The Boston tragedy happened after a huge vat of molasses exploded at the Purity Distilling Company.
But, before his death a local man named B.F. Harbour wrote about two sticky tales that occurred somewhere in Bell County between 1875 and 1925.
One of the stories could be considered a tragedy of small proportions while the other simply provides a whimsical glimpse into what life used to be like on the backroads here before they were paved.
’Lasses at the Breakfast Table
Harbour tells of a family who lived “way back in the woods” during a time when everybody called syrup molasses.
Somewhere along the line, the family had shortened the word molasses to just ’lasses. The children were not aware of the proper word for the liquid, which, at the time, was more popular and less expensive than sugar.
One day a girl in the family left the backwoods and paid a visit to some of her more educated kinfolk who lived in the city.
Harbour said the girl wasted little time in telling her family about the ways of city folk.
The morning after the girl returned home she was at breakfast with the family when her brother said, “please pass the ’lasses.”
The newly enlightened girl frowned and corrected her brother by saying, “molasses.”
His reply was quick and innocent. He said, “How can I say mo’ ’lasses when I ain’t had no ’lasses yet?”
Fat Store Keeper Uses Molasses at His Peril
Harbour shared another story about molasses, but this one featured his Uncle Johnny, a storekeeper in the early 1900s.
Johnny was a large man, about 300 pounds, Harbour wrote.
One day he was having trouble reaching something on a top shelf in his store. He tried a stepladder but it wasn’t tall enough.
From his perch atop the ladder, Johnny spied a barrel of thick molasses nearby and knew that he had solved his problem.
It turned out that what he ended up doing was creating a whole different problem.
Without thinking Johnny transferred his weight from the ladder to the barrel, where his girth proved too much.
“Uncle Johnny’s 300 pounds of fat fell into the thick molasses and sent it splashing in every direction,” Harbour wrote. “Worse still, Uncle Johnny was stuck in the barrel. Try as he did, he couldn’t extract himself until help came, some two hours later.”
Harbour’s tales are just two of many stories contained in a book titled “The Way It was Volume II.” The book portrays in stories and pictures some of Bell and Coryell counties’ history and culture of the 1875-1925 era.
It is dedicated to young people “who in the future will want to know the way it was.”
