry was born and raised in the southwestern part of Missouri. After graduating from Tulsa University Law School in 1900, a twenty-four-year-old Mr. Terry immigrated from his home in Springfield, Missouri, all the way to Festus. In 1902, P. S. Terry married Lucy Simpson and was practicing tort law from an office in the parlor of his home on North Mill St.

The struggling attorney’s big break came in 1905. It was early afternoon. P. S. Terry was in the parlor with Grace, his oldest child. There was another child on the way, to be named Philip or Phyllis. Trying to corral Grace’s long, wild blonde curls with a red ribbon, P. S. heard the front door open then close with a Bang.

“Mister P. Mister P,” came the high-pitched voice of a young boy.

P. S. hollered, “I’m in the parlor, Jefferson.” When the young boy came running into the library, he skidded to a halt. P. S. asked, “Jefferson, why do you come stompin’ in here sounding like a herd of wild elephants? What’s got your bowels all in an uproar?”

“There’s been a big wreck, Mr. P. Right at the corner of Mill and Main.”

“Hmmmm. Is it blocking traffic, Jefferson?”
“Sure is, Mr. P. Hay wagons are backed up all the way to—to that funny lookin’ building on West Main.”

“Ah, yes, the public library. Don’t suppose you’ve ever darkened those halls. Am I right, Jefferson?”

The young boy shuffled his bare feet, nodded, and mumbled, “No Sir, I mean yes Sir, Mr. P.”

“Alright, Jefferson, don’t look so glum.” P. S. Terry reached across his desk to snag a licorice whip from a crystal bowl. He handed the black rope over to Jefferson. “Here, chew on this. You’re a good runner, my boy. That tidbit of information you have just provided might make me a wealthy man.”

The accident at Main and Mill was between a mule-drawn manure spreader and a brand-new shiny 1905 Ford Model C. Called the surrey with a canvas top, the Model C was a two-seated beauty brought to life by the Henry Ford Automobile Company that sat up high off the ground on four semi-balloon tires. When P. S. Terry arrived on the scene the manure spreader was still upright, but its driver was lying face-down in the mud. The Model C had tipped over on its side. P. S. eyed the automobile’s driver, and her female passenger. The pair seemed to be unhurt and in good spirits, giggling, as if they were downright drunk.

Philip Samson (P. S.) Terry

P. S. Terry sprang into action. The handsome, young lawyer rushed over to kneel in the mud next to the farmer. After pulling the man’s face out of the muck, P. S. turned him over on his back, used his handkerchief to wipe brown slime from the man’s lips, then gave mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. By this time a large crowd had gathered around the gruesome scene. Seconds went by, until finally, the farmer gagged, choked then spilled his guts, soiling P. S.’s linen hanky. In unison the crowd yelled, “Eureka”. P. S. Terry had breathed life back into the man. From that day forward, no one dared call the young attorney from Festus an ambulance chaser.

****

During the Festus mayoral campaign of 1913, folks referred to candidate P. S. Terry as Quintus Sertorius, a Roman statesman noted for his flowery oratory flourishes. Practically everyone in the Twin Cities had been present that day in district court when P. S. Terry represented the injured plaintiff who had been driving the manure spreader. P. S. looked each of the twelve men in the eye before speaking.

“When we speak of an advocate, we refer to someone who takes pride in helping others, rather than himself. That’s why I’m here today, standing in front of you gentlemen, so you can get a real good look at me. That’s right, me, P. S. Terry. Why?” P. S. turned to point at the farmer. “Because I represent the man sitting over there. When I describe the horrible injuries the plaintiff suffered at the hands of the defendant, I’ll be speaking for my client.” P. S. turned toward the jury. “The first question that must come to mind is, how can I trust P. S. Terry to tell the truth? Before I left for law school, my daddy told me that you can’t make a lawyer honest by an act of congress. No sir-eee. That ain’t the way it works, folks. To see what makes him tick, you gotta’ take a peek inside a man’s head. If the person standing before you has somehow misplaced his conscience, then he’s no advocate. He’s nothing but a paid shill.” P. S. gave his words a couple of seconds to seep into the juries brainpans, then continued, “Today, the words I speak in this courtroom come from a clear conscience. There’s no doubt in my mind, nor there should be in yours, that Elizabeth G. Oakes, daughter of G. W. Oakes, plant manager of the Pittsburg Plate Glass Company, Crystal City, Missouri, did willfully and intentionally cause physical pain and emotional suffering to my client.”

In District Court, P. S. Terry charged that the young lady, who he claimed was inebriated while behind the wheel of the Model C, flagrantly ran through the stop sign at Main and Mill, t-boning Mr. Jackson’s manure spreader, knocking the poor man off his seat into the muddy street, where he almost died from asphyxiation. In addition, during the avoidable accident, Mr. Jackson also suffered nerve damage to his leg which was broken in three places.

The monetary settlement between the injured farmer and the insurance company was undisclosed, but on December 21, 1917, with his bank account overflowing with tort money, P. S. Terry moved into new quarters at #38 Main St. At the time Miss Ethel Mason was P. J.’s stenographer, but she was soon replaced by Festus beauty queen, Lillian Bauer. Miss Bauer shuffled P. S. Terry’s legal paperwork until 1926, when Irma Siebert took over the job.

****

In November 1926, while Calvin Coolidge was still in his second term as U. S. president, P. S. Terry ran for a state political office. Not one to stray too far off the script, P. S. espoused the Republican platform. “I’m opposed to the League of Nations,” P. S. bellowed. “America cannot disarm in the face of renewed conflicts around the globe. To keep American workers working, I also support high tariffs. If elected, I’ll make sure there are more federal government subsidies for Missouri farmers.”

It was in private conversations with Missouri’s men at the top of the economic heap that P. S. Terry advocated tort reform. The question asked was why a lawyer, one who made his fortune suing for damages, wanted to restrict his own brethren? It seems that P. S. had a new-found interest in promoting corporate business interests which translated into bigger campaign contributions. After P. S. won the election for state senator, Lucy Terry stayed home while her husband left Festus with his new stenographer, Bernice LaJaune. The pair traveled back and forth to Jefferson City, where P. S. held office until he fell ill in 1934.

To keep a roof over his head and make enough money to cover the many repairs demanded by his renters at #38 Main St., P. S. Terry called on his two grown children, Grace and Philip, who were both attorneys. The three Terrys opened the Terry, Terry and Terry law practice in the old Adams Hotel.

On June 11, 1936, P. S. Terry was standing in front of the jury box inside the Jefferson County Courthouse located in Hillsboro, Missouri. P. S. had just finished his summation for the plaintiff, a young female school teacher who had lost her teaching contract because she was caught smoking on the school grounds. Just as P. S. turned to walk back to his chair, he clutched his chest with his right hand and moaned. A second later, the lawyer from Springfield lay sprawled face down on the courthouse floor, dead from a heart attack.

Without proper maintenance the old Adams Hotel at 38 Main St. deteriorated to such a point that one night, as Judge R. F. Panchot danced the tango in his third-floor apartment with his Argentinian lover, the old man stomped his foot a little too forceful on the wooden floor. The rotten plank gave way and the judge’s leg wound up dangling from the ceiling into the room below. Over the years a doctor, two lawyers, a bank and a social security office occupied the Adams Hotel. Finally, sometime after World War II, Grace and Philip Terry sold the broken-down building at #38 Main St. to Jack Thurman. By the time Dwight Eisenhower took over the highest office in the land, Thurman hired a team of house-movers to literally pick up the hotel and place it on the back of the lot where Charlie Conners’ cabin had once stood. Still not satisfied with the eyesore’s location, Thurman had the hotel moved further south, all the way across the alley. The Adams Hotel stayed abandoned, until the late fifties when this most iconic landmark building in Festus was torn down to make room for a parking lot.

Tags: Irish Potato Famine, Ellis Island, Irish Immigrants, Anheuser-Busch, Ice Machine, Missouri State Fair, New Orleans, French Quarter, P. P. G., Henry Ford, Calvin Coolidge, Missouri.