Claud was five years old, maybe six.
At that age, the only world a child knows is the world that is up close and personal: the yard he plays in, the road that runs in front of his house, the sounds of supper being set on the table. He knows who belongs to him because they are always there—living in the house, working in the field, standing in the doorway, calling him by name.
In the 1880s, a buggy was an ordinary part of life: a horse, a man, a set of wheels. Nothing unusual. But, in those days, a piece of candy, to a child, was a small piece of sunshine.
So, of course Claud accepted the candy from the man on the buggy. He wasn’t yet old enough to know that kindness could be a mask or that a sweet treat could turn life sour. Perhaps the man was familiar to Claud. Perhaps the man spoke gently. Perhaps he smiled. Whatever the preface, he asked if Claud wanted to take a short ride.
A short ride.
Claud climbed into the buggy, his small legs gathered up, his hand holding the candy, his eyes watching the road from the high seat where grown people sat. For a moment, it may have felt joyful. The horse stepped forward. The buggy creaked. The wheels rolled on.
At first, the road was familiar. Then little by little, less and less like home. Fence rows passed. Trees passed. The dust rose and settled. The horse kept on. The buggy kept on. His world slipped farther behind him.
Somewhere along the way, he must have felt the first tightening in his chest, the first movements of fear. There must have been a place where his delight turned into wanting his mother. There must have been a place where he began looking over his shoulder, searching desperately for something known, something home-like. Every turn a small hope, a potential return. But the return never came.
According to Claud, by the time the buggy stopped, he had been carried out of one family and set down in another. Whatever world he belonged to before was eventually forgotten.
The story lays heavy on the soul. It’s a story that should never have to be told about anyone, at any time. A boy went out in broad daylight and disappeared from the people who loved him. Somewhere, a mother’s hands kept reaching for a child who was gone, and would be gone, forever. Somewhere, a family listened for footsteps that never crossed the threshold again.
In 1935, Cluade’s daughter, Byral Scurlock Eastep Johnson, wrote of her father that he “was stolen when he was about five or six” and that “he didn’t know anything about his parents.” Her brother Will Scurlock added one steady piece to Claud’s beginnings: “Dad,” Will would say, “said he was born in Missouri.” Claud’s daughter Nellie Heafner later reported that he often remembered his birth date as February 16, 1880. But, just like Claud’s story, no one really knew the particulars. Not even Claud. Throughout his life, the date fluctuated from year to year, but he held onto the buggy story until his death in April 1932.
The family never quite knew what to do with Claud’s story other than to keep repeating it. It was too strange to settle and too important to lose. Where did it come from? How might it be tested? What value did it carry?
Like his shifting birth-year, Claude’s surname shifted as it passed from one document to another: Scurlock, Skirlock, Skurlock. But somehow, according to Claud’s son Will, Claud remained “Claud” his whole life. The little boy who climbed into the buggy believed he had carried at least that name with him.
By the summer of 1902, Claud was twenty-two, standing in Muskogee, Indian Territory, beside sixteen-year-old Rosey Exile Carr. On July 28, they married. Both were residing in Muskogee. The marriage certificate presented them with the grand formality of place and date: United States of America, Indian Territory, Western District. Claud’s name appeared as “Claud Skirlock,” and Rosey’s as “Miss Rosa E. Carr.”
Children soon filled the Scurlock household: Homer Ewing, Almeda Byral, William Auston, Lela Pearl, Nellie Luella, Jesse Newton, Wesley Fay, and Della May. Hardly any better names than these to call in for supper: Homer! Byral! Willie! Pearl! Nellie! Newt! Fay! Della May! Wash up before the biscuits disappear!
A family that size makes its own weather. Babies cry, toddlers tumble, schoolchildren track in dirt, older children help with younger ones, and every meal requires planning worthy of a small expedition. There were shoes to mend, clothes to wash, water to carry, beds to share, and new mornings to look forward to, each one a hope for a better life.
In the early years of their marriage, Claud and Rosey lived in Oklahoma. By 1910, they were in Chouteau, Mayes County. Claud was twenty-nine and working as a farm laborer. Rosey was twenty-three, with three children in tow: Homer, six years old; Byral three; and Will only one month old.
Like his father, Will became a great storyteller. He could reach back into the cold past and bring forward something warm and breathing. Through Will’s stories, we can almost see the family moving from place to place as work and life required. Oklahoma gave way to Arkansas. Children were born in different towns, each new birthplace leaving another little pin in the family map: Chouteau. Ozark. Stringtown. Alma. The family trail did its best to keep up with the needs of the day.
Picture the scene: Claud coming in from work with dust on his cuffs, Rosey with a baby in arms, Homer and Byral underfoot, and the day’s chores stacked one on top of another like plates after Sunday dinner. The sun rose, animals stirred, and work began … and kept a’comin’ ‘til a body fell into bed.
Physical Build: Medium
Height: Medium
Hair Color: Black
Eye Color: Grey
By 1918, Claud and Rosey were in Ozark, Franklin County, Arkansas, and the war had stretched its long arm into ordinary American households. Claud was thirty-seven years old, a husband, a father, and a working man with a wife and five children at home. Like many men across the country, he stepped forward to be counted.
By 1920, Claud and Rosey were renting a farm on Mountain Top Road in White Oak Township, Franklin County, Arkansas. Claud was thirty-eight. Rosey was thirty-five. Byral, Willie, Pearl, and Nellie were still at home. Rosey kept the home from flying apart at the seams. Claud’s work stayed close to the land: planting, harvesting, hauling, repairing, waiting on weather. Both contributed to the basic arithmetic of family survival: how much food, how much money, how many mouths.
As the years passed, the Scurlock household kept growing, then shifting as older children moved toward adulthood. Homer Ewing had been born in 1903. Almeda Byral followed in 1907. William Auston came in 1910. Lela Pearl arrived in 1913. Nellie Luella was born in 1918. Jesse Newton followed in 1920. Wesley Fay came in 1923. Della May, the youngest, was born in 1926, but lived less than three years, passing in Alma, Arkansas, on February 19, 1929 — just a few days after Claud’s birthday.
By 1930, Claud and Rosey were settled in Lonoke County, Arkansas. Claud was working on a rice farm. He was fifty (or near to it), still laboring, still helping hold together a family with children at home: William, Pearl, Nellie, Newton, and Wesley.
Rice farming demanded attention and muscle. Water had to be managed. Fields had to be worked. Days stretched long. Claud came home each evening with the day’s labor still clinging to him, while the burdens of a lifetime settled a little deeper into his bones.
By 1932, the country was entering some hard years. By then, Claud and Rosey had been married nearly three decades. They had moved from Indian Territory into Oklahoma, from Oklahoma into Arkansas, from one farm setting to another. They had raised children through infancy, school days, and adolescence. They had buried Homer and Della May. They had lived through war years and were now facing the opening years of the Depression. The boy in the buggy had become a man with a full life and a large household trailing behind him.
Claud died in Jay, Delaware County, Oklahoma, on April 19, 1932. He was buried at Mount Hermon Cemetery in Jay. Claud’s earthly trail ended in Oklahoma, the place where much of his married life had unfolded and where several of his children had been born. Jay became the final point on the map for the man whose life had moved through Missouri, Muskogee, Chouteau, Ozark, Mountain Top Road, Lonoke County, and back into Oklahoma soil.
Claud William Scurlock had entered the family story by way of a road that refused to return him to the familiar. After his death, Rosey and the children continued along roads of their own, taking his name and his story with them. They remembered the mystery. They remembered the little boy, the candy, and the buggy ride that set the family’s destiny in motion.
Special Appreciation: We would like to express our gratitude to Vi Parsons for her genealogical research. Her dedication to uncovering our family’s story and sharing those precious findings made this piece possible, and we are deeply thankful for her generosity and insight.