Tammy Tucker - Ozellas General Store Cook Station, Missouri

Ozellas
General Store

Cook Station, Missouri

Tammy Tucker

Copyright 2013 Tammy Tucker.

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ISBN: 978-1-4908-0153-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-0155-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-0154-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013912976

WestBow Press rev. date: 7/31/2013

CONTENTS

Also by Tammy Tucker

The River Bottoms

2012

T o my mom, my friend and my inspiration. Also to the memory of my Great-Aunt Ozella Velma Finley Gorman Brand, a truly remarkable woman.

W hen I was just a little girl, our family would take vacations to Tennessee. We would stop in Nashville and then take I-40 on to Gatlinburg. One time we saw some ladies stopped on the side of the road with car trouble. Dad pulled the station wagon over and offered to help. When he could not fix their problem, he took one of the ladies on to the next exit to make a phone call. That exit was Lebanon. He asked the lady if she knew of a good place to eat. She told him of a new restaurant that had really good food. It was called Cracker Barrel Old Country Store. As we sat and looked around the walls at all of the antiques on the walls mom mentioned that it reminded her of Aunt Ozellas general store. She told us stories of her childhood spent visiting her aunt in Cook Station, Mo.

Ozella Velma Finley was one of three daughters born to Charles and Clara Simms Finley. They also had four sons, one having died as a small child. My grandmother, Opal was her sister. Ozella, Grandma and Aunt Jessie Olive were all beautiful souls. Ozella was soft spoken when dealing with friends and family and matter of fact when dealing with customers and salesmen. She was smart, wise and a very spiritual woman as well. Ozella was a brilliant businesswoman and a great philanthropist in her community.

When I decided to write a story about my dad and his family, my mother told me that she had always wanted to write a story about her aunt Ozella. She knew that Ozella was an extraordinary woman and had a beautiful story to tell. Once mom started in telling me everything she could remember about going to Cook Station, I knew it too. This book is collaboration between between us. I give her the credit for the inspiration to write this story. As you read the story, my mother is the storyteller. It is through her voice that you will learn the story of this seemingly ordinary woman who was far from your every day shopkeeper.

T his book started with stories from my mother, Norma Tucker. I would also like to thank my Uncle Rev. Dean Blackburn and his wife Nancey and also Uncle Charles Ray Blackburn who gave me anecdotes as well. I would also like to thank the many neighbors and friends who remembered stories of Ozella. I was very lucky to find people in Cook Station and Salem, Mo. who knew her and had such fond memories of her.

The Funeral

I n the middle of September 1985, my husband Marshall and I were on the road to the Ozark Mountains. We were not traveling there from our home in southern Illinois for a vacation or a short weekend get-away. In fact, we were headed to Cook Station for the second most devastating funeral of my life thus far. The first had occurred two years earlier and was my mothers. This was for my mothers sister, my beloved Aunt Ozella.

Mom was close to her sisters. Ozella moved to St. Louis when she was a young woman and has lived in Missouri ever since. I would say it was the late 1920s when she moved to St. Louis. It was right after my mother and dad were married which was in 1929.

Traveling with us was my father, Bill Blackburn. Occasions like this made him especially melancholy ever since mom passed. He was never much of an emotional man until the day she died. They had been married for about 55 years when she passed. Now having to go through it again so soon with his sister-in-law was very painful. In fact, until the day he died at age 91 in 1998, he mourned and grieved terribly for the love of his life. Every day to him was just one more day to wait for God to call him home.

Dad sat in the backseat of our Station wagon, asleep with his head tucked between the top of the seat and the window. We were just south of Cuba, Missouri heading south to Steelville. The roads were getting curvier, winding up and down over the foothills and causing my ears to pop as we slowly ascended. I resorted to a trick I taught my children years ago on trips to the Smoky Mountains; I reached into my purse and pulled out a stick of Juicy Fruit gum and started to chew. It gave my ears a little relief.

Dad is beginning to stir as the car whips side to side. Marshall is in his own little world and not paying attention to his passengers sliding in their seats.

Henry, can you slow down a bit? My stomach cant take these hills. I ask using his middle name. It was an inside joke between us because when he was a child, his parents argued over whether his name was Marshall Henry or Henry Marshall. He had to write to the Hamilton County Seat for his birth record to find out for sure. He always went by Marshall but I called him Henry as my pet name for him.

Oh, whoops! Im sorry. Wasnt paying attention to how fast I was going. He said apologetically.

We slowed to a reasonable pace for awhile until he started off on one of his tangents about other drivers. He is a very animated person and slaps the steering wheel from time to time. Then I have to remind him how fast we are going. Most of the time I just used body language by holding onto the dashboard and the door handle. He gets it and slows back down.

We stop at the gas station in Steelville to let dad use the restroom. I got out of the car to breathe my first breath of mountain air. It was fresh, crisp and cool so early in the morning. I knew it would not be long until the noon day sun would turn the cool, light air into hot, muggy heaviness.

We load up again and drive on to Cook Station. I noticed the flag in the town square was flying at half-mast. A local legend, heroine and beloved citizen has been called home to be with her Lord and Savior.

It was heart-warming to see the signs of love and respect shown to my aunt. The shops in town were closed. There was a special service last night for her because she was a member of the Masons auxiliary, The Eastern Star. All Masons and Eastern star and Eastern Star members are given this special service when they pass.

We arrived at Uncle Floys house and freshened up a bit. He told us we could go on up to the funeral home in Steelville to have a private viewing. Dad, Marshall and I did so. Marshall walked behind us and let dad and me have our moment alone with her. Dad pulled a hanky from his back pocket and wiped his eyes and blew his nose. I studied her for a long time taking in every nuance of my beloved Ozella. I was a little girl again visiting my aunt in her mountain home which would now be her final resting place. I gazed at her curly reddish-gray hair that was perfectly coiffed, the pearl necklace that matched her earrings, her periwinkle blue dress that was remarkably similar to the one we buried mom in and then I noticed her arthritic and crippled fingers that eventually made it impossible for her to play piano or even sign her name. They were folded across her waist.