You Want Wisdom With That?

February 2025

The senior center in Ellington was the most satisfying meal decision I’d made in a long time. I knew the routine, having eaten hundreds of meals at senior centers with Dad. No matter where you are, the best lunch bargain in town is at the senior center. It’s a balanced meal. The price is right, even for non-seniors. But the value goes way beyond price. The best thing about the senior center is the company you keep. So I walked into the dining room ready to fill up on more than food.

From experience, I knew to honor the seating chart. The seating chart is not posted on the wall or the cash register or in the manager’s office. It’s in the habits of the seniors who come here every weekday at the same time and sit with the same friends in the same chairs at the same table.

Folks were eager to tell me about Ellington, stuff you might not hear at the Reynolds County Museum down the street. Robert, an affable chap at a table within earshot, told me about the industry in town. Boats and saws, mainly, reflecting the area’s predominant natural resources.

“If you’re going past Lake Wappapello, don’t miss Bullwinkle’s. You’ll find out about the airplane,” Robert laughed.

I thanked my hosts and left the warm security of the senior center for the surprises of the road, including Bullwinkle’s Bar with an airplane crashed straight down into the top of the roof. It was rigged, of course, but an effective attention getter.

To get to Bullwinkle’s we crossed the Castor River, crossed the Castor River again, crossed it again, and again and again. We crossed the Castor River so many times that I stopped to study my map. Turns out there are two Castor Rivers, at one point flowing within five miles of each other. Apparently, when engineers drained all this swampland, one Castor River became two.

Castor is French for beaver, and the beavers built dams all through this swampy region. Despite being the hardest working hydraulic engineers on the planet, beavers don’t get a paycheck, so they have a right to be the namesake of multiple waterways.

Henry Schoolcraft, the first chronicler of the Ozarks, had another name for the Castor. He called it Crooked Creek. It’s a simple name. One can understand why he preferred simple names. His wife’s name was Obabaamwewegiizhigokwe, which in her native Ojibwe language means “the sound that the stars make as they rush across the sky.” Henry called her Jane, which means “Jane.” I think I know why. Her mother, Ozhaguscodaywayquay, probably didn’t object, since she herself adopted the Anglo name Susan Johnson.

Despite his prominence in exploring Missouri’s Ozarks, I have yet to drive past a sign or a town or any place named Schoolcraft. He’s in good company, though, since there isn’t a Moses, Missouri or an Austin either. There’s no town named Yogi in Missouri, although there is a Jellystone Park. There’s no Shapley, no Blow, no Dice, no Wilder, no Sacagawea or Calamity. Ah, but there’s a Jane.

And Bullwinkle’s.