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26.
The Noble Sons
of the Noose
Secret Society Goes Public
After a Hundred Years
Every year at midnight on May 13, a line of thirty-two shrouded figures—wearing miners’
helmets with tiny lights above the visors—winds across the slag heaps of the abandoned Goodwinter mine—in memoriam.
—JMQ
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On May 13, 1904, thirty-two miners were killed in an underground explosion that could have been pre-vented if the new safety measures had been employed; but they cost money, and the mine owner, Ephraim Goodwinter, was the original bottom-liner. Production was what counted. His mine was the most productive in the county, and he was the wealthiest owner.
Then, because there were no longer any males to work underground, their families were evicted from the poor cottages in the mining village. A murderous rage against Ephraim consumed the entire county, and the mine owner disappeared. Rumors abounded:
He had been lynched . . . Or he had taken his own life, leaving a suicide note . . . Or he had fled to Europe . . . Or he had been buried under the floor of his own house, to thwart vandals . . . Or he had escaped via a preplanned 쑽쑽쑽
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Lilian Jackson Braun scheme arranged with the handyman, whom he then shot for security reasons.
One fact went on record: Ephraim’s funeral procession was the longest ever—in a community fond of counting the carriages, buggies, wagons, and bicycles going to the cemetery (the undertaker later confessed, on his deathbed, that Ephraim’s coffin was empty). The “mourners” said they wanted to be sure the “old devil” didn’t come back.
The lynching party insisted on their claim, while maintaining anonymity, and so the secret society originated. The thirty-two silent figures still file across the slag heaps on May 13. In recent years, however, they have replaced “hat-ing” with “helping”. Many members are descended from families left fatherless by the explosion, and they volunteer as Saturday Dads for youngsters who have none. Their fra-ternal insignia of a hangman’s noose has become the noble head of a bull moose!
One note in retrospect: The “old devil” tried to make amends by giving the county a large sum of money for a public library. It stands on Park Circle in Pickax, looking like a Greek temple. In the vestibule is an oil portrait of Ephraim Goodwinter. The canvas has been slashed—and poorly repaired.
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27.
Phineas Ford’s
Fabulous Collection
As Told by the Late Prentiss Campbell, III Believe this one at your own Risk! Four generations of Campbells in Moose County have been known for their Scottish sense of humor.
Burgess Campbell, a lecturer at Moose County Community College and son of Prentiss III, remembers it like this:
—JMQ
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Back in the 1920s there was a feed-and-seed dealer in Brrr Township who was a real nice guy—hardwork-ing, honest with his customers, and devoted to his wife.
They had no children, and it was his way of showing kind-ness and understanding by taking her for a ride every Sunday afternoon in his Maxwell. Or was it a Model T? They would buy strawberries or a pumpkin, depending on the season, and stop at an ice-cream parlor in town for a soda.
His wife also liked to visit antique shops. She never bought anything—just looked. Every town had an antique shop and every farmhouse had a barnful of junk and a sign that read antiques. As she wandered through the jumble of castoffs, her husband trudged behind her, looking left and right and wondering why people bought such stuff.
Once in a while he played a little joke on her as they drove. She would say, “Stop! There’s an antique shop!”
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Lilian Jackson Braun And he would say, “Where? Where?” and speed up. Sometimes she’d insist that he turn around and go back.
On one of these occasions she had her own way, and they visited a farmhouse collection of this and that, Phineas traipsing dutifully behind his wife. Suddenly he saw something that aroused his curiosity, and he asked the farmwife what it was.
“A scamadiddle,” she said. “Early American. Very rare.
Found only in the Midwest.”
“How much do you want for it?”
“Oh, a dollar, I guess,” she said.
“Give you ninety cents.” Phineas was no fool.
He carried it to the car and put it on the backseat, causing his wife to ask, “What’s that thing?”
“What thing?”
“That thing on the backseat.”
“That’s a scamadiddle,” he said casually, as if he bought one every day. “Early American, you know. Very rare.
Found only in the Midwest.”
“Oh,” she said. “What are you going to do with it?”
“Put it in the china cabinet.”
Every weekend after that, Phineas found pleasure in antiquing, forever searching for another scamadiddle. One Sunday he found it! Now he had two! He was a collector!
They began to travel farther afield, into adjoining counties, and to Phineas’s delight there was an occasional scamadiddle to be found. The shopkeepers, knowing his interest, kept their eyes open and produced an occasional 쑽쑽쑽
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Short & Tall Tales treasure. He was paying two dollars now—and no dicker-ing. He built a room onto their house, lined with shelves and one glass case for choice examples.
The breakthrough came when another collector died, and Phineas bought his entire collection. A magazine called him the Scamadiddle King. He built another, larger room and paid the high dollar for the few remaining scamadiddles. Three museums were bidding to buy the Phineas Ford Collection posthumously.
Then tragedy struck! One fateful night his house was struck by lightning and burned to the ground, reducing the entire scamadiddle collection to ashes.
And that’s why—today—there’s not a single scamadiddle to be found in the United States.
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