FOR MOST OF THE CENTURY: CHANGES (PART 46)

Jean Bell Mosley's new autobiography, "For Most of the Century," is only available in serialized form in the Southeast Missourian. Return each week for her continuing story.

I think, in time, Edward was glad, too, that I didn't win. After his recuperation, for the next four years, we spent days and days in the Indian relic country of Southeast Missouri. Knowing many farmers in that region, we got permission to roam their fields, fence rows and creek banks for the artifacts. We did no digging but collected quite a lot, the best of which was displayed at the local museum for many years.

An authority on such artifacts from the University of Missouri studied our collection, assigning age and rarity. Among our best specimens were a perfect banner stone, a perfect white Clovis Point and several perfect Dalton points in addition to drills, plumb bobs, beads, tomahawks, hatchets and hundreds of arrowheads.

Edward found this activity so all-absorbing, he did not hunt or fish anymore. I not only enjoyed looking for the relics, but, being out in the fields, meadows, old fence rows, by creek banks suited me just fine. Sometimes while Edward kept on roaming the fields, I might sit in the shade of a tree, take out pen and small notebook, which were always in some pocket and write something about the resting fields of America such as this:

"The resting fields of America have never been promoted as attractions for tourists. What's a big expanse of corn stubble or bean leavings? Winding rivers, steep bluffs, placid lakes, mighty mountains are the things pictured on come-and-see-'em brochures and post cards. But the fields are part of America the Beautiful even when they are not waving their amber grains. They lie so peaceful and still under the shifting sun, some flat, some artfully sloping up to the horizon. You have to see these resting fields through eyes that have seen them full cycle, over and over again, to know they are poems in terms of corn, wheat, cotton, sheen of new turned soil, coolness to bare feet, sweat to the brow, brown wombs of the spiritual as well as the material. So friendly, so good are the fields.

"I have known the young robust fields, newly cleared, dark, rich, bursting with turnips and potatoes, pumpkins and sugar cane. They are hurried. Up from old leaf mold, dead grasses, burnt brush, they smell of fertility. They are vain -- young upstarts with morning glories making work for hoes and rakes and plows and cultivators.

"Mature fields, long devoid of cockleburs, bindweed and rotting stumps, go about their business as usual, straight-forward in straw hat and sturdy blue overalls. Corn does not grow quite as tall, wheat quite as rank as in the new fields. But here is steady, reliable purpose.

"In quiet hours, it is to the old fields my thoughts return. Pleasant are they, full of daisies, timothy, dewberry vines, with clumps of black-eyed Susans, Queen Anne's lace, fleabane, all slight with the glow of yellow candlesticks of mullen. Here the butterflies flit from flower to flower.

"These are the resting fields, tranquil, serene. They have seen crops and crops. Long-tailed plow horses and big-eared mules have, in other years, tugged and strained and pulled, making the deep virgin furrows. But now they rest, gaining strength for some future use.

"Happiness lives in such fields, though you will not, searching, meet her head-on."

Being addicted to the work ethic as Edward was, he was very disappointed that, after a suitable period of recuperation, the Southeast Missouri Printing and Litho Company for whom he had heretofore worked all his working life, did not offer him some sort of less strenuous work than the heavy lifting required at the presses. There were many things that he could have done. He even suggested being a salesman on a commission basis, but, no, not that either. I suppose the already employed salesmen objected.

After trying all avenues and arguments, Edward, subsequently went to another local newspaper, The Bulletin Journal and, citing his long experience in the printing business, was awarded a salesman's position on a commission basis. Being employed again did much to rally his self esteem.

Stephen leaves home

Stephen left home slowly and by degrees which made it easier for all of us.

After graduating from college he went to teach at the high school at New Athens, Illinois. He came home on weekends. So it seemed he was still at home. After the school year at New Athens, he decided that if he was to climb the salary ladder, he'd better go for his master's degree. He resigned at New Athens to come home and work on his further education, attending Southeast Missouri State University for the 1967-68 year.

In the spring of 1968 he was employed as a teacher in the Sikeston, Missouri Middle School. He commuted from home for a little while before moving into a local apartment, not alone, but with two cats. He had been around cats all his life and I suppose he thought them as necessary as a chair, table or bed. He continued teaching at the Sikeston Middle School until 1972, finishing his master's degree in summer terms.

Stephen's high school graduation was such a satisfying affair. It was at Houck Field (the football gridiron). The sun was just setting and already there was a moon in the sky. A soft breeze teased the tassels hanging from the mortar boards. His master's degree graduation, in the Houck Field House was less pleasant. The packed house was so stifling hot the speaker who gave about a 30 second speech got tremendous applause.

All through high school and college Stephen had dated many pretty girls, but when he met Peggy Matthews of Sikeston, I suppose he thought, "This is it." And it was for twelve years. They were married in front of the fireplace at Peggy's home in Sikeston, 824 N. Ranney, April 21, 1973, 27 years and one day after Stephen's birth. It was Stephen's first marriage, Peggy's second. The happy event of this marriage was the birth of a beautiful granddaughter, Lauren Patricia Mosley.

However, before Lauren's arrival, there was another sadness to endure.

~Jean Bell Mosley is an author and longtime resident of Cape Girardeau.