life ROBINSON'S RAMBLINGS
Saint Cook A TABLE WORTHY OF GRANDMA.
BY JOHN DRAKE ROBINSON
I
left Weston’s Saint George
the energy and the enthusiasm of a kid
Hotel — built in 1845, a
despite his 80-some years. He owes
grabbed the squeeze bottle and
throwback to European
his stamina to early rising and hard
decapitated it, held it in one hand
elegance with its mansard roof
work and clean living, but mostly to his
with a gallon milk jug in the other. He
companion for 60-plus years.
poured milk into the syrup bottle.
— and headed across the state to do a story about Hannibal’s second-favorite son, the voice of Jiminy Cricket. More than halfway across the state
Dorothy Shoemyer's kitchen table
“Give it here,” Robert said. He
“Chocolate milk,” he explained,
looks like a Grandma Moses painting.
“and I don’t even have to dirty a glass.”
Everything is on it. Everything. Her
Shoemyer chuckled as she flitted like
on Highway 36, hunger overwhelmed
face would be on the label of the
a hummingbird from stove to table to
me. Taking the state Route 15 exit ramp
grocery-store package that says,
sink.
off the Avenue of the Greats, I knew I
“Grandma's home cooking,” if there
could get to anywhere in tiny Shelbina
was such a package.
in five minutes, as long as a freight
Robert and I dug into a home-grown,
“More ice cream?” she asked. “No, thanks,” I demurred, as I watched Robert shake his squirt
train isn't crawling through the middle
sit-down, all-you-can-eat, family-style,
bottle to make his chocolate milk. I
of town.
“don't stop now because there’s only
was stuffed. It’s rare that a weary road
It wasn’t, and that was a good thing
a spoonful of cottage cheese left and
traveler gets a home-cooked meal,
because the chime on my radio signaled
finish up those peaches cause I can't
especially for lunch.
it was straight-up noon, and I knew
keep up with ’em fallin’ off the trees
lunch was already on the table.
and here, have some more fried chicken
Robert’s work ethic is impressive, and he’s married to Saint Cook.
From different directions, Robert
cause there’s not enough room to put
But that’s not why he’s my hero.
Shoemyer and I arrived at the table at
all this stuff back in the fridge” dinner.
Robert finds a use for everything. Or a
the same time. We exchanged greetings
Shoemyer’s kitchen table featured
shortcut. And I knew that as soon as he
as we sat down to the glorious task of
beef and gravy and new potatoes with
finished his chocolate milk, the squeeze
absorbing a 15-course meal.
green beans from the garden and sliced
bottle would find the recycling bin.
Robert is a family friend and my
home-grown tomatoes and cucumbers
This lunch was a refreshing oasis
hero. He farms for a living. And like
from her garden, too, and corn and
in my sojourn through this big,
most folks who toil the whole time the
relish and pickled beets and bread and
throwaway world.
sun is watching, he stays young behind
butter.
his weather-beaten face that looks all
Robert watched me coax the last
John Drake Robinson is a former director
the more leathery as he sits hatless
drops of chocolate syrup out of a
of the Missouri Division of Tourism and
across the table from me, his balding
Hershey’s squirt bottle onto a dish of
has driven every mile of highway in the
pate a pasty white above a tan line as
vanilla ice cream. I worked the squeeze
state. His book, Souls Along the Road, tells
stark as the rust line in a porcelain tub.
bottle like a bellows, violently expelling
more stories about Weston and Hannibal’s
That tan line is testament to five dozen
a few drops of syrup in a flatulent
most famous Hollywood voice.
seasons on the seat of a tractor, sowing
whoosh, then waited as the air wheezed
soybeans and feeding cattle. Robert has
back into the plastic bottle. INSIDE COLUMBIA MAY/JUNE 2022
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