The Hundred

A coming-of-age saga in five parts

In part two of this five-part series, Dr. J. Russell Felker, MD, shares memories of the summer during his adolescence he and his friend, Tom Critchlow, walked from Sikeston, Missouri, to Farmington, Missouri. The saga will be continued in subsequent issues of TBY.

Perhaps a bit of digression is in order — when is it not?

It was 1961. The Space Race had left the starting line, there was a new, young, physically fit (we thought) president talking of a New Frontier, and it was the threshold of the ’60s. Despite the ever-present undercurrent of nuclear annihilation, the country had rebounded from WWII as the preeminent power in the world. Later in the ’60s, Vietnam and racial concerns would hit the fan, but our ignorance was bliss. We didn’t even have conscious political identities.

Marathons were not in the public consciousness. The 26.2-mile distance had been run since Pheidippides, but not around our neck of the woods. When you were out and about, there weren’t joggers or even walkers going up and down the street industriously burning off excesses of the good life. There were no fitness centers. No 5 or 10K races. No one ran just to run. We only ran during practice, games and during nocturnal water balloon excursions, having snuck out of our sleepovers, which we called “spending the night.”

What I’m really trying to say is, 100 miles was a looooooooooooong way. Even “Long Distance” phone calls were kind of a big deal. And people actually said things like “Big Deal” and “Long Distance.” And they said them with uppercase letters at the beginning of the word, so you would know what a “Big Deal” it was.

It was into that world Tom and I stepped off into our GREAT ADVENTURE. Right out of that black-and-white photo and into the summer of 1961, which was actually just as colorful as summers are now, although not to our contemporaries who still have their cataracts.

Day One

Our first day was ambitious, planning for Chaffee, Missouri. Walking north on Highway 61, I’m sure we jabbered excitedly about what we were doing and how much fun we were going to have. I really don’t remember.

A few miles later, we crossed the railroad tracks and headed toward Oran, Missouri. Just on our right was a cemetery in which decades later my younger brother would be laid to rest, and then an infant great-niece. My first memory of that day, after the photo, comes just after taking that fork north of Morley, Missouri. Morley was the hometown of my paternal grandmother, who later married “Daddy” Felker of Sikeston, Missouri.

A little farther down the road, over this fence on the west side, was a watermelon patch. WATERMELONS! The devil on my left shoulder made a convincing case, so over the fence we went. And it was probably Tom’s devil, anyway. Pulling up some ground, we marveled over the serendipitous location of a treasure trove of watermelons just where we needed a break! Although the melons were not yet at peak ripeness, they were sweetly forbidden, which we discovered when an armed, likely rabid, farmer charged us with an enormous shotgun, screaming threats. We fairly flew out of the field, vaulting the fence with hot buckshot powering our leaps.

Of course, it really didn’t happen like that, but it would’ve been cooler if it did. I think he just yelled at us, and we scooted.

The next few miles passed quickly with the memory of our bold watermelon caper, before exhaustion began to eat away at our enthusiasm. Our first day’s hike was about 30 miles, and even our young legs were starting to feel it. By the time we reached Chaffee, Missouri, we were ploddingly exhausted. Our plan was to stay at the one motel in town.

Not only was the most popular song of June 1961 “Travelin’ Man,” by Ricky Nelson (how could it not be), but two 14-year-old boys with no IDs and $5 could rent a motel room for the night! However, we were canny. Recognizing we might be less than secure, we moved a dresser against the only door, precariously balancing our aluminum mess kits on it, so that any movement of the door would cause movement of the dresser, leading to an aluminum cacophony that would hopefully awaken us, alarming the would-be predator of our readiness. And you must remember that we had yet to see our first James Bond film.

Of that night, I have two memories. The most vivid are Tom’s little toes. They were blistered. Not on the bottom, not on the side. Both of his little toes were totally blistered to the point that his toenail could not be discerned. His toenails were small to start with. As I write this, I’m a little concerned I remember the size of his little toenails. Although not particularly heavy, it is a peculiar memory to carry around.

The second memory is of being startled out of our exhausted, 14-year-old death sleeping mode by the loud clatter of aluminum crashing to the floor. The door had moved. Our sleeping now done, we anxiously awaited daylight and headed for our next stop.

Dr. J. Russell Felker, a Sikeston, Missouri, native, received his MD in 1973 and practiced urology in Cape Girardeau, retiring in 2016. He and his wife of 50 years, Suellyn, raised four children in Cape.