In 1979, I moved to Branson, Missouri—a smallish town, it felt like a secret tucked between the hills. Back then, it wasn’t the glittering tourist haven it’s become. It was quiet, but not really ordinary at all. Sacred to me now. A place where most knew your name and the hills held your secrets.
Life moved slower then, like molasses in winter. There were still a few full-service stations where the attendant knew your dad’s first name and asked about your mom. Diners offered coffee thick as creek mud and came back around with a second cup before you could ask. It wasn’t just service—it was neighborliness.
I remember the drive from Iowa like it’s imprinted on my bones. The stretch through Springfield still felt like home, mostly flat and familiar. But south of Ozark, Highway 65 transformed. Hills rose like a procession of giants, cloaked in oak and hickory. The air got thicker, the sky a little closer. My ears popped. My heart thudded. I watched a car pass us on the shoulder at breakneck speed—Ozarks-style hospitality mixed with Ozarks-style daring.
My parents bought a small floral shop called Branson Floral, nestled up on College Street between the junior high and a sleepy string of houses. The building leaned with age, but it had soul. A hand-painted sign read, “Branson Floral—We Wire Flowers.” Inside, it smelled like birthdays and funerals, Sunday services and weddings—roses and lilies, carnations and soil. The attached greenhouse felt like a hidden sanctuary, where seeds were planted with the intent they bloom at Spring planting time.
Before us, Theodore and Velma Hirsch owned the shop. Theodore was Branson’s unofficial greeter—white-haired, smile lined, with a basket of carnations and a twinkle in his eye. He pinned flowers on every lady he passed, kissed cheeks like a gentleman outlaw, and gave candy to every wide-eyed kid.
Velma, his wife, was quieter. She lived next door and rarely left the porch, but she called to me through her screen window, calling me “Little Dicky” for reasons I never knew but never questioned. We’d sit on her porch while Cardinal baseball played on the radio, talking about everything and nothing. In her quiet, I always felt seen. We were friends.
Branson became my playground. I rode my bike to the school to shoot baskets under the fading light. On the side yard of the sixth-grade building, kids gathered for pickup football. Red wagons doubled as racecars, and we’d fly down the hills steering with the handles like daredevils with scraped knees and breathless laughter.
But the crown jewel? Lake Taneycomo. I’d walk down Billy Goat Hill, pole in hand, to fish beneath the old railroad trestle. Retired locals sat there like statues of wisdom, telling stories that stretched truth and time. I listened. Learned. Most days, I walked back up with a stringer full of rainbows and a heart full of boyhood wonder.
Downtown Branson was magic before marketing. Mang Field stood at its heart, a WPA-era stone ball field built with sweat and native rock. That field saw soccer games, rec league baseball, and junior high football practices. The bleachers, rough-hewn and honest, echoed with cheers that lingered in the stone. In 1947, it even hosted a Yankees baseball school where Bill Virdon—future Rookie of the Year—trained. We had no idea we were standing on sacred ground that would soon be destroyed.
Beside it was the town pool, already showing its age but full of life. A quarter got you in, and the racks overflowed with bikes. We swam until our fingers pruned and the sun dipped behind the hills.
And then there was the tackle and coin shop. One part heaven, one part treasure hunt. I’d wander the aisles eyeing Wiggle Warts, Heddon Spooks, Rooster Tails, and Texas-rigged worms like they were relics. The old man behind the coin counter handed out Indian Head pennies to us. I filled my wheat penny book year by year, dreaming of the elusive 1909 S VDB. I even had two flying eagle pennies. The things we treasure as boys linger long into manhood.
We had different stores then—including Branson Café, Mr. B’s Ice Cream, Farmhouse Restaurant that still stand today. I remember the basement shoe store where I bought my first cleats, choosing between two brands. I remember the Cardin’s surplus store and the Army surplus shop, where I bought a Rambo knife and felt like I could take on the world.
The only hard part of going downtown was the long trudge back up College Street hill. That climb reminded you that even magic had a cost.
Tourism existed, but it whispered. Families came for the lakes, the hills, and the hush—not the lights or celebrity impressions. I remember when they added the turning lane to Highway 76. It was big news. Locals steered clear of “the strip” when they could. Fall Creek Road was our only escape route. If you got caught in summer traffic, you were stuck. Branson didn’t rush as much then. It meandered.
We left in the late ’80s, just before the boom. I remember the Baldknobbers, Plumber Family, and the Foggy River Boys. I remember when White Water added the giant slide and it felt like the world had changed. But it hadn’t. Not really.
Now, all these years later, I’ve come back.
Joy and I moved back to the area about a year ago. It’s my first time living here since 1987, when we left in the middle of my junior year. Much has changed. But the soul of this place? It’s still here. The hills still whisper. The lakes still sparkle. The people still wave.
Today, I pastor a small Baptist church on Y Highway in Galena. Most of my congregation are transplants—from California, Texas, Illinois. But so was I, once. A boy from Iowa who came here on a winding road and never really left. Even during the years in Kansas City and St. Louis, I could hear the Ozarks calling me back.
This place gets into your bones. It shapes you. And if you let it, it teaches you something rare:
That sometimes, the smallest towns raise the biggest hearts.
That roots don’t always come from where you’re born.
And that maybe, just maybe, you don’t choose home—maybe it chooses you.
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