The Moore Spring

The spring is an enchanted place for me, nestled on the gentle slope of oak and hickory clad hills in the Southeastern Missouri Ozarks.  It speaks untold stories of drama and everyday life of my Moore and Wilson ancestors.  And I feel their essence and their gentle spirits every time I visit there.

I imagine the first person to drink from the spring beside the hill where the house of John W. Moore would come to stand, was virtually naked and drenched with sweat.  The tribal name by which his people called themselves certainly is lost in antiquity.  Hunting big game now extinct, the crisp, coolness of the water probably shocked and satisfied as surely as it still does today.

It is staggering when you think about it, how many of our family have found solace and comfort here.  John W. Moore and Eliza Berry Moore and sons arrived just prior to 1850 from Tennessee and whatever reasons for settling in this remote, rocky, place, the spring would have been critical to their settling just above Wet Fork Creek and within hearing of the gentle flowing waters of Otter Creek in Wayne County, Missouri.

On August 15, 2009 my brother Ken and I revisited the spring while searching for Daniel Moore’s old homestead.  Dan Moore was the son of John and Eliza Moore and was my Great Grandfather.  He was a cavalry soldier in the Civil War in many campaigns in Southeastern Missouri and Northeastern Arkansas, as well as a soldier patrolling the plains of Kansas and Nebraska to curtail Indian uprisings as the war came to its inevitable conclusion. Dan had three older brothers that would have drank at the spring in their teen age years, splashed the cool water on sun-parched faces, but who would not return from the savagery of guerilla warfare to ever visit it again. The spring stirred up both memories and emotion and I thought how great it would be if we could keep the tradition of visiting and having a ritual sip from it’s waters alive, and share it with our own children and extended family.

My father Bob Ragan and mother Dee Wilson Ragan seldom made the frequent trip to Grandma Bessie Moore Wilson’s house without we made a stop on the return to drink.  It was a tradition.  There was a can there as I recall, upside down on a post and we never once thought of who may have drank from it’s rusty rim before us or what damage could be caused to our delicate systems.  Mother once said that the spring was used so often in her youth that a dipper was kept there.

Mother would have drank from the spring often, as she lived with and cared for Granny Susan and Grandpa Dan Moore in the formative years of her youth.  And it got me thinking about how many others of our family have quenched thirst there or simply took a ritual sip beneath the roots of the Sycamore trees.

It still runs true into a basin formed by four rocks making a square well. Spring rains and runoffs hide its true outline from year to year, but someone always renews the original form. Those rocks were placed at a time when grim-faced men in blue and gray traversed the hills and the women of our family placed containers of milk and cream in the spring to preserve their freshness and chill them into delicious delicacies. It is not hard to imagine the young women teasing a dreamy eyed sister or cousin about the boy who lived just up or down the rocky road as they performed their chores here.

The spring beckons to me to come and visit my roots and remember family gone before. To kneel and drink on the very spot that my mother once knelt, and my Grandmother Bessie as a young woman, her father Daniel as a teen-ager through all the ensuing years of his life; and his parents John and Eliza before him.

In the spring of 2013 I took my son, Scott to the spring along with my two oldest grandchildren, Kelton and Kayla.  On September 13, 2015 I was blessed to be able to return with Scott, Kayla and my brother, Ken, my grandson Brandon Ragan, and also with my other two sons, Kevin Matthew and Kent Andrew Ragan for a ritual sip from the cool spring waters. I could not help but wonder if those gone before were watching with approval as my family waded the shallow waters picking up pieces of crockery and china that these ancestors had once held in their very own hands.  And somehow all of this made sense to me; the circle was unbroken. And it made me very happy to know that.

Kayla, Scott, and Kelton at the Rucker Wall early April 2013.  The wall enclosed the grounds of the old Rucker School and Church just up the road from the spring.  My Grandfather, Clarence Madison Wilson was one of the wall's masons.

                                           

                                                                                               

My Aunt and Uncle, Mary Wilson Bazzell and brother Clarence Madison Wilson, JR (Bud) drink a ritual sip from the spring in August 2010.  Bud, approaching 90 at this time, remembers using the spring often in his youth.  Mary was born a few hundred yards up the road in a slab house.

                                   
                                                                                                                                      

My brother, Ken Ragan at the spring at the time of our re-discovery in August 2009.

   

                                                                              

Aunt Beverly Wilson Richmann drinks at the spring in August 2012 as the family sustained the tradition.

                                                 

October 2013.  Back: Cecil Wayne Wilson.  Front L-R: Mary Wilson Bazzell, Clarence Madison Wilson, JR.

So, to all of my family, immediate and otherwise, I extend an invitation to renew the tradition at the spring.  If ever you have felt a need to connect to your ancestry--those who made your life possible--come drink from the spring and meditate for a while.  I promise, you will not be alone.  In short order you will feel the presence of those who lived here, worked here, and dreamed here.  Do not fear their presence, but revel in the love they bring, in the joy of meeting you at last.

COME VISIT THE SPRING

This water is ancient

Yet, it surges brand new.

I have drank from this water

As have some of you.

Square is the shape

Of the vessel that contains.

In spite of the years

It still remains.

John Moore and Eliza Berry Moore drank here,

Sons and daughters, too.

Susan, Bessie and Ann cooled milk here

Though remaining scarcely a clue.

Hank, Marie, Bud and Dee slaked thirst here.

Herb and Mary, Sylvia, Bev and Cecil, too.

Moores aplenty, Wilsons and Dees

They have all knelt here

Beside the roots of the ageless Sycamore tree.

So many stories the Spring could tell
Of children at play and men home from wars,
Of plowing of fields
And gathering of women around the butter jars.

Remember always, you are never alone

When you reflect there.

Loving spirits abide

In the water and in the air.

You cannot touch them,

This much is true.

But, visit the spring

And they will touch you.

Come visit the spring.


Keith Wayne Ragan    Copyright 8/16/2009

The Spring in August 2009. The spring configured as it originally was utilized in everyday life.. Photo by the author, Keith Wayne Ragan.

Keith Wayne Ragan

Copyright 8/16/2009
by the Author