"About This Blog

Rich Hill is a small town in Bates County, Missouri, known as the "Town That Coal Built." Since 2008, this blog has been digging through old newspapers, county histories, family photos, and community memories to piece together the stories of the people, businesses, churches, and events that shaped Rich Hill — from its coal-mining boom years to the present day. Here you'll find everything from town-defining moments (train depot ambushes, natural gas jubilees, the founding of local churches) to the quieter stories of the people who called Rich Hill home — including a few who went on to leave their mark on the wider world. Have an old photo, a family story, or a correction? I'd love to hear from you — reach out at beardonme@gmail.com

Wednesday, January 3, 2018

Terry Poindexter Post on Facebook Shared to me from Tyler Cumpton

Terry Poindexter Post on Facebook Shared to me from Tyler Cumpton 
Terry Poindexter
This was my Mother's Uncle, my great uncle, Sandy Silvers.
In 1927 road construction crews began a new highway, U.S. 71, between Butler and Rich Hill, MO. About three miles of the road crossed low land between two major streams. The year after the new road was built, the area received record amounts of rainfall, and the bottom land flooded, covering the new road. The water was between 6 inches and a foot deep, yet essentially stopped traffic.
The water was deep enough to make the new road invisible to drivers. A farmer living nearby, Sandy Silvers, saw an opportunity. He shod the front feet of his horses, loaded chains and ropes in a wagon, and headed to the flooded road. For one dollar a car, he offered to guide motorists along the portion of the flooded new highway to high ground. He tied the cars together behind his wagon, sometimes as many as eight or ten at a time. Silvers relied on the click of the horseshoes on the pavement to keep the horses walking on the invisible road. When he finished guiding a string of cars through the flooded stretch, he usually found another string waiting to be guided the other direction. As long as the road remained flooded, Silvers worked twenty-four hours a day, stopping only long enough to feed his horses and nap when the traffic let up.