THE WILEY BASSETT FAMILY ACCOUNT
Following is a transcription of the original document, "The Wiley
Bassett Family Account", as written by his son Clarence "Otto"
Bassett in 1982.
"If I were trying to accentuate an outstanding characteristic that
ran through the family lineage from Generation I through VII, it
would have to be the absence of the so-called "generation gap".
By the time I was 10 and my dad, Wiley (Bud) Bassett was 55, he
had proven himself to be the better swimmer while teaching me;
made me look bad with a "shooting iron", and had my shoulders
callused from coming in second at wrestling.
Of Dad's nine brothers and sisters, I remember only Uncle Hugh,
but an anecdote Dad liked to recount has always stood out in my
memory. The Hon. Hugh was Judge of Barry County, Mo., back in
the days when justice was swift, and a public hanging in the yard
behind the courthouse was a signal for the business firms to put
on special bargains and attractions for the folks who came from far
and near to see justice meted out by way of a rope.
Judge Bassett had little patience for lawyers who would plead the
case of a criminal who he and the citizenry knew darn well was
guilty.
In the courtroom, a wooden picket fence separated the witnesses
and their attorneys from the judge's bench and witness stand.
During this particular case, the lawyer, desiring to approach the
bench, straddled the fence instead of proceding through the gate
that was provided for such entry.
Judge Hugh shouted, "I fine you $10 for contempt of this court."
The attorney handed the bailiff a $20 bill and said: "Keep the
change. I'm going out the same way."
In 1900, when the Wiley Bassett clan homesteaded land in
Oklahoma Territory, five miles north of Texola, Beckham County, I
had not put in an appearance. The rest of the family lived in the
covered wagon that had brought them from Missouri, plus a tent
and a "half dugout" (half underground, with the upper half built of
rough lumber) while Dad hauled lumber by wagon and mule team
from Mangum, Okla., 40 miles distant, and built a permanent
home. I was to have the honor of being the first-born in the new
house, but on the night of August 23, 1903, a storm came up, and
Dr. Abram Hatcher, who came five miles by horse and buggy to do
the honors, decided it might be safer in the dug-out, so I had my
humble beginning six feet underground. I was told that Mom had
hoped for a girl, and kept me in dresses until I was five.
For a time we needed little more than a kind Providence offered
us--deer, quail, ducks, rabbit, and for special treats there were
pies and jellies made from the wild fruit growing along the banks
of the North Fork of Red River just north of our land. But to buy
the needed fence, implements and other items, Dad found it
necessary to work away from home for long periods. First, he
helped build the last few miles of track for the Rock Island
Railroad, which has its terminus for a time at Texola. Then he
worked with his nephews, Bob and Amos Bassett, in town. Bob was
the village blacksmith; Amos operated the grist mill which ground
out corn meal--a staple on our diet for a long time. Dad did
horse-shoeing.
After my older brothers, John and Claude, married and left home
to homestead land in Beaver County, where they threw up the
customary "sod shanties", Mom, my sister Iva, in early teens,
brother Ira and I, even younger, were left alone to run the farm
while Dad was working in town. He had it rough working from
sunrise to dusk six days a week, coming home only for Sunday,
but the rest of us had a living hell that began in the dark of
morning and sometimes lasted most of the night. Not having a
pump or windmill, we had to draw water up, pail full at a time from
an 80-foot deep well with a hemp rope that chewed our hands raw,
even in dry weather, to say nothing of what it would do when the
temperature was near zero and the rope was wet and icy. There
always seemed to be an endless horde of cows, horses and hogs
to be watered.
We grew accustomed to coyotes howling all night. Kept one dog
outside to chase them away, and the other dog in the house, to
bolster our morale.
One night when we were having an "electric" storm--constant
flashing of lightening, punctuated with steady rumble or thunder--
a herd of cattle from a distant ranch stampeded and headed
straight for our house. When it looked like they would pile up and
smash the house, they divided and about an equal number
passed on each side. For what seemed like an eternity, we
listened to the rumble of hoofs and peered out of the house in
terror, as we could see the lightening reflected from their long
horns, and it was difficult to breathe through the cloud of dust.
In time, there were enough families in the area to start some
social activities, and each Sunday morning the folks would gather
in the Oak Valley schoolhouse and have worship service. If a
"circuit riding" preacher were in the neighborhood, we would "put
him up" until Sunday, and have him deliver a sermon. It was
strictly non-denominational--I think the theme was praise to a
Creator who had carried us through the privations, prairie files,
sand storms and cyclones.
They had an old-fashioned pump organ--no song books--if a few
knew the verses they would carry the lead and the others would
join in. Somehow it made such an impression on me, about six or
seven at the time, that, while most boys wanted to become
cowboys or railroad engineers, I wanted to be a preacher. When
Cousin Bob and his family would come to visit us, I would gather
the kids into the yard, upend a chicken coop for a pulpit, and
"preach". In a letter from my second cousin, Mrs. Mae Morgan of
Erick, Okla., I was complimented: "You did a pretty good job of it,
too."
Before the older boys, John and Claude, left home, they
graduated from the eighth grade at Oak Valley school. John
always maintained that he was a model student, but insisted
Claude was a bit wayward. He gave us this account. Someone
turned over the "gentlemen's lounge" at the school (the then
prevalent outdoor type which always had a half-moon cut into the
door, near the top--no one knew why; possibly to ward away evil
spirits.) No one would admit guilt, or implicate anyone else. Prof.
Covington had the boys form a circle around him, and he raised a
heavy book at arm's length. He was going to perform an old
Indian ritual--slowly revolve on his heels, and when he came face
to face with the guilty one, spirits would impel the book from his
hand and it would strike the culprit. About half way through the
circle, Claude ducked just before the wiley professor was facing
him. I think that about tells the story.
Dad Wiley had, first, a muzzle-loading carbine, but discarded it for
a more "modern" double-barreled shotgun (10 gauge). One night
when the family had retired to the storm cellar during a bad
thunder storm, we heard scratching at a point where the slanted
roof joined the earth. Then a pair of beady eyes peered through a
know hole, reflected in the light of the kerosene lantern. Dad took
careful aim at the eyes, and let go with both barrels of the potent
10-gauge. I don't believe my hearing was ever up to par
afterwards and the aroma of gunpowder (it wasn't smokeless then)
was stifing. But soon we had a new fragrance. The eyes had
belonged to a skunk. Dad had done almost as messay a job as
he did on another occasion when a water moccasin was munching
on the fine string of catfish I had staked out in shallow water.
After a blast of both barrels of buckshot, I couldn't separate catfish
from snake.
Dad may have had some tender emotions, but he had a tough
skin. Unable to stop the bleeding from a deep gash on his hand
one day, and needing to go into town, he threaded a needle and
sewed up the wound. Instead of tying each stitch he did a
continuous line, over and over, to the end of the incision. In town,
he stopped at Dr. Hatcher's office. The amused Doc complimented
him on his neat needlework, but through he ought to do it over, in
the approved manner of the AMA. Dad had used black thread!
Hunting was Dad's real "thing", and on one occasion he crippled a
coyote. The older boys told this story--frankly, I never took much
stock in it, but it was their story, and I was stuck with it. They
maintained he decided to bring the varmint home alive, and let
the dogs finish it off, to teach them to destroy coyotes. Their
account related that he tied its front legs to his belt and allowed it
to hobble along behind him, leaving him free for more shooting.
They claimed he forget about the beast, and when it maneuvered
its head around and nipped him on the rear, he glanced over his
shoulder, got a glimpse of the coyote, and thinking it was in
pursuit, ran so fast he dragged it to death before he reached
home.
Brother Ira made his contribution to family history when he was
around 12. The roads were sandy--always cut into deep ruts, and
when they got too bad to be traveled, the farmers would mow the
wild grass and spread several inches of it over the road bed. One
day while Dad and Mother were in town, a stray dog came along,
and after all methods of persuasion failed to get said canine to
leave the premises, Ira, always the scientist, tied a long string to
its tail, attached a tin can full of cotton saturated with karosene,
and set fire to the mixture. We never again saw the canine; he
headed for the open road. But when the folks left town and
followed a five-mile stretch of charred grass up to our front yard,
Ira, knowing his fate, had cut a peach tree branch from the family
orchard, and had it nicely trimmed for his "execution".
In order that we kids might have better educational advantages,
Dad and Mom sold the farm for about $10 an acre--a fair price for
1914--and we moved to Texola. I went to work for a minister who
supplemented his income by printing the Texola Herald. It was all
hand composition, set one letter at a time from lead type, and
printed one page after another on a hand-fed press. When World
War I started, the Reverend believed he was going to be inducted
into the Army, and sold the paper to me for $150. With the help
of my sister (now Mrs. Iva White* of Ramona, Calif.), I became
the youngest publisher-editor-owner in the state, at 14. I hope I
never see an edition of that sheet--it must have looked and
sounded like something from Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn
might have produced while cruising the Missippi on a raft.
A few years prior to the "dust bowl" era, the Wiley Bassett bunch
moved to California, and my father and mother have been joined
in death by all but Iva and me. There are hundreds of my
parents' descendants living in the western region of the U.S. I am
very proud of my little contribution to the lineage: three
generations following me.
No doubt the Bassett name will go on to the end of time. But we
must remember that anything that can be written about Bassetts in
the plus-favor, is amplified many times over by the wonderful
people who have allied with us in marriage. I hope someone will
remember, in time, each of the allied family names in book form.
There is no "generation gap" breaking across my line of
descendants. Some day before long, I intend to have my own
bowling team composed of five generations of Bassetts. If they
don't let me be anchor man, I'll scream my head off. After all,
Great-great Grandps knows best!"
(*At the time of this writing Iva was deceased.)
Following is a transcription of the original document, "The Wiley
Bassett Family Account", as written by his son Clarence "Otto"
Bassett in 1982.
"If I were trying to accentuate an outstanding characteristic that
ran through the family lineage from Generation I through VII, it
would have to be the absence of the so-called "generation gap".
By the time I was 10 and my dad, Wiley (Bud) Bassett was 55, he
had proven himself to be the better swimmer while teaching me;
made me look bad with a "shooting iron", and had my shoulders
callused from coming in second at wrestling.
Of Dad's nine brothers and sisters, I remember only Uncle Hugh,
but an anecdote Dad liked to recount has always stood out in my
memory. The Hon. Hugh was Judge of Barry County, Mo., back in
the days when justice was swift, and a public hanging in the yard
behind the courthouse was a signal for the business firms to put
on special bargains and attractions for the folks who came from far
and near to see justice meted out by way of a rope.
Judge Bassett had little patience for lawyers who would plead the
case of a criminal who he and the citizenry knew darn well was
guilty.
In the courtroom, a wooden picket fence separated the witnesses
and their attorneys from the judge's bench and witness stand.
During this particular case, the lawyer, desiring to approach the
bench, straddled the fence instead of proceding through the gate
that was provided for such entry.
Judge Hugh shouted, "I fine you $10 for contempt of this court."
The attorney handed the bailiff a $20 bill and said: "Keep the
change. I'm going out the same way."
In 1900, when the Wiley Bassett clan homesteaded land in
Oklahoma Territory, five miles north of Texola, Beckham County, I
had not put in an appearance. The rest of the family lived in the
covered wagon that had brought them from Missouri, plus a tent
and a "half dugout" (half underground, with the upper half built of
rough lumber) while Dad hauled lumber by wagon and mule team
from Mangum, Okla., 40 miles distant, and built a permanent
home. I was to have the honor of being the first-born in the new
house, but on the night of August 23, 1903, a storm came up, and
Dr. Abram Hatcher, who came five miles by horse and buggy to do
the honors, decided it might be safer in the dug-out, so I had my
humble beginning six feet underground. I was told that Mom had
hoped for a girl, and kept me in dresses until I was five.
For a time we needed little more than a kind Providence offered
us--deer, quail, ducks, rabbit, and for special treats there were
pies and jellies made from the wild fruit growing along the banks
of the North Fork of Red River just north of our land. But to buy
the needed fence, implements and other items, Dad found it
necessary to work away from home for long periods. First, he
helped build the last few miles of track for the Rock Island
Railroad, which has its terminus for a time at Texola. Then he
worked with his nephews, Bob and Amos Bassett, in town. Bob was
the village blacksmith; Amos operated the grist mill which ground
out corn meal--a staple on our diet for a long time. Dad did
horse-shoeing.
After my older brothers, John and Claude, married and left home
to homestead land in Beaver County, where they threw up the
customary "sod shanties", Mom, my sister Iva, in early teens,
brother Ira and I, even younger, were left alone to run the farm
while Dad was working in town. He had it rough working from
sunrise to dusk six days a week, coming home only for Sunday,
but the rest of us had a living hell that began in the dark of
morning and sometimes lasted most of the night. Not having a
pump or windmill, we had to draw water up, pail full at a time from
an 80-foot deep well with a hemp rope that chewed our hands raw,
even in dry weather, to say nothing of what it would do when the
temperature was near zero and the rope was wet and icy. There
always seemed to be an endless horde of cows, horses and hogs
to be watered.
We grew accustomed to coyotes howling all night. Kept one dog
outside to chase them away, and the other dog in the house, to
bolster our morale.
One night when we were having an "electric" storm--constant
flashing of lightening, punctuated with steady rumble or thunder--
a herd of cattle from a distant ranch stampeded and headed
straight for our house. When it looked like they would pile up and
smash the house, they divided and about an equal number
passed on each side. For what seemed like an eternity, we
listened to the rumble of hoofs and peered out of the house in
terror, as we could see the lightening reflected from their long
horns, and it was difficult to breathe through the cloud of dust.
In time, there were enough families in the area to start some
social activities, and each Sunday morning the folks would gather
in the Oak Valley schoolhouse and have worship service. If a
"circuit riding" preacher were in the neighborhood, we would "put
him up" until Sunday, and have him deliver a sermon. It was
strictly non-denominational--I think the theme was praise to a
Creator who had carried us through the privations, prairie files,
sand storms and cyclones.
They had an old-fashioned pump organ--no song books--if a few
knew the verses they would carry the lead and the others would
join in. Somehow it made such an impression on me, about six or
seven at the time, that, while most boys wanted to become
cowboys or railroad engineers, I wanted to be a preacher. When
Cousin Bob and his family would come to visit us, I would gather
the kids into the yard, upend a chicken coop for a pulpit, and
"preach". In a letter from my second cousin, Mrs. Mae Morgan of
Erick, Okla., I was complimented: "You did a pretty good job of it,
too."
Before the older boys, John and Claude, left home, they
graduated from the eighth grade at Oak Valley school. John
always maintained that he was a model student, but insisted
Claude was a bit wayward. He gave us this account. Someone
turned over the "gentlemen's lounge" at the school (the then
prevalent outdoor type which always had a half-moon cut into the
door, near the top--no one knew why; possibly to ward away evil
spirits.) No one would admit guilt, or implicate anyone else. Prof.
Covington had the boys form a circle around him, and he raised a
heavy book at arm's length. He was going to perform an old
Indian ritual--slowly revolve on his heels, and when he came face
to face with the guilty one, spirits would impel the book from his
hand and it would strike the culprit. About half way through the
circle, Claude ducked just before the wiley professor was facing
him. I think that about tells the story.
Dad Wiley had, first, a muzzle-loading carbine, but discarded it for
a more "modern" double-barreled shotgun (10 gauge). One night
when the family had retired to the storm cellar during a bad
thunder storm, we heard scratching at a point where the slanted
roof joined the earth. Then a pair of beady eyes peered through a
know hole, reflected in the light of the kerosene lantern. Dad took
careful aim at the eyes, and let go with both barrels of the potent
10-gauge. I don't believe my hearing was ever up to par
afterwards and the aroma of gunpowder (it wasn't smokeless then)
was stifing. But soon we had a new fragrance. The eyes had
belonged to a skunk. Dad had done almost as messay a job as
he did on another occasion when a water moccasin was munching
on the fine string of catfish I had staked out in shallow water.
After a blast of both barrels of buckshot, I couldn't separate catfish
from snake.
Dad may have had some tender emotions, but he had a tough
skin. Unable to stop the bleeding from a deep gash on his hand
one day, and needing to go into town, he threaded a needle and
sewed up the wound. Instead of tying each stitch he did a
continuous line, over and over, to the end of the incision. In town,
he stopped at Dr. Hatcher's office. The amused Doc complimented
him on his neat needlework, but through he ought to do it over, in
the approved manner of the AMA. Dad had used black thread!
Hunting was Dad's real "thing", and on one occasion he crippled a
coyote. The older boys told this story--frankly, I never took much
stock in it, but it was their story, and I was stuck with it. They
maintained he decided to bring the varmint home alive, and let
the dogs finish it off, to teach them to destroy coyotes. Their
account related that he tied its front legs to his belt and allowed it
to hobble along behind him, leaving him free for more shooting.
They claimed he forget about the beast, and when it maneuvered
its head around and nipped him on the rear, he glanced over his
shoulder, got a glimpse of the coyote, and thinking it was in
pursuit, ran so fast he dragged it to death before he reached
home.
Brother Ira made his contribution to family history when he was
around 12. The roads were sandy--always cut into deep ruts, and
when they got too bad to be traveled, the farmers would mow the
wild grass and spread several inches of it over the road bed. One
day while Dad and Mother were in town, a stray dog came along,
and after all methods of persuasion failed to get said canine to
leave the premises, Ira, always the scientist, tied a long string to
its tail, attached a tin can full of cotton saturated with karosene,
and set fire to the mixture. We never again saw the canine; he
headed for the open road. But when the folks left town and
followed a five-mile stretch of charred grass up to our front yard,
Ira, knowing his fate, had cut a peach tree branch from the family
orchard, and had it nicely trimmed for his "execution".
In order that we kids might have better educational advantages,
Dad and Mom sold the farm for about $10 an acre--a fair price for
1914--and we moved to Texola. I went to work for a minister who
supplemented his income by printing the Texola Herald. It was all
hand composition, set one letter at a time from lead type, and
printed one page after another on a hand-fed press. When World
War I started, the Reverend believed he was going to be inducted
into the Army, and sold the paper to me for $150. With the help
of my sister (now Mrs. Iva White* of Ramona, Calif.), I became
the youngest publisher-editor-owner in the state, at 14. I hope I
never see an edition of that sheet--it must have looked and
sounded like something from Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn
might have produced while cruising the Missippi on a raft.
A few years prior to the "dust bowl" era, the Wiley Bassett bunch
moved to California, and my father and mother have been joined
in death by all but Iva and me. There are hundreds of my
parents' descendants living in the western region of the U.S. I am
very proud of my little contribution to the lineage: three
generations following me.
No doubt the Bassett name will go on to the end of time. But we
must remember that anything that can be written about Bassetts in
the plus-favor, is amplified many times over by the wonderful
people who have allied with us in marriage. I hope someone will
remember, in time, each of the allied family names in book form.
There is no "generation gap" breaking across my line of
descendants. Some day before long, I intend to have my own
bowling team composed of five generations of Bassetts. If they
don't let me be anchor man, I'll scream my head off. After all,
Great-great Grandps knows best!"
(*At the time of this writing Iva was deceased.)
| This page is intended for the sharing of "Bassett" family stories. My line descends as follows: Nathaniel Bassett 1737-1794 Abner Bassett 1765 - 1822 William Bassett 1800-1833 John Thomas Bassett 1828-1896 Wiley Bassett 1858-1939 Clarance Otto Bassett 1902-1984 |
