I Married Tom Sawyer

A true story

I am packing for an event tomorrow night. It’s in Farmington, Missouri — a little over six hours south of me. I have a long drive and I’m leaving at sunrise to try to make it to at least one of the scheduled rallies before I speak tomorrow evening.

I can’t just do one thing — I feel an internal push to do all the things. I can’t stop. The world is burning.

I’m on the go every week. I’ve piled over 75K miles on my little SUV since 2023, but I am not the activist who can do everything by herself.

When folks ask me, “How do you do it all?”, I tell them I actually don’t do it all. I have a husband who quietly takes on the work I can’t. A man who looks around to see what needs to be done and does it. A partner who works behind the scenes to make sure we have what we need and to ensure the kid gets to school and track practice and supper on time.

I could not keep the schedule I do without him. I couldn’t manage this by myself.

My mother-in-law recently passed away and I was able to see my husband and his siblings interact — his family is scattered throughout the Midwest and South. My husband is a big man, and towers over his petite sisters, but he is also the baby of the family. He is the last of eight kids. Sometimes I see that dynamic at play.

My husband’s parents weren’t Boomers like mine — they were the Silent Generation and I think that made him tougher than most. Resilient. Strong.

He often tells me he grew up feral, and I believe him. His parents were busy farming and also working jobs in town to put food on the table and pay the light bill on time and he was often left to his own devices.

He’s from the Northeastern part of Missouri — he grew up in a tiny farming community close to Hannibal. I don’t think Mark Twain could have created a better character than my husband.

His name is Dust and he has so many stories of life on the Mississippi.

If you don’t know, Hannibal, Missouri has a massive 4th of July celebration every year. They celebrate Mark Twain and America in a fantastic fashion with fence painting contests, Tom and Becky contests, frog jumping contests, and it all culminates with a barge parked on the Mississippi loaded with fireworks that go off as soon as the sun sets.

His sisters always wanted to enter the Becky Thatcher contest. If you won, you’d get to be one of the Grand Marshals in the 4th of July parade with the boy who won the Tom Sawyer contest.

You had to have a little money to win those contests though because you needed a period outfit and a hat to look like the Mark Twain characters — you also needed a parent available who could drive you to town to enter the contest. My sisters-in-law never did get to enter the Becky Thatcher contest because of those barriers.

Dust said he didn’t want to enter or win the Tom Sawyer contest. He wanted to win the frog jumping contest. When he was still in grade school, he decided to do just that.

The Celebrated Jumping Frog — Mark Twain.

Dust didn’t have a ride to town and he lived three miles down gravel and then another four miles of hard road from town. He walked all the way to Hannibal at 11 years old to enter the contest.

He got up before the sun and walked to a pond not far from the farm. Dust was very familiar with the pond because he had been fishing it since he was old enough to walk there with a pole.

That morning, he carried a five-gallon bucket and caught two bullfrogs — one for himself and one for his friend who walked with him to Hannibal.

Since both he and his friend were so young, they knew to get the bucket and the frogs and a little pond water to keep them alive for the long walk to town, however, they didn’t take food or water for themselves.

It was July…in Missouri.

He said they started the walk to town, and began to get thirsty almost immediately. Luckily, they walked past farms they knew and could stop along the way for a quick drink from frost hydrants in the fields. That got them by for the seven-mile walk.

They took turns carrying the five-gallon bucket.

The frog-jumping contest was held in the park in Hannibal. There was a huge circle painted on the grass and each contestant put their frog in the center of the circle. Each frog got three jumps and the longest jump won.

Now, you know I was a former American Literature teacher, and I taught "The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County" by Mark Twain. Because of that, I had to inquire as to whether my husband weighed down any other frogs with buckshot, but he assured me that he arrived just in time to get his frog into the center of the circle. He didn’t have time for any mischief with anyone else’s frogs.

Dust grabbed one of the bullfrogs from the bucket and set him in the center of the circle. He said he made it through the first round and to the finals by kneeling behind the frog and hitting the ground to make his frog jump — those were the rules. You could smack the ground, but you couldn’t touch the frog.

It was a fair jump and he won. He walked away with a 6 inch trophy for his trouble. He was more than happy.

Now, he had the rest of the day to walk in heat without food or water or a penny to buy either. He eventually called his sister at the end of the day to get a ride home and a bite to eat. She worked at the Country Kitchen in town and brought him both food and water and gave him a lift home.

That’s the man I married. The man who has my back while helping with the house and the bills and the kids and the grandkids. He is just built differently.

I could tell you so many stories…like the one about how he won the “Sexiest Legs in Ralls County” contest, but I’ll save it for another day.

You know, I get a lot of pats on the back for my activism, but it would not be possible without Dust standing behind me.

I feel like this is something you should know. We can’t do it alone. I can’t do it alone.

It takes those out front and those doing the heavy lifting in the back.

Thank goodness I found my own Tom Sawyer.

~Jess