“Gee, Judge, we didn’t mean to make such a stink.” That was the lead sentence in one of my favorite stories during my time as courthouse reporter on the Columbia Daily Missourian . It also involved Sheriff Glenn Powell and had a much happier ending than the one about the burnt house.
Mid-May is pleasant in central Missouri. The sap has risen in the trees and also in most high school seniors. A local tradition was that each graduating class would pull off some kind of prank. It was almost obligatory, especially if nobody could figure out who did it.
I was sitting in the sheriff’s office discussing the fate of Western civilization—or perhaps the fate of the St. Louis Cardinals baseball team—subjects of comparable import. Through the open window, we heard a dull explosion. This was not unusual because the county was rich in limestone and had several active quarries in 1953.
The telephone began to ring. “I think it’s a quarry,” he told the callers. “I don’t think so,” said one woman. “I live near Mayfield Grade School and it sounded like it was at the school.” “We’ll take a look,” he answered.
At the edge of town, a Jeep with five boys came barreling by and they hit their brakes when they saw the sheriff’s car. He touched his siren and they stopped. “All right, boys, what did you blow up?” They looked stunned. Then one blurted, “We didn’t mean any harm. Nobody was hurt.”
He took their names, put the boys in his car, and assigned me to drive the Jeep back to the courthouse. I was astounded to find two sticks of dynamite on the floor of the Jeep. I showed them to the sheriff and drove very carefully.
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