I’ve been asked recently about my involvement with the old Younger house that stood on Highway 291 near Greenwood and Lee’s Summit, Missouri. Although we have never been able to turn the remains of that remarkable, historical building into the Younger Museum and Border War Study Center that many of us dreamed it might be, it’s an interesting odd series of events that “saved” the house back in the 1980’s. I became aware of the provenance of the house on my very first visit to Missouri (well, not counting childhood road trips on the interstate highways); the trip that started me off on my amazing adventures with the Younger boys. I’ll save the extraordinary circumstances that brought me to my obsession with their story for another time (and as circumstances go, these are humdingers.) But back to the house… My friend Kathie and I were driving down 291 after an unexpected and fantastic three-hour conversation with Milt Perry, Curator of the not-yet-opened to the public James Farm. Meeting Milt for the first time, we talked about Jesse and Frank, of course, but I wondered about the Younger brothers when their names arose. I knew nothing about them other than they were partners to the James boys. Milt told me there was a lot to be learned about those guys; other than what little had been written in non-fiction books and dime store prose, there just wasn’t a lot of hard data. My curiosity aroused, I decided to go down to Cass County, where the Youngers apparently lived at the time of the War. As we headed south on 295, out of the corner of my eye I spotted a very old, two-story “4 and a door” wooden house and a large busted up shed up a ways off the road. Something just drew me to it, don’t know what. I turned off and drove up a muddy, unpaved road. Kathie asked me what I was doing and I had no answer, but I just had to get inside that house, just had to. She thought I was crazy; the thing looked like it was at least a century old and parts of it were hanging or already down. Did I not see the “No Trespassing” sign? I didn’t care; I had boots on. I walked through the mud of the field and over discarded boards that lay at the back door entrance. It was a cloudy afternoon and I couldn’t see much as I looked around inside. It was mostly rubble but some of the walls still stood. The stairway only ran up a few stairs before it ended in a drop but I cautiously stepped up. They creaked; I knew they would and I loved it. They swayed a little so I backed down. I stepped through broken boards, broken bottles, assorted trash and made my way over to the fireplace. The sight of it gave me chills. I ran my hand over the bricks. Closed my eyes and listened for voices from years past. Heard the wind. I picked up a nail from the floor. It was unlike any I had seen before. It was old. This place had been here a long time; I knew nothing about buildings but I knew that. I tried to walk into another room but there was so much debris on the floor and it was pretty dark in there. I was likely to fall over something and regret it. I heard Kathie calling from outside to ask if I was all right. I looked around one last time and made my way out. As I walked to the car I noticed a small modern building down the hill from the driveway that claimed it was the realty office for Raintree Properties. I asked Kathie if she would go over there and ask them what they knew about the old house. I couldn’t; I had mud all over my boots and it was obvious that I had been trespassing. She agreed and we drove off the property and down the adjoining driveway. A few minutes later she rushed back to me. “You’ve got to come inside and hear this!” She introduced me to a woman who looked at me with a perplexed expression. “I was just telling your friend,” she said. “I’m the last to leave at night and when I left last night my desk was desk was clear. This morning when I came in, this was here.” She handed me a thick document. Well, there’s more to this story but the document was addressed to a group of lawyers (one of them named “Brant”, by the way) and it was the deed and various legal papers pertaining to the house next door. It seemed that the land had originally belonged to Henry Younger, who had the house built (with his sons and farmhands/slaves?) in 1850 and had subsequently leased it to tenant farmers. Well, then. I guess some of the people of nearby Lee’s Summit knew about the connection but here was the proof so that was kinda cool. Goosebumps. I was allowed to make a copy and then moved on to the next adventure. Cut to a few years and another Missouri visit later. I am driving up 295 near the house, it’s raining like crazy, has been for several days. What do I see but a great big truck with a wrecking ball sitting on the dirt road leading up to the house. Noooo!!! Come to find out the house was getting worse and worse with decay and kids were getting in there and drinking, smoking, destroying, what-all. The clandestine meeting place had become dangerous to the community and it needed to go. I could understand the concern but this was a historical building. There must be something we could do! Nope. The demolition was scheduled and the only reason it wasn’t already gone is that the truck had gotten stuck in the mud. As soon as the rain stopped and the truck could be freed, it was coming down. Wasn’t there someone I could appeal to? No, the house was now owned by Prudential Insurance. I asked for a contact number and was extremely surprised when I was granted an appointment with the representative from the insurance company, a really nice guy. Another long story short, amazingly I was allowed to buy out the demolition contract for the house. The house was now mine. But I had to get it out of there as soon as I could. Like within two weeks, preferably one. Okaaay. I was going back to California; how was this going to work? Enter two wonderful friends I had made in the spectacular world of James-Younger enthusiasm: Milt Perry and Wilbur Zink. I don’t know what I would have done without them. Milt made one of the most generous offers I had ever heard: he and his fiancée Janet would delay their vacation and go down to the house (he lived in another county), take pictures of every wall, every door frame, the fireplace, and the staircase, whatever. He would make professional charts and number EVERY piece of wood! This way, if I could find someone who would remove the wood carefully, stack by stack, then transport it carefully, the house could be reassembled according to Milt’s copious and detailed notes, maps and charts. What a guy. This was a man who was seriously dedicated to historical preservation, to say nothing of coming to the aid of a friend in need. And he did it! It was a miserable weekend, working in miserable circumstances, but he and Janet followed through! Next was getting somewhere to store this massive amount of sticks and bricks. Wilbur casually told me that there was a barn on his dad’s farm in Appleton City that was big enough to store the house until we could figure out what to do with it. Done! Thank you, Wilbur! Now I had to find someone to carefully handle the hauling. A fellow named Travis Bates stepped up and that was that. The project was nothing short of amazing, thanks to everyone’s dedication and participation. I couldn’t have done it without Milt and Wilbur, that’s for sure, and I’m so grateful. The sad part is that I tried for years to get someone to put the house up as a Younger Museum and Border War Study Center. We all planned to leave our research and collections there. Then Wilbur came onboard and joined me in the effort. There was interest from some private parties, Lee’s Summit, Cass County, Red Oak…but no one had enough money to support rebuilding the house, even though I was donating it completely free of charge. Then came the day when Wilbur told me that he had sold his dad’s farm and we needed to move the house. Frustrated, I donated it to a non-profit, the Friends of the Youngers; consequently a deal was made with a community that also tried and failed. Now it seems to be too late. All these years later, the boards apparently have finally rotted to the point of no return and it breaks my heart. But we tried! And I think Henry and the Boys would be happy with the effort… marleybrant/blog
Posted on: Mon, 17 Jun 2013 20:39:58 +0000