Travel Articles > Hannibal Revisited

Hannibal Revisited

by Dennis Goza, July 2002

When last we took leave of Hannibal, Missouri, America's Hometown (so called because it was the boyhood home of Mark Twain), I mentioned that we'd be returning to perform at the Hannibal Library again-this time on July 3, during the celebration of the 47th annual Tom Sawyer Days. And I promised a report "as soon as we've cleaned the whitewash from our overalls." Little did I imagine how literally this prediction would come to pass. (Story from Winter 2001)

We rolled back into Hannibal on Tuesday, July 2, a muggy steambath of a day with the temperature breaking 100 and the air thicker than the mud at the bottom of Ole Man River, a cotton-thick-sweat kind of heat wave that was to be the norm for the coming week. We checked in, appropriately enough, at the Mark Twain Campground, which we had reserved back in April, snagging the last two spots available-one for us and one for friends joining us from Massachusetts. They pulled in about half an hour later, in an RV with-oh joy, oh bliss-air-conditioning.

The following day was our one day of work while we were in town. We presented three programs at the library-two for the public and one for a summer camp group. These shows went smashingly, but they were a struggle for Kimberly, who'd been quite ill lately. She'd had one serious illness back in March, so she wasn't supposed to do this again already. But apparently she picked up the bug that Zephyr had just recovered from after a two-week battle, and with her asthma, she had an even harder time of it. Fortunately, neither of them missed any shows because of it, but we had some close calls.

Anyway, when we returned to our campground, she decided that she was up for a tour of the Mark Twain Cave on the premises. This is THE cave, the subterranean network of Jungian/literary symbolism that Tom and Becky supposedly frequented and Injun Joe supposedly perished in. (Injun Joe, we learned, was based on a real resident of Hannibal like most of the other characters in the book. But he outlived Twain by many years, and was actually a very decent fellow who wasn't terribly thrilled about being immortalized as a murdering thug. Twain reportedly made him a villain because "he was the ugliest man I ever met." )

When young Sam Clemens lived here, the cave was, then as now, a popular recreational destination. It's not hard to see why, with its year-round temperature of 52 degrees. In fact, I wouldn't have been surprised to learn that during summers like this, the entire town just moved into the cave for a few months. Farmers did stash produce in here to (as food labels put it nowadays) retard spoilage.

Clemens actually contributed the official name of one of the landmarks inside the cave: Aladdin's Castle. And he wasn't the only famous American who visited the caverns. One little cul-de-sac is believed to have been used at one time as a hideout by Jesse James and some of his men. There is no doubt that the archetypal American desperado entered at least once, because he left his autograph on one of the rocks, and it's been authenticated by a graphologist. Incidentally, a great many non-famous folks have left their signatures as well. It used to be the custom for passersby to inscribe their names and the dates on the walls in a certain section, until the practice was halted by law many years ago. One is grateful that today's graffitists don't have free rein here, but one is also grateful for being able to peruse the names of fellow travelers who have been dead for a century or so.

The next day was Independence Day, so we all piled into the van and went into town to witness the parade. Zephyr was able to ride on the float commemorating the annual fence-painting contest, which he was entering, and it was the first time he's ever been in a parade. In addition to the usual types of floats, several politicians running for office marched along the route, a rather odd addition that I thought was out of place. (Oh well, at least most of them seemed to be Democrats!) A camera crew from ABC also was on hand, to include a segment on Hannibal in a Fourth of July special. (I didn't see them myself, but I heard about it later from locals who were disappointed because the aired clip turned out to be so brief.)

In the evening, we returned downtown-this time by trolley in order to avoid driving in congested traffic-to watch the fireworks display. It wasn't the best display we've ever seen, but still rather enjoyable. It appears there may have been some technical glitches; the show started rather tardily and ended rather anticlimactically, but after we had boarded the trolley and were trudging back home, several more detonations erupted in the sky, as if the pyrotechnic crew finally had solved a problem or two and were firing their stash of salvos, better late than never. In any event, it caught people off guard, and made the night more memorable than it would have been otherwise.

On Friday, July 5, we took a boat cruise down the Mississippi. As an entrant in the fence-painting competition, Zephyr received a free ticket for this ride. We then made our way to the Jaycees Hall, for a luncheon where he could meet his competition. As only one entrant per state is permitted, Zephyr discovered that he had inherited the formidable task of representing the entire state of California, our last known (and still official) address. Other contestants were there from Canada and Spain.

Meanwhile, we had learned that a fence-painting competition was to be held that afternoon for folks over 30, and Kimberly, on the basis of the skill with which she'd seen me play a reflex game in a museum exhibit in Columbus, insisted that I enter. Oddly enough, she didn't seem to expect that I'd have any trouble convincing anyone that I qualified for the age bracket. So I rounded up a pair of overalls I'd recently inherited from my sister and a scruffy shirt (not difficult to locate in my wardrobe) and borrowed my son's straw hat, and I was off to the races.

There were 15 adults entered in the event, and we would be competing in heats of 5 each, with two finalists from each group to be selected for the final round. We each would dash down the street about 50 feet, paint a section of fence consisting of 8 boards, then dash back to the finish line. We would be graded not only on speed, but also on the quality of our painting. Before the contest started, we could place our buckets of whitewash anywhere we wished, but once we got underway, we weren't allowed to move them.

As part of the first heat, I took my place at the starting line, and began pacing back and forth, stretching my muscles and doing some mental calculations concerning how many strokes I'd need to cover my fence, the most efficient type of strokes to use, the optimum placement for my bucket, and so on. The young woman positioned next to me (it was a coed competition) sized me up and said, "You take this seriously, don't you?" I laughed, realizing that maybe I was in fact putting too much effort into what was supposed to be a lark. But as I explained to her, my competitive spirit is not directed toward other people, but toward myself; I always consider it a challenge to do my best. She smiled wryly as if she didn't believe me.

Finally we were in place, the signal was given, and off we went. The fellow who made it to the fences first slipped and fell flat on his rump (the street had been hosed down) but he made a very prompt recovery and still grabbed his brush before anyone else. Clearly, there was to be no relying on the misfortunes of others.

I was not the first one back to the finish; I think I was third or maybe even fourth. But as I glanced back at the work we'd all done, there was no doubt that mine was the most thorough. I was in fact the only one who had covered the fence without leaving any bare spots. As we waited for the points to be tallied, a woman with a bucket of water and a cloth helped me clean the whitewash off my face and out of my eyes, and I realized that I'd splashed the stuff into just about every place I possibly could splash it. It has a rather chalky flavor, by the way, not unlike certain Norwegian cheeses.

It turned out that I indeed had the highest score in my heat. The other finalist was the young lady who chided me for being so intense, and when her name was called and she joined me at the finish line, I couldn't resist giving her a high five.

Then I had a chance to watch some of my competition. The second heat featured a fellow that I was sure would be the one to beat. He worked at blinding speed with coverage almost as thorough as my own. I wondered if perhaps he painted houses for a living.

At last the final round came, with the six top finishers going at it. After debating about whether to change strategy and opt for more speed, I finally decided just to repeat what I'd already done. This time I was the very last one to be finished. But again, as I surveyed everyone's work from the finish line, mine seemed to stand out.

My prediction about the winner was correct. But I was awarded SECOND PLACE! As soon as I collected my 50 dollar cash prize, I treated everyone in our party at Becky Thatcher's Ice Cream Parlor.

Saturday, July 6 was the big day for the youngsters. But the first thing we did was attend a base ball game (yes, they spell it as two words) played as it was played more than a century ago -- with no gloves, no umpires, no base on balls, no hand-slapping, and no bloated egos inflated by Nike endorsements. And the batter is out, by the way, if the fielder catches the ball on one bounce. There is a league of teams across the country who play games under vintage rules and in vintage uniforms which look every bit as uncomfortable as Civil War attire. (I was told that each player even makes his own bat!) In this match, the host team was the Eagles of Washington, Missouri, who were being touted as one of the crowning gems of the sport. But they lost to the New York Mutuals by the rather convincing score of 23 to 0. At the conclusion, not only did the two teams gather on the field to exchange pleasantries, but the captain of each team also addressed the crowd, praising his opponents and leading the crowd in three cheers for them. One could say that sports have changed a bit.

Before the big fence-painting competition for boys, we attended the Tomboy Sawyer contest for girls of the same age. This event is perhaps the epitome of the frequently stated observation that females must do twice the work of males to receive half the credit. Whereas the boys do only fence-painting, the girls must compete in painting fences, catching tadpoles, blowing bubble gum, spitting watermelon seeds and racing in gunny sacks. But none of them complained, because it all evidently was quite a blast. In fact, our young friend Kiaya from Massachusetts decided that she wanted to participate, and much to her delight, she was able to make a last-minute entry just before the quota of contestants was reached. She hastily assembled a costume, which included my overalls, still splattered with whitewash from the day before -- definitely a unique touch. We all agreed that when she had pulled her outfit together, she looked quite smashing.

At last, Zephyr took his turn in the main attraction. He decided to follow his father's strategy of going for quality rather than speed. A good thing, too, because his speed is, quite frankly, no match for his old man's. Still, he did an excellent job, with just about the most thorough coverage, with one possible exception. But he didn't make it to the finals. Frankly, I think he never had a chance no matter how well he painted. The lads were evaluated not only on their dexterity with a brush and bucket, but also on costume; and we learned too late that the judges were looking for specific items mentioned in Tom Sawyer.

I was pleased to see that Zephyr didn't appear the least bit disappointed at not taking a prize, even though the prizes were rather impressive. (The champion, for instance, receives a 500 dollar savings bond and a plaque. Additionally, he gets custody of a prestigious trophy-a "fence" about three feet high-which he presents to the governor of his home state to display until the next contest.) Both he and Kiaya had a great time, and that's what mattered to them; the "play to win" mentality that characterizes many adults hasn't yet kicked in, thank heavens.

On our last day in town, we toured the other cave adjacent to our campground: Cameron Cave, which was unknown in Twain's lifetime. In accordance with the terms in the bequest of the man (named Cameron) who discovered and developed it as a tourist attraction in the 1920's, no lights have been installed in this cavern. Tourists must bring lanterns inside with them (these are supplied by the tour office), which create a much more appropriate atmosphere than electric lighting. It was also a nice touch that we had to walk directly underneath a roosting bat. Like Mark Twain Cave, this one features a labyrinth of channels, only some of which have been opened to the public. One of the more interesting features was an optional passageway that one must negotiate on all fours. I of course had to take the challenge, and I had squeezed about halfway through its length of its some 20 yards before it became constricted enough to remind me that I'm claustrophobic.

All too soon, our week-long sojourn in Hannibal was over. But we've already started planning for the possibility of another visit next summer. Batten down your fences, we'll be wielding wicked brushes this time!