“Every day at 3:30 p.m., I watched as you came running and hopping home from school. You were always so happy.”
Those were the words of my father about our short stay in Joplin and my experience at Emerson Elementary School, where I spent all of one-and-a-half years as a first- and second-grader. I think there’s a good chance I was dashing home to watch “Scooby Doo” and “GI Joe” as much as I was thrilled about school.
Nonetheless, despite a short time living in my hometown, where I was born in 1976, I have fond memories of a place where almost all of the Webb family grew up. Though my grandfather was born in Arkansas, he met my grandmother near Joplin, and they raised their family of five kids in the city. It’s a place where my father found plenty of trouble and later survived during his year as a single dad.
Our move to Joplin was pure luck for the old man, who was struggling at the time to pay the mortgage while running a small stained-glass business and taking care of my brother and I. Toward the end of 1981, a man from Joplin approached the my father with an offer he couldn’t refuse.
“He owned a small house in Joplin, and he didn’t owe anything on it,” Dad said. “He offered me a trade, his house for our house in Anderson, which I still owed about $30,000 on. I got the house and a couple of shotguns. He got the house and land in Anderson.”
In one day, my father wiped out all his debt. He later learned that the deal was sweet for a reason: The man who made the swap was a drug dealer trying to get out of the crosshairs of the Joplin Police Department.
“Never saw him again,” the old man said. “Sometimes, you just get lucky.”
One of my memories of Emerson is my first day of first grade in January 1982. I struggled with the first day of school until the fifth grade, crying as I walked into the classroom from kindergarten through fourth grade. Starting at Emerson in the middle of the year, knowing nobody, I lost it as my father walked me through the door.
“Your teacher, Mrs. Robinson, walked up to me said, ‘That’s OK, Dad, we’ll take it from here. He’ll be fine,’” Dad said. “When you came home that day, you were skipping.”
There were several firsts at Emerson Elementary. My first best friend, Benji, who took me in the morning I bawled my eyes out. My first crush, a tall brunette in second grade whose name I can’t remember. My first fight, against a kid who picked on me for weeks, then made the mistake of laughing at me during kickball. I got into quite a bit of trouble after grabbing him by the head and throwing him to the ground. My brother and I’s first time going trick-or-treating, memorable because my dad cussed out somebody for not having any candy, of course.
One of the highlights of that 18-month stretch in Joplin was Christmas in 1983. My parents were back together, and Dad and Mom had a great show at the local mall. It was the first Christmas morning my brother and I woke up to living room full of presents, notably a GI Joe-themed train set.
“My Christmases weren’t bad growing up. My parents did the best they could, but it wasn’t much,” Dad said. “So, I always wanted you guys to have a big Christmas. I loved doing that.”
That was a tradition lasting several more years, until I was in high school. How could I not be happy?
TWELVE DAYS OF CHRISTMAS SERIES
Twelve Days of Christmas, Part IV: Christmas in Arkansas
Twelve Days of Christmas, Part III: From the archives
Twelve Days of Christmas, Part II: The Pine Tar Derby
Twelve Days of Christmas, Part I: Rest in peace, Dan Ascheman
2022 finale: The search for James “Danny” Hollingshead continues