Shoal Creek
12 May, 2024.
A week or so ago, about a dozen sketchers met up on a cold, breezy, wet Saturday morning. Some of us, having watched a weather report that – ultimately – turned out to be wrong, were dressed in t-shirts and khaki short. We’d gathered in a gravel parking lot and trekked up a rocky path to the Shoal Creek Living History Museum, a “town” created out of nineteenth century historical buildings from around Missouri, and now relocated to a pleasant grassy hill here in Clay County.
Speaking for myself, I found my fingers stiff from the damp chill in the air, and the wind was slicing right through my thin shirt. I was thankful for having the foresight to wear hiking boots though, and once acclimated found that thickets of trees and the windbreak of buildings offered some respite from the steady breeze.
This was a day for carrying as small a kit as possible. I didn’t want to be digging around at the bottom of a rucksack in search of mark-making tools and brushes and paint. No, this was meant for a pencil, maybe a pen, and a sketchbook… period.
Other than our hardy group of sketchers, there were few visitors to Shoal Creek on this morning. Those that were visiting, like me, wandered down the paths offering the shelter of foliage. I’ve visited the smithy during special events where the doors are open, the fires blaze, and the ring of hammer on anvil beats out a steady staccato. The warm glow of the flame from the dark interior lights up the sweaty brow and muscled arm of a man wielding the hammer, and horse shoes sizzle as they are pronged into water, having been beaten into shape.
I like how a pencil encourages me to sketch quickly and loosely. I’ve always got the option to add detail or shading if I feel the urge, or simply leave things in a state of immediacy, an impression of the moment.
I’d been out to Shoal Creek a week earlier and sketched this church then too. Standing at a distance, this place always makes me think of the iconic scene from High Noon. I was disappointed that my sketch failed on the previous visit and was determined to sketch something I liked better this time.
By the time I got around to sketching this old jail we’d been on site for nearly ninety minutes. I’d filled several pages but by this point my fingers were growing numb, and I noticed that several in our group had gathered on the front porch of the Mercantile, which was mercifully blocking the mist and the wind.
Time, I think, to pack it in.