And on a heavier note . . .

Gräbchen, Arkansas

Ozark Mountains

Wikipedia

Cousin Bill has finally moved back to the Arkansas Ozarks, returning to his hillbilly roots, but he's meeting with resistance from some of the local fauna, as he and his wife recently experienced:

Monday past we made a run to the . . . Motor Vehicle annex for Arkansas plates and Drivers Licenses. The plates were no problem. Not so the DL.

9/11 and Homeland Security measures subsequent require anyone establishing residence in another state be armed with all sorts of documents to obtain a drivers license.

Armed? Maybe required, but it'll just raise the hackles of the aforementioned local fauna.

We'd compiled everything thought necessary and marched into the office with our bulging packet of records documenting birth, citizenship, marriage, etc.

Armed and marching in? That'll only make things worse!

And there met our first unfriendly Arkansas resident . . . a rather overbearing, overweight, and slightly bearded lady (obviously on a Monday morning downer, possibly needing more caffeine and another frosted donut or two). She began examination of our paperwork, and scrutinized each piece of paper with the eye of an eagle. She suddenly smiles, looks at us, smirks and announces "Aha! This isn't a marriage certificate. It's a marriage license." And refused to consider further handling of Cheryl's request for a DL (name change). The smile disappears as she glares my way and says "Yours, I have to process."

She began pecking information into the computer, looking up on occasion to ask "Want your middle name on the DL?, Wanta be an organ donor?, Wear glasses?, Ya sure the height and weight is correct on this Kansas license?" At last, all information entered, she sits back, folds her chubby arms across her chest and waits . . . and again smirks when the system announces rejection. Seems Kansas's $42M computer upgrade crashed again, refusing to transfer information to the Arkansas Department of Motor Vehicles. The lady, almost joyfully, says "You'll have to come back later, and don't forget that marriage certificate if the Mrs. wants a DL, provided the computers will exchange information." Without another word she tosses documents our way, looks toward other waiting customers and yells "Next." Obviously the "lady" was discarded in Benton County by a traveling circus years ago.

Cousin Bill will undoubtedly have been chastened by this close encounter with a varmint in the Ozark wilderness.

As we headed home we chuckled about the "marriage license" situation, then pondered the legal ramifications if we weren't really married. We mailed Kansas yet another $15 check with request for the "Certificate." If nothing's on record there, guess we'll continue to live in sin (Cheryl the bigger sinner without the her DL), or do a quickie marriage in nearby Oklahoma.

I erred. Cousin Bill has little serious intention of being chaste. And he even appears to be taking this encounter with the local wildlife less than seriously, even if the bearded bureaucratress is actually a rare critter, only a handful having escaped the circus to indigenize themselves. But they're hardly the only fauna around:

Discovery of wild things continues. This week I've noticed . . . [a local species of] praying mantis . . . [and] one on the front door measured nearly nine inches . . .

Alarmed at that news, I wrote back and warned him:

That one was newly hatched. Watch out for the big ones . . .

Seemingly skeptical, he replied:

If I see any bigger, you'll be reading about Arkansas dinosaurs!

I reckon. But we'll also be reading about the mysterious disappearance of a Kansas couple, newly relocated to the Ozarks but now relocated the devil knows where!

I've tried to warn them . . .