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| And it's just as wild as you think it is. |
Not your typical destination- I know. But I've been captured up in the place ever since I first read Where the Red Fern Grows. They say it's like a third-world country right here in America and "they" might be right. I experienced a little of this on a trip out west as I spontaneously detoured off a main highway in Arkansas. I saw the brown sign for the Ozark National Forest and knew my chance to see the place that haunted my imagination was right then and there (because, honestly, how often are you in Arkansas?). Every possible side road was explored, some of which dead-ended in places where I was afraid I was going to get chased down by a grandma with a shotgun. The houses were built with scraps of tin and plywood and nearly every one had a few kids out front without shoes or shirts. And hard as it is to mention that many were in overalls because you'd think I was taking it too far, think what you will—many were in overalls. These half-naked children would line up along the edge of their dirt road and stare as my car rolled past, kicking up a cloud of dust. It was like going back in time.
One of the side-road detours ended in a village square. I knew it was a village square because the only structures in sight were crowded around the perimeter, several roads lead into it and, most importantly, because it was square. A well in the center seemed to be the congregating point for a few locals who were leaning onto it, jabbering away to each other. Along one side, a row of wooden stores were strung along a raised wooden sidewalk, further strung with wooden rocking chairs. I decided to go into one of the stores, an antique shop, and see what it was all about. Besides antiques.
The man that ran it, "Gramps", was a WWII veteran. Pictures of the war days, among other days, were plastered all over the wall behind the long, rough wood counter. The customers were sparse, a triple-legged dog, a man with one eye (both of whom Gramps knew), and some other chance bypassers who had no interest in his story-telling. I spent the rest of the afternoon in the shop with him as he told me about the war and referenced the photos that related to his memories.
There were a few proud points where he stopped to come back to the present. The first: the war was the only time he had left the area. "Born and raised and where he'd die" is how he told it. No reason to leave when all he needed was right there. The second point of pride (coming from seemingly nowhere and with a vehemence I've rarely experienced since): the locals took the law into their own hands. He adamantly told me that they always had and always would; they didn't need "no" police around there. Have you ever seen old Looney Tunes where two hillbilly familes are engaged in an age-old family feud? I was reminded instantly of that as he was telling me of their law-keeping ways: two cartoon familes in overalls shooting at each other from their shacks. It was a reality there.
I've come to realize that the best part of any trip is listening to the people along the way share their culture and history. You don't need to go to a ritzy first-class resort in the Pacific to get a healthy dose of culture (wait... are you offering?). Head down a side road and discover.
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