"Mr. Concord" meets Concord Rob
While part of me loved the challenge of driving eight hours through the night, the wiser part of me rolled off the highway just before midnight and found another generic hotel room.
I had debated whether to visit this Concord in Missouri. There was little information about the town on Wikipedia, and it wasn’t listed as an official township within Callaway County. It was just a dot on Google Maps that had an old church and graveyard. Something told me that this had once been a proper town, so I finally decided to make it my 90th Concord in America.
With a 3.5-hour drive ahead of me, I tried to replicate yesterday’s good fortune by calling the local museum. The Kingdom of Callaway Historical Society directed me to their archivist, Bryce.
“I don’t think we have much on Concord, maybe a plat map.”
“A plat map would be great!”
“But you should speak to Joe Holt. He’s 85, a lawyer, and he grew up in Concord. In fact, they call him ‘Mr. Concord.’”
How can I get so lucky?
Four hours later, after a couple of wrong turns, I swung into Fulton, Missouri. As I drove into town, the phone rang.
“Hello, Mr. Morrison? This is Joe Holt.”
I had debated whether to visit this Concord in Missouri. There was little information about the town on Wikipedia, and it wasn’t listed as an official township within Callaway County. It was just a dot on Google Maps that had an old church and graveyard. Something told me that this had once been a proper town, so I finally decided to make it my 90th Concord in America.
With a 3.5-hour drive ahead of me, I tried to replicate yesterday’s good fortune by calling the local museum. The Kingdom of Callaway Historical Society directed me to their archivist, Bryce.
“I don’t think we have much on Concord, maybe a plat map.”
“A plat map would be great!”
“But you should speak to Joe Holt. He’s 85, a lawyer, and he grew up in Concord. In fact, they call him ‘Mr. Concord.’”
How can I get so lucky?
Four hours later, after a couple of wrong turns, I swung into Fulton, Missouri. As I drove into town, the phone rang.
“Hello, Mr. Morrison? This is Joe Holt.”
Joe greeted me at the door of his law office and took me up to his second-floor office. He couldn’t have been nicer. For over an hour, he regaled me with family stories of life in Concord.
Concord was settled around 1825 by one of his great-great-granduncles. The town’s 200-year rise and fall illustrated many patterns I’ve observed throughout my travels in small-town America.
Concord was settled around 1825 by one of his great-great-granduncles. The town’s 200-year rise and fall illustrated many patterns I’ve observed throughout my travels in small-town America.
Joe is the overseer of the Concord Cemetery. As overseer, Joe recently had to inter a Concordian. A handful of volunteers dug the grave, but in three different locations, they unearthed bones. Finally, they found an unoccupied corner of the graveyard. Joe joked that this cemetery was overcapacity. Were these paupers? Victims of a pandemic? Or the unmarked graves of slaves? Joe believed that enslaved people had been buried with wooden markers in an area outside the graveyard, but who can tell? Perhaps some favored few were buried in sanctified ground.
By the time I left Joe’s office, the sun was dipping low in the sky.
I drove past Concord twice, despite the looming water tower anchoring the corner of the town. Once properly oriented, I found the graveyard and the lonely headstone from Joe’s story.
The adjacent Presbyterian Church, closed and decommissioned in 2021, had a few windows that had been vandalized. All but two of the old houses in Concord had been torn down. Some of the lots now have mobile homes, but there are no signs of the stores and mills that once stood there.
I left the graveyard in a gloomy mood. The unmarked slave graves, the slowly decomposing cemetery, and the shuttered church were emblematic of the gradual death of this once-vibrant town.
I jumped into my car, ready to find another generic hotel when, down the dusty road, came a Kubota 4x4 packed with children.
“No, no, no! All of you stay right there. I have to take your picture!”
The boys and girls were a joyful jumble of ages and races. Sophie, Gracie, Jana, Amber, Liam, Andria, and little Laykin had come to put flowers on the grave of a recently deceased grandmother. They politely answered my questions before racing off into the graveyard.
Maybe this Concord wasn’t dead after all.
By the time I left Joe’s office, the sun was dipping low in the sky.
I drove past Concord twice, despite the looming water tower anchoring the corner of the town. Once properly oriented, I found the graveyard and the lonely headstone from Joe’s story.
The adjacent Presbyterian Church, closed and decommissioned in 2021, had a few windows that had been vandalized. All but two of the old houses in Concord had been torn down. Some of the lots now have mobile homes, but there are no signs of the stores and mills that once stood there.
I left the graveyard in a gloomy mood. The unmarked slave graves, the slowly decomposing cemetery, and the shuttered church were emblematic of the gradual death of this once-vibrant town.
I jumped into my car, ready to find another generic hotel when, down the dusty road, came a Kubota 4x4 packed with children.
“No, no, no! All of you stay right there. I have to take your picture!”
The boys and girls were a joyful jumble of ages and races. Sophie, Gracie, Jana, Amber, Liam, Andria, and little Laykin had come to put flowers on the grave of a recently deceased grandmother. They politely answered my questions before racing off into the graveyard.
Maybe this Concord wasn’t dead after all.