The Art Of The Explosion
Larry had a problem. It wasn’t one of those problems that required his immediate attention, but rather one of those nagging problems that just wouldn’t leave his mind.
Larry lived just outside of Noel, Mo., in an area known as Blankenship Hollow. Noel was a small town with a population of approximately 900 or so Ozarkians who called the town that rested alongside the Elk River home.
The bluffs that overhung the two lane road which ran alongside the river offered shade to the thousands of tourists that flocked to the campgrounds in 1965. The rolling hills transformed into peaceful, grassy meadows and valleys and what land that had not been cleared for farming was filled with rocks: That was the source of Larry’s nagging problem, rocks.
The narrow road that said goodbye to Noel as it made its way to Larry’s home was referred to as the Noel to Pineville Road. The waters of the Elk River slowly flowed on one side of the road, while the treefilled bluffs rose up on the other. Several small, some unnamed, roads branched off from the road that routinely carried travelers to the county seat, Pineville; however one in particular always caught the attention of the man on a mission. That dirt road was known as Blankenship Road.
The intersection of the two roads was not far from Larry’s parent’s house in Blankenship Hollow, where Larry and his wife, Nancy, lived. It was at the junction of those two roads that a rocky outcrop left the shoulder of the road and slightly, and only slightly, crossed onto and above the road itself; and that annoyed Larry.
The day came when Larry could no longer tolerate the rocky outcropping; something had to be done if for no other reason than to free the obsession from his mind. With a large pry bar in hand he walked to the source of his concern and for some time jabbed the pointed end of the steel rod into the rocks.
Larry eventually grew weary and stepped away to examine his efforts. He had to admit, at least to himself, that this method would take weeks, or possibly months, to achieve any results. He thought for a moment, then remembered that his father once told him a story about a similar problem and the ultimate solution, dynamite. There was only one place in Noel to get the explosive and that was from Forest Harmon.
If you lived in Noel in 1965, it’s very likely that some of your spent money found its way into the pockets of Forest Harmon. Forest was the owner of the lumber yard, the water company and Harmon’s Hardware. At the Main Street situated hardware store buyers could buy a screwdriver, a hammer, and various sizes and shapes of nuts and bolts.
The hardware store was, however, so much more than merely a place to buy a saw. Children could be seen swinging a Louisville Slugger baseball bat or stroking the horsehide covering of a new baseball, while their fathers looked down the sights of a Winchester model 94 .30-30 lever-action rifle that had been taken down from the wall for closer examination.
Customers were greeted by Forest or possibly his son, Dan. When not walking the store the two might be found standing inside an island of counters in the center of the store where the old cash register was located. Dan’s wife, Rose Ann, spent countless hours poring over the books and their handwritten entries. She created invoices for those who asked that necessary purchases be put on their accounts.
On that mild springtime morning Larry entered the hardware store and, as had been the case many times before, Forest greeted him.
“Afternoon Larry, how are you doing?”
“Fine Forest, how are you?” Larry replied.
“Hi Larry,” Dan chimed in. “OK. Dan, how’s Rose Ann?”
“She’s fine; busy as always with those darned books.”
“What can we do for you?” Forest asked.
“I need some dynamite,” Larry bluntly responded.
With little or no pause Forest said, “We keep that stuff at the lumber yard just down the street. Dean Isham’s over there. He’ll take care of you.”
“Oh, I guess I’ll mosey over there then, thanks.”
“No problem, just don’t go and blow yourself up,” Forest said with a straight face.
Larry walked through the door of the lumber yard’s office where he saw Forest’s lumber yard employee, Dean Isham.
“What can I do for you Larry?” Dean asked.
“I need two sticks of dynamite, some blasting caps and a length of fuse cord.”
“Gonna blow something up are you?” Dean asked.
“Yeah, a rock that’s been bothering me,” Larry replied.
Dean walked to a storeroom located in the rear of the building and returned carrying the requested items which included two sticks of Hercules dynamite. There were no promises asked for or forms to be signed absolving the seller from liability, nor were there questions regarding the possible use of the explosives which might cause a calamity.
“Don’t blow yourself up now,” Dean cautioned as Larry paid for the explosives.
As Larry drove his truck down the bumpy Noel to Pineville Road he couldn’t refrain from giving an occasional glance to his right. There, in a small box that rested beside him on the seat, were the volatile but necessary tools needed to remove the portion of that rock that rudely touched the road.
Upon entering the house the would-be demolitions expert found Nancy quietly seated on a high-backed living room chair.
“Did you get it,” she asked. “Yep, let’s go blow up that rock,” Larry said.
Nancy slowly rose up from the worn chair cushion and the two made the short walk to the intersection of Blankenship Road and the Noel to Pineville Road.
With a steel “spud bar” Larry created a small hole in the rock. Larry remembered that his father once told him that with the use of a pocket knife small slices of dynamite could be removed from the original stick. From his pants pocket Larry removed his worn Case Trapper folding knife and opened the blade.
He looked at the rock, the stick of dynamite and the knife.
“Maybe two or so inches,” he said as he made his cut. Larry placed the dynamite in the small crevice he created and attached the blasting cap and the fuse cord. He had, at least he hoped, properly calculated the amount of time that the cord would burn.
“Do you have the matches?” Larry asked. He didn’t look at Nancy as he scanned the area for a place that might be safe once the rock blew apart. Larry felt the box of wooden matches fall into the palm of his hand as he saw a good venue just across the dirt road. He struck one match and lit the fuse.
The couple crossed the road and with index fingers placed in their ears waited for the explosion.
“Puff” — the sound of the blast was no more than a muffled thud followed by a small amount of smoke and a strange odor that was reminiscent of bananas.
“Well, we need more dynamite I guess,” commented the unimpressed Larry. The process was repeated with four inches of the explosive. but the result was far from impressive.
“It’s time to use the rest of the stick,” Larry commented.
“Maybe so, but be careful,” Nancy solemnly replied.
Larry placed the rest of the stick in the hole, lit the fuse and the two returned to the place considered to be safe. Suddenly there was a huge explosion and both Larry and Nancy looked skyward. Larry was speechless as his upwardturned head followed the flight of the basketball-sized dislodged chunk of rock. Nancy was aghast; well maybe she wasn’t really aghast — but I’ve been waiting for the moment when I could use the word “aghast” in a story. However she was, to say the very least, she was moderately surprised. The large chunk finally came to rest across the road as it splashed into the waters of Blankenship creek.
“Gosh,” Larry commented as the smoke began to dissipate.
“Yeah, gosh,” Nancy said. The two examined the remaining stone and found that it had been sufficiently loosened allowing it to be broken apart using only the long steel spud bar.
After some time the two walked back to the house on the Noel to Pineville Road.
“That might have been too much dynamite,” Nancy casually commented.
“Maybe so,” Larry had to admit. “Maybe so.”
STAN FINE IS A RETIRED POLICE OFFICER AND VERIZON SECURITY DEPARTMENT INVESTIGATOR WHO, AFTER RETIRING IN 2006, MOVED FROM TAMPA, FLA., TO NOEL. STAN’S CONNECTION TO NOEL CAN BE TRACED BACK TO HIS GRANDPARENTS WHO LIVED MOST OF THEIR LIVES THERE. STAN BEGAN WRITING AFTER THE PASSING OF HIS WIFE ROBIN IN 2013. OPINIONS ARE THOSE OF THE AUTHOR.