Blanchard Springs Bats' Quotidian Droppings

Uninspiring Bat Dung

But in the totally inspiring Blanchard Springs Cavern!

Mt. Magazine, Arkansas's Highest, Most-Disappointing High Spot

Mt. Magazine

 Not especially impressive, Mt. Magazine rises to a reasonable 2,753 feet. The mountain is a crumbly sort, though, so enjoy it while it lasts . . .

Glasstire of Texas: No 'Reesponse'

Christina's Hairdo

Christina Rees is a gifted expert on art who heads Glasstire, a site dedicated to art in Texas, though the focus occasionally shifts to other states, such as Arkansas, where she once visited Crystal Bridges, in the northwest part of the state, and made a snarky remark about "hillbilly meth." Perhaps she was even making a clever, hidden pun on 'crystal' meth?

Anyway, several commenters (including me) called her on her cultural chauvinism (Texan attitude toward Arkansawyers?), but she never responded, and the other day, I saw my opportunity to be snarky about her current hairstyle, which you see above, so I wrote:

"Christina, while your beauty can rescue any hairstyle, don't hide your light under a bushel."

There's a biblical allusion there (Matthew 5:14–15, Mark 4:21–25, and Luke 8:16–18), which folks might or might not catch, and I thought I had made my snark humorous, but my remark seems not to have passed moderation - and I can't really fault Glasstire for nixing it since I didn't address anything of substance . . . or of substance abuse.

Still . . . I thought my remark humorous enough to post, which is why I post it here.

Diamond in the Rough?

The Diamond State

Google Images

When I was a kid growing up in Arkansas, the state's boosters used to tell us that Arkansas was a diamond in the rough. I didn't know what that meant until I grew up. They never explained it, but I eventually figured it out.

I've just checked and see that the boosters are still boosting with that same old line. Maybe it needs an updating. As far as Arkansas is concerned, I suggest this:

A diamond is forever in the rough.

Actually, I'd prefer that it stay that way, in a bit of a rough state . . .

Memories of Uncle Harlin

Harlin and Betty

My Uncle Harlin's step-daughter - my step-cousin? - sent this obituary, "Harlin J. Perryman," published in The Sacramento Bee (September 26, 2015):

Harlin J. Perryman was born in Zion, Arkansas, August 13, 1927, to Henry and Sarah Mabel (Shell) Perryman.

Near the close of World War II, and after he had graduated from Salem High School, his father signed the paperwork for him to serve in the U S Navy. His tour of duty completed, he returned to Arkansas and attended the University of Arkansas earning a Bachelor's Degree in History and a Master's Degree in French History. As he prepared to continue his studies for his Ph.D. at Penn State, he decided he had been away long enough and returned home. There he enrolled in law school and ran for the Arkansas State Assembly, winning the seat previously held by his father. After his graduation from law school and entrance to the bar, he lost his re-election bid to the Arkansas State Assembly. As a result he decided to travel the United States in search of a place to put down roots.

He finally settled in the South Bay area of San Jose, California. There he started a lengthy career in law. He also continued his interest in politics serving on several local and regional campaigns. He met and married Betty Baldwin. With Betty came a ready made family of 4 children, William, Melody, Steven and Deborah. Their five grandchildren, Marcella, Jeff, Kelly, Bethany and Hannah were a part of his life.

After their retirement in 1991, Harlin and Betty moved to the community of Magalia in Butte County. There they continued their activities in community events, playing bridge, gardening, volunteering and traveling. During this time Harlin, an avid cyclist, logged over 20,000 miles on his bicycle, becoming known as the "man who biked everywhere" around the ridge. As part of his cycling, he also became interested in watching the various birds he saw. He became an active member of the Audubon Society in both Butte and Sacramento Counties.

In Sept. 2000, Betty predeceased him after a long battle with diabetes. In 2006 he relocated, this time to Sacramento, to watch over Melody's house while she was working out of the area. Here he continued his interest in birdwatching and traveling, taking excursions several times a year on Audubon trips both in the United States and Canada.

He was predeceased by his father, mother, brother Max Henry and sister Hala Ferguson. He is survived by his sisters Ava Jo Bowling of Horseshoe Bend, Arkansas and Gay Miller of Salem, Arkansas. He has extended family on both coasts and overseas. He loved to hear about their lives and adventures through his sisters. A Celebration of Life will be held behind Mather Air Force Base at Mather Regional Park Oct. 10th from 10:00 am to 2:00 pm. A parking fee will be provided by the family. In lieu of flowers, donations made to the Sacramento Audubon Society would be appreciated.

There's one mistake that probably needs correcting. Harlin's brother was not "Max Henry," but rather "Marx Henry." The name "Max," however, could be considered a laudable error that at least undoes an old, perhaps egregious error, for Marx was meant to be named "Marks," after one of Grandpa Perryman's Jewish friends in Arkansas politics, not Karl Marx.

The name "Marx" would have been a rather heavy burden to bear outside of the small community of Salem, Arkansas . . .

Bentonville, Arkansas in the News!

Bentonville, Arkansas
Photo by Beth Hall
The New York Times

One of my Ozark friends, Jay Nemec, has been keeping me alerted to the growth of Bentonville as cultural center in the Ozarks, but I'm now learning about it from the New York Times, which we Hillbillies appreciate even if the headline does read, "Bentonville, Ark., Hosts a Film Festival Without a Movie Theater" (NYT, May 5, 2015):

Despite that technical difficulty, Mr. Drinkwater, an independent film distributor, believes Bentonville is ready to host a major film festival, which he expects to grow each year. If nothing else, he has the corporate sponsors.

AMC Theatres, Coca-Cola and Walmart have joined to offer distribution on limited AMC screens and via Walmart to the winners. The festival, through its partnership with the Geena Davis Institute on Gender in Media, is open exclusively to female and minority filmmakers, with the aim of igniting careers.

Robert DeNiro, Rosie O’Donnell, Soledad O’Brien and other A-listers are said to be attending.

Ms. Davis has visited Bentonville several times in advance of the festival, strolling the square and staying in the 21c Museum Hotel.

Well, that sounds . . . interesting. Keep at it, Bentonville, and don't let NYT headlines get you down, for at least, unlike art critic for Glasstire, Christina Rees, the NYT doesn't characterize the Bentonvillle area as exuding a "whiff of meth hillbilly"!

Maybe I'll visit the place this coming vacation . . .

Christ of the Ozarks: Embracing Identity Difference?

Christ of the Ozarks
Andrea Morales for The New York Times

Gerald L.K. Smith must lie smoldering in his grave.

The Christ of the Ozarks statue in Eureka Springs, Arkansas, seemingly all-embracing, appears now to stand confronted with a dilemma, acceptance of difference in sexual identity or rejection of the same.

Why's that a dilemma?

Because of tourists.

Tourists?

Yes, tourists. The tourists who'll show up in the Ozark town of Eureka Springs, Arkansas . . . or who won't.

If the town promotes tolerance of difference in sexual identity - lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender (LGBT) - in order to attract LGBT tourists, it stands to lose Christian tourists who'd otherwise arrive to watch the local Great Passion Play, Christians whose understanding of 'passion' differs profoundly from the LGBT's own view.

There's misunderstanding on both sides. An anti-LGBT ad placed in a local paper reads:

If you think tourists are going to be excited about even the possibility that their wives, daughters and girlfriends will be sharing a bathroom with a guy who decides he's 'transgender' just to have a little fun (or worse) at the ladies' expense, you don't know tourists and you don't know sex offenders.

This fear doesn't sound especially realistic to me. A sex offender wouldn't want the infamy, and genuine LGBTs would criticize anyone pretending to be transgender and pulling such a stunt "to have a little fun." But the sexual identity people also perhaps misjudge things:

At the same time, a website promoting gay tourism, Out in Eureka, has already begun incorporating . . . into its argument that the city is "the antithesis of the redneck stereotype" and a "microcosm of San Francisco." Gay travelers, it says, can feel at home along with "all manner of colorful characters, misfits, eccentrics and rugged individualists."

I doubt that Eureka Springs is equivalent to San Francisco - the latter's Gay Freedom Day Parade would never go over in the Ozarks, not even in a liberal town like Eureka! And some of those rugged individualistic men would likely punch you in the nose if you were a gay fellow trying to make a pass. But so long as the flamboyance is kept PG, there ought to be only minor problems.

I hope . . .

Frank Stanford was "as beautiful as the sun" according to Arkansas poet Carolyn (C. D.) Wright

Frank Stanford (1973)
Photo by Ginny Stanford
NYT

My old Ozark friend and renaissance man, Pete Hale, sent me a short note alerting me to an NYT review by Sonny Figueroa of a book of collected poems by the poet Frank Stanford, who tragically ended his life in 1978 at 29:

Hi Jeff - say, you may find this interesting if you haven't already; a book of the strange and wondrous Arkie poet Frank Stanford. Leigh knew this guy, among the several pretty powerful poets that haunted U of Ark at about that time . . . . The review is good.

Pete's wife, Leigh, knew the man. I don't believe I've ever heard of him, which speaks volumes about the limits of my reading. The review says he was born in Mississippi, but he seems to have been taken deep into the bosom of Arkansas. Perhaps this is the one time when we Arkansawyers can truly without irony say, "Thank God for Mississippi!" The NYT review offers a section from his poem "Death and the Arkansas River" (1976):

Everytime death gets a Cadillac
He wants to fight.
He wants to run the front door,
He wants cooking that will remind him of home.
If you try to forget
Death ties a string around your finger.

That somehow works . . . though my editorial instincts want me to divide "Everytime" into "Every time." The book being reviewed is What About This: Collected Poems of Frank Stanford, and it's edited by Michael Wiegers.

It looks worth looking into . . .

Why Privilege?

Ozarks
Wikipedia

A few days back, I followed up a link on Malcolm Pollack's blog and read a piece written by Tal Fortgang, a freshman at Princeton who was challenged, "Check Your Privilege," because he was a male and more or less white, so he took the advice and did check his privilege, with some interesting results that should remind people not to judge a book by its color.

Reading his story reminded me of a similar challenge I faced way back in 1990 in Berlin on a Fulbright trip. I was friends with an African-American artist who was also there on a Fulbright. The two of us were in conversation when we were approached by a woman, yet another Fulbright scholar, a radical leftist in the field of political science, if I recall, who chose us to speak with because we looked politically correct, I guess (probably the ankh earring dangling from my left ear and my friend's dark skin), and to be honest, I was a bit left of center in those days.

Anyway, my friend soon disengaged himself from the ensuing conversation, undoubtedly aware that it would lead through a political minefield. I was left alone with the activist. She had recently been involved in political issues with Palestinians on the West Bank and was gushing about how 'democratic' they were. I merely listened.

At some point, she interrupted herself to inquire about me.

I acknowledged that I was a Fulbright scholar, but added (in my humility, of course) that I wasn't special , and that if I could obtain a Fulbright fellowship, then anybody who would put in the effort could succeed. I believe I said, "If I can do it, anyone can do it."

Rather than ask why I held that opinion, she pounced: "Oh, but you had it easy compared to him!" she exclaimed, pointing to my friend, now safely across the room.

I was stopped cold. She knew nothing about either of us, but anything I now said would sound like special pleading. I therefore did not say:

I was born in 1957 in the very rural Arkansas Ozarks to a part-Cherokee family and raised by my grandparents along with my four brothers. The first ten years or so of my life, I slept in a basement in an old bed above a dirt floor, and we used a wood stove in winter. The first five years or thereabouts, we had no indoor plumbing, so we got water from a well and used an outhouse. Clothes were hand-me-downs. Toys were few. Money was little. I worked on the Youth Corps a couple of years in my early teens, handling what we called a 'sling' to chop weeds. I delivered newspapers for three years. In the mid-teens, I worked with school buddies hauling hay. I got into university on work-study for 20 hours per week or more, along with a federal loan and grant, as well as a valedictorian scholarship ($200 a semester). I worked every year as I studied, never had much money, and following several years of such privilege ultimately qualified for a Fulbright. But you may be right -- I probably didn't have it as hard as him.

As I said, I did not say that then, and I'm not so much saying it now as reporting what I didn't say, because I'm checking my great privilege . . .

It's colder than the tipple on a niche's wit!

Hawksbill Crag
Tim Ernst

As readers know, I like to visit Tim Ernst's website regularly for recent images of home, though when I heard about the extreme cold, I had to wonder if he'd ventured out . . . but he had, and had pictures to prove it, too! Like the one above, taken on January 7th, some time after dark, when the mercury had already dipped nearly to zero fahrenheit, which is a scientific way of saying "purty damn cold!"

That image may look like daytime, but just note the stars. Those, a half moon, and some snow make for the brightness of day (with long exposure time, of course), but the hour is late, and Mr. Ernst observes in his journal that the windchill must be the equivalent of 15 to 20 below zero. Even the Arkansas Ozarks can get mighty cold!

Makes me glad to be in Seoul, where the temperature is tropical, just a bit below zero celsius . . .

My Wife and Kids Visiting the Ozarks . . .

Last Redoubt of Western Civilization?

My wife finally took some photos and some time to forward the images to me. The picture above is of the Great Wall of the Ozarks. The wall was never finished, which explains how we hillbillies originally got in . . .

Sa-Rah and En-Uk Practice Sign Language

Preparing to communicate with my local hillbilly relatives, my children rehearse the intricate semaphore of sock, tissy, phone -- or something like that, some sort of pidgen language developed for intercommunication . . .

En-Uk Takes a First Step

Hardest of the steps to take in establishing contact with the resident hillbillies is that initial step!

Ritual Bath: En-Uk and Sa-Rah Adjust the Holy Goggles

Before outsiders can be fully trusted, they must undergo "some farcical aquatic ceremony," a ridiculous event that is taken very seriously and never ridiculed.

Trusted Members of the Tribe

En-Uk and Sa-Rah now belong to my Ozark Family! Sun-Ae's fate remains obscure to the camera, but the smiles seem friendly enough . . .

Delana Epperson: Arkansas Photographer

Dandelion with Cucumber Beetle
Delana Epperson

A couple of days ago, I borrowed a photo of locust blossoms by night and only afterwards checked with the Arkansas photographer Delana Epperson for permission, but maybe because I'm also from Arkansas, she allowed me my unorthodox ways and let me continue to use the photo:

The attribution is correct and I'm honored that you used my photo. I enjoyed reading your blog about it. The . . . [locust blossoms] are invasive trees. When we moved where we are now, they had them and they pop up everywhere. I thought wow, that's a fast growing shade tree, lol. We now know better and just had about 30 of those Black Locust bulldozed down. Now, we are still digging up roots to dispose of them. I do love the blossoms in the Spring.

A couple of days later, Ms. Epperson led me to site with the above photo:

If you like night photos, how about a Dandelion with a Cucumber Beetle on it. I love playing with the camera at night and trying different flowers and weeds. This is on my gallery on WeatherUnderground. My handle is CalicoBass . . .

Ms. Epperson may say she's just playing around with her camera, but she produces photos that look more than amateur to me! Moreover, she has what every great photographer needs . . . luck:

I didn't realize the bug was there until I uploaded the pic onto the computer.

Of course, there's also skill, and she has hundreds of photographs to prove it. Go and gaze . . .

Cousin Bill and Petit Jean . . .

Arkansas's Petit Jean State Park

A delayed "Weekly Rambling" newsletter arrived from Cousin Bill the other day, telling of his rambles through the Arkansas wilderness:

Yesterday we left early morning for a day trip down the Pig Trail toward Mt Magazine and on over to Petit Jean Mtn. Both are beautiful, but Petit Jean has more to offer . . . trails, camping, lake, car museum, etc. In spite of the high humidity and temp there we decided to hike the Cedar Falls trail, located in Cedar Creek Canyon. It's a difficult hike (the first half mile descends 200 ft over steps cut from rock by the CCC over 70 years ago). The trail then follows Cedar Creek another half mile over rock and boulders . . . there rewarded by sight of the 90 foot waterfall . . . the large pool at its base a swimming area for young and old. Although indicated as only a two mile roundtrip, another couple got a GPS reading of 2.6 miles. Sweat was rolling going and coming. Molly got baptized twice in the creek in a successful attempt to keep her alive . . . she was almost tripping over her own tongue. We'll redo it and try additional trails in the fall, with a stay in one of the rustic cabins or Mather Lodge.

The CCC was the Franklin Roosevelt New Deal's Civilian Conservation Corps, which gave unemployed men manual jobs during the Great Depression. Mt. Magazine is obviously a mountain, but important for being the highest spot in Arkansas, at 2,753 feet. That's not high, as mountains go, but it rises from a base of about 300 feet. Petit Jean rises only to 1,180 feet, from a somewhat lower base. Arkansas's mountains are not especially high, but the valleys are deep . . .

Oh, nearly forgot, but Uncle Cran responded to Cousin Bill's report with a note of appreciation:

It was kind of (YAWN!) interesting, and probably worth the wait.

A big thanks to Uncle Cran for the wit and wisdom of his elder perspective on the younger lives of his nephews . . .

E-Beer Man John Wells in Little Criminals

John Wells
Mug Shot
About You Magazine

John Wells -- whom some readers here would know as the E-Beer Man -- turns out to have a literary side. He loves liters and liters of beer! Well, we knew that already, you say? Okay, let me re-phrase: He's not only bent elbows with liters of brews, he's also got a literary bent with prose. You might also already have realized that fact, based on excerpts from his weekly beer email, a few of which I've commented upon in blog posts. But even stronger evidence of John's literary talent has recently emerged, an essay for About You Magazine in which he describes the early onset of his criminal career:

I'll always remember the first time I was arrested. The year was 1963, and the place was 12th Street and University Avenue in Little Rock, Arkansas. It was then and there that a very large policeman took my best friend and me into custody. He put us in the back of his patrol car and took us downtown. I was in the third grade. My co-defendant was in the first.

Excellent literary hook! Why were these two young citizens of eight and six years arrested, you naturally ask? Sorry, no spoilers this time. But a few hints. Recall that this was the Sixties. A time of youthful rebellion. Of rock and roll. Of drugs. Of sex. Of helter-skelter in a fallout shelter. Of the Manson family. With respect to John's arrest, ALL of these and worse were fully irrelevant.

But I won't spoil John's story any more than that, and if you want to know more, go to his article, "Tales From The South: A First Time For Everything" (June 2013), and read the entire story from the perspective of an older and wiser individual:

An Older and Wiser Mr. Wells
Better Mug Shot
About You Magazine

"Weekly Rambling" -- Cousin Bill Reports on Decoration Day

Elizabeth, Arkansas Cemetery
"Have You Ever Heard of Decoration Day?"
Victoria Lynn

Cousin Bill recently reported on a Memorial Day trip taken by him and his wife, Cheryl -- on Sunday, May 26th, rather than the expected Monday, May 27th -- to Elizabeth, Arkansas, a small backwoods town where the holiday is still called "Decoration Day":

We've had another busy week. It began with an early Sunday wake-up to make the three-and-a-half-hour, 162-mile drive to Elizabeth for the Decoration Day get together with the Hodges and Stephens clan. We saw more deer and turtle traffic than vehicular from Bella Vista to Eureka Springs . . . . Eureka Springs was asleep at 7:15 . . . the only sign of moving life was early rising tourists packing the local McDonalds lot and drive-through. Harrison was awake . . . . We stayed awake with a coffee . . . free at the Arkansas Welcome Center. By now, Hwy 62/412 was carrying more traffic as we approached Flippin, Cotter and Gassville . . . folks headed to Sunday School and pickups pulling Ranger boats towards Bull Shoals Lake and Norfork Lake.

In my day, we hillbillies used to get off to an earlier start on the morning . . .

We made a brief stop for more coffee/soft drink in Mountain Home, then drove the remaining miles to Elizabeth . . . might mention we were among the earliest arrivals . . . two distant relatives manning the shelter house within the cemetery grounds, and greeting us with the all-important question . . . "Guess you've got good fried chicken inside that cooler?" The answer "No," followed by my "I'm Bill Hodges and this is my wife Cheryl." To which I hear, "Can't be, Bill Hodges is out there checking out tombstones." Took some talking but got 'em convinced there were two "Bill Hodges" in the world, cousins none the less. The convincer was sealed when I confirmed I was the son of another "Bill" who was Nora's eldest.

I don't know why anybody would be off in a graveyard "checking out tombstones" -- those spots are already taken! But I'm pleased to hear they got their Bills settled. Otherwise, there might have been some feudin' . . .

Uncle Woodrow and Aunt Pauline, Aunt Virginia, Cousins Martha and Bob, Velna, Uncle Cran and Aunt Gay arrived shortly and more introductions ensued with other arriving relatives . . . all packing the requisite flowers, lawn chairs and coolers packed with good Arkansas eatings.

I figured Uncle Cran would show up, there being food and all. I reckon Aunt Gay let him out of his man-cage . . .

We'd brought Molly, probably the first dog to sit inside the shelter house since the cemetery was fenced . . . and she was the perfect lady, not barking and getting petted by young and old, but figured by one relative as worthless when I advised she didn't tree squirrels. I courteously allowed Cheryl to go ahead through the buffet line (think she was about number 70 in line) and in doing so missed my chance for some good fried chicken breast. By the time I got in line (at the rear) the fried chicken was gone . . . so I grabbed some ham (four big slices), tater salad, cole slaw and three varieties of baked beans, ate and washed it down with some sugary tea (the label on the gallon sized jug said "unsweetened").

Any dog that can't follow a squirrel up a tree IS worthless! Little wonder Molly was "not . . . getting petted"! And don't try to mollify me with her supposedly 'fine' qualities -- a faithful dog would have saved a place in line for her master!

I was just headed to the dwindling supply of desserts as an impromptu cemetery meeting commenced . . . although soon over, it ruined my chances of latching onto what I think was blackberry cobbler and for sure some Devil's Food cake . . . those getting stowed away in quickly closed coolers. I settled on some homemade cinnamon roll thingys (good) and some strawberry laced cake (excellent).

Sounds like some folks didn't let that "impromptu cemetery meeting" stand between them and their unjust desserts! Surely none of our kin . . .

We enjoyed the eatin' and visitin'. The Hodges, Stephens and others are good folks and everyone that a-way is doing great. Uncle Woodrow looks like a million following his heart surgery . . . says he's out doing the goat milking morning and evening.

Good to hear Uncle Woodrow's doing well and is even back to milking those goats! Keep at it Uncle Woodrow -- don't let anyone get your goat!

The get together was over around 1:30 and as we had the trip home, left about the same time as the Woodrows.

Cousin Bill neglected to take any photos -- though he carried along a camera, but what for?! -- so I borrowed a photograph from the online site of a certain Victoria Lynn, who apparently hails from the village of Elizabeth and has written an informative piece worth reading, and also good for the photos of her own Decoration Day celebration a couple of years ago.

I wish I could have made the Hodges-Stephens memorial decoration and get-together, but Seoul is a bit of a stretch as far as trips home are concerned . . .

Uncle Cran (The Old *Art) Hodges: At Work on His Man-Cave

Uncle Cran is still busy on his Arkansas farm back in the Ozarks. I reckon The Old *Art's work is never done. But maybe if he'd work a little faster . . . Be that as it may, he claims to be nearing completion of his Man-Cave, and he does have photographic evidence, albeit no evidence that he's actually working:

Man-Cave Photo?

That's the first photo -- and now for the first claim:

The Man-Cave/Kitcheonette is almost done.

Er . . . don't know how to break this to you, Uncle Cran . . . but a Man-Cave ain't got no 'Kitch-E-O-nette'! If you aren't careful, you'll soon be quoting T. S. Eliot on Grishkin and her maisonette!

Gay has been cracking the whip lately, so we are down to just a few items like light fixtures, switch covers, and formica for the cabinets.

A Man-Cave ain't the sort of place that a Cave-Man shares possession of with his woman! And if anybody's gonna be cracking a whip, well . . .

I just finished the base trim this morning, and Gay has unpacked her suitcases, and won't leave me, . . . for the moment anyway. As soon as I notice her repacking, I'll finish the job.

Uncle Cran! You make this so-called 'Man'-Cave sound like a gift to your woman! Don't you realize it's a Cave-Man's place, one he's taken for himself?

If you notice, just beside the water heater, I can move the trash can, and there is a small area just large enough to sit down in, that I can make into my man cave, some time in the distant future.

Eh? Do I hear aright? An admission that this already-built stuff ain't no true Man-Cave? Speaking of which, what's the price of admission for you?

You will also note that the dining table has only two chairs . . . (not saying that there is any kind of hint regarding company coming to visit, of course).

I'm concerned about that second chair, Uncle Cran. While I'd like to believe it's for you propping your feet upon, I have a sneaking suspicion of a different use . . .

We got a good rain yesterday and last night, about 1.75 inches.

In the Man-Cave?! Or the Woe-Man-Cave . . . or whatever you're calling it, after all. But what I really want to know is why, after all those years of carpentry work, you still haven't learned to put a roof on first!

Or pastures and hay fields are really growing.

Or? You got a good rain OR your fields are growing? Is this some sort of tricky logical puzzle?

We mowed our yard last week, and now it is ready again.

Ready for what -- rain . . . or growing?

We found enough wild asparagus in our yard and down the roadway to have two meals.

Sounds like you're letting the yard run wild! What next? Poke salat?

We haven't had time to put out a garden, and the ground is so saturated, with more rain forecast, that we don't know when we can get one planted.

Just let that wild yard grow your food this year, Uncle Cran.

That's pretty much the news down on the farm.

And stupefying news it was, too . . . so lets take a gander at the second photo:

Woe-Man-Cave Photo

This photo reveals most clearly that a Man-Cave this space ain't. With the first photo, one might be fooled, but not with this second photograph. This space is obviously domesticated . . . and so is Uncle Cran.

Cousin Bill's Oz Ark Home

An Ark in the Land of Oz?

I can't call it an "Ozark" home since it looks nothing like the Ozark homes of old, so I have to say that Cousin Bill's not quite the hillbilly type I had him pegged for . . . though he does have what you could call a "dog-trot" house.

Why, look! There's even the little dog Toto! This truly is the land of Oz! And much as Dorothy's home bore her and Toto safely upon the storm clouds to the Land of Oz, and Noah's Ark bore him and two of each kind of beast in the world (a bit crowded) safely upon the stormy flood to Mt. Ararat, so Cousin Bill's new home brought him, his little dog Toto, and his wife (or so he says!) safely through the headwinds of bureaucracy to a new land, where he -- again like Noah -- looked out of his Ark and saw where he had landed, and called it: "Arkansas." This may be God's Country, but it ain't no Garden of Eden, so Cousin Bill has to work by the sweat of his face if he wants his own garden of eatin':

A bit of a fixer-upper, seems to me. Speaking of fixer-uppers, Cousin Bill has 'repaired' his marriage, or so he says:

Relative to an earlier email circular regarding whether we were legally married or not . . . turns out we are . . . thought I'd put the tsk, tsk, tsk folks' mind at ease, as we received that "certified" copy of our marriage license from Kansas a week ago plus. Dang it . . . the idea of possibly being unmarried all the years made me feel . . . well, sinful.

I note for the record that Cousin Bill sent along no photo of this putative license, so I have to wonder if it exists in our three-dimensional reality. Sorry, Bill, but I'm as recalcitrant to your charming 'proof' of marriage as the bearded bureaucratic circus lady and therefore expect more than your mere word! Speaking of the hirsute one, she seems to have smiled more this time:

A benefit though . . . that marriage document allowed us to successfully procure our Arkansas driver's licenses. Gräbchen's Miss Jolly Smiley Face took her time scrutinizing that copy, as well as doing a thorough review of the other required "certified" items. The previous two weeks evidently hadn't been kind to her . . . we received another sneer accompanied by a jovial "Help you?" The process took another hour out of our lifespan. Prior to receipt of the DL, we had to sign a document stating we'd never text while driving, and if caught doing so, were subject to a $10K fine . . . you either sign the paperwork or you don't get the license. We didn't hesitate to sign . . . other states oughta do the same.

Hmmm . . . the lady suffering from frazonism appears to have accepted the validity of Cousin Bill's marriage (though I'd still like to see that license), but she exacted her revenge.

Our DL photos make us look like Miss Jolly's offspring. Thinking I might need a copy of my Kansas DL (to obtain a Kansas personal property tax refund), I asked for same . . . and received this reply: "Absolutely not, you surrender the Kansas license, and you get no copies, is that clear?" I muttered "Yes'm."

Once past that freak show in the Chamber of Horrors, Cousin Bill turned to pleasanter tasks:

I've included a few attachments of our "cabin" (yeah, I succumbed to Cheryl's insistence on running water, electricity and indoor toilets) and a couple of me "working" and "hauling."

We've seen some of those pictures, but here are some more, starting with the front of the 'cabin'.

Next, we see the entryway, from within looking back.

And since we glimpsed the dining room, let's take a fuller look.

Now, the living room, which perhaps ought to have come before the dining room . . . or not, for does one eat to live or live to eat, and more to the point, how would either principle determine the order of photographs. Leaving that conundrum aside for now, here is that already announced and much anticipated living room.

Moving right along, we come to the cooking room . . . sometimes called the kitchen, only coincidentally sounding like "The Kitsch Inn," a cupcake place in the city of Derry or Londonderry, Northern Ireland, but let's not get into that conflict.

Okay, what now? . . . maybe Cousin Bill's office?

No books? Must be that modern, paperless sort of office. After hours of hard work in his office searching for a sheet of paper, Cousin Bill will need to relax and re-energize in his sun room.

Wait a second -- this is the dog-trot room! Also called the doghouse, and I don't see no sun! Well, Cousin Bill can stay in the doghouse while we nosy on along to snoop into his "Master Bedroom."

Well, let the sun shine in! This looks more like a sun room! An excellent "Master Bedroom"! But where sleeps Cheryl, the supposed 'bride' of Cousin Bill? Is there no "Mistress Bedroom"? Maybe he's working on that. He's definitely working . . . leastways by his own account as he describes the work photo we've already seen above:

The "work" has entailed the clearing of brush, stick-tights, thorny wild blackberry plants, and seemingly miles of wild grape vines (one dealt a death sentence to a 50 foot sycamore . . . cut that down Tuesday). Another picture shows me and Molly ready for our 7th stump dump run with the (for now) last half load of dead timber. I've ventured approximately 40 feet into the forest (in back) and about 15 feet (on the west side). Immediately north of the yard (treed area) the terrain drops . . . similar to that of the downhill from Grandpa DeWitt's house to Big Creek. In other words . . . steep! And in cutting that dead sycamore, I stumbled and did a downhill roll . . . with the running chainsaw in my outstretched hand. I need to re-visit History Channel's "Ax Men" for tips on proper logging procedures.

Good idea, Bill, or you might end up an "Ex-Man." Is transgender an issue in Arkansas?

I also learned a quick lesson in what not to wear when cutting and pulling blackberry vines . . . you don't wear shorts and t shirts. I discovered too late such isn't proper attire for working in or around thorny vines. My lower legs and arms were promptly shrapnelized. I dressed in boots, jeans and long sleeves on day 2. Thorns smarten people up.

I reckon we've just been proffered proof that Cousin Bill ain't no true hillbilly, or he'd already've knowed that! But life goes on:

Today, we awakened to lightning and thunder and received a good rain . . . 4 and ¾ inches between 6 AM and noon. This afternoon peaked at a comfortable 71 with mostly sunny skies.

Hmmm . . . I did mention Noah, didn't I? But God willing and the creeks don't rise too much, Cousin Bill and his lady-friend have plans:

Arkansas craft shows begin next week, so expect I'll be required to accompany the wife to War Eagle, etc. Trees are beginning their transformation into yellows and reds, so we hope to begin sightseeing trips the following week.

I wonder what that "etc." entails. I always insist that my students fill in the details. But I suppose it won't include these two cultural activities:

Tomorrow offers laid back excitement . . . we'll miss both . . . Pea Ridge's 24th Annual Mule Jump and Bella Vista's 6th Annual Wiener Dog Races.

Afterwards, a weenie roast! Oh, wait, this is Arkansas, not Korea. Sorry. I'm so cosmopolitan and multicultural, I sometimes forget where I am . . . but here's a post scriptum from Cousin Martha, commenting on Bill's photos:

Your home looks beautiful! That back yard pic looks like you live next to a national forest, you don't do you? Shoulda had the loggers come and bid on those trees! Sounds like lessons with chain saws should be in your future!! I think your in the part of Ark that gets rain more,snow? Seems like that corner is in the news more anyway. Our part is always in the never rains, or power is out side. lol Your dog looks like a statue in the pic in the sun room. She's really cute. Well, you are too, but in a people way, not dog way. I've gotta go, I'm rambling.

Cousin Martha is rather less verbose than me and Bill, but she says the essential -- Cousin Bill needs some lessons in chainsaw manliness -- and that's enough!

And enough from me as well, but the poet Shelley has extra words of warning for Cousin Bill in the Land of Oz Ark . . .

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 . . .

Yielding to Crystal Bridges Art Museum . . .

Yield (2011)

Roxy Paine

Last January 8th (2012), I posted an entry on the new art museum that opened in Northwestern Arkansas, Crystal Bridges, which lies nestled in a valley of the Ozarks and offers a "re-imagining of the broader story of American art that is especially impressive," according to Kelly Klaasmeyer, whose words I didn't cite in that previous entry because I hadn't read them yet since they were only recently published, on March 5 (2012). Those words of praise come as the concluding sentence of an early paragraph in Klaasmeyer's article, "Crystal Bridges, Part II: American Stories" (Glasstire, March 5th, 2012):

I assumed I'd like Crystal Bridges, but I wasn't prepared to be so impressed or to feel so enthusiastic about it. With all the hype about Wal-Mart as the source of founder Alice Walton's wealth, I think some people initially expected some sort of "red state" patriotic museum of American art. And with its location in the Arkansas Ozarks, I think they also feared a certain conservative agenda might run through the collection. (It had crossed my mind as well.) That is far from the case, however. The museum's setting is gorgeous and it's acquired some impressive works, but it is Crystal Bridges' re-imagining of the broader story of American art that is especially impressive.

A political agenda, whether rightwing or left, would inevitably have distorted that story, so the avoidance of either danger is a good omen, and I'm delighted to hear that the museum is so fine. Interestingly, though, Klaasmeyer had initially disliked "Roxy Paine's stainless steel tree, Yield, [which] is out front, bending against an imaginary wind," or more precisely, she "hadn't been that taken with it in photos," but when she saw it "in person [she realized that] its stark, shimmering drama works surprisingly well against the surrounding woods." Perhaps she saw the wrong photos initially, for I liked it immediately upon seeing the photo above, supplied by Klaasmeyer herself (I assume).

The writer has a series of articles on the museum, though only the first two have been published as of now (March 10, 2012). Part I can be read online here: "Crystal Bridges: Don Bacigalupi, Art, Arkansas, Populism and Wal Mart." Klaasmeyer is rather hard on Arkansas culture and politics, so be forewarned, but since she's native, I reckon it's allowable. She also subjects Wal-Mart to harsh criticism, in case anyone is interested in knowing that point before reading her articles. She makes some indisputable points, I have to admit, even though I'm not hostile to Wal-Mart.

Anyway, for those intrigued by the concept of a great art museum situated in the Arkansas Ozarks, Klaasmeyer supplies some excellent photographs enabling one to see the realization of that concept.

Ozark Spring House: Mild, Rainy Winter Day

Ozark Spring House

Cloudland Journal of Tim Ernst

January 27, 2012

Whenever I need my Ozark fix -- which is every morning -- I click over to the website maintained by Ozark photographer Tim Ernst and spend some time contemplating his latest photographs. This morning in Seoul is January 28th, but since Arkansas lies on the back side of the International Dateline, Mr. Ernst must have posted this update of January 27th only some hours ago, though the picture was taken a couple of days earlier. The Ozarks had gotten a bit of rain, apparently, so the Buffalo River Valley had hundreds of waterfalls pouring off its bluffs. Mr. Ernst had gone out to take pictures and also took one of this small spring house directly beside a tiny waterfall:

It rained all day Wednesday, but I was able to sneak out for a couple hours in the afternoon with camera and tripod to visit a couple of nearby waterfalls. I have been unable to get enough [photographs] of the [small waterfall alongside this] little spring house in Boxley, and it only runs well during flooded times for a few hours, so I stopped there first and spent some time with this old friend. There were a few raindrops coming down but nothing too bad. I just love the look and texture of the smooth stones they used for this little building, also the lush moss-covered little bluffline right next to it, and of course the splashing waterfall in between.

Boxley is a small Arkansas village on the upper Buffalo River, and I'm guessing that this is an old spring house from which the locals used to get their water, back in former days. The spring itself -- seen emerging from the pipe in the lower part of the above photo -- surely runs year round. Only the miniature waterfall requires rainy weather to run. Below is a close-up of the falls.

I find these two images so peaceful to gaze at, especially the upper one, with the full stone structure in view. In my younger days, I believed that I'd make my way back to the Ozarks after my worldly adventures, but in my case, Thomas Wolfe seems to have been right, for I likely won't be going home again, not to live, anyway. I guess Seoul is my home now, and I'm getting to know this great city of Asia, but I do need my Ozarks, if only in snapshots, so I'm glad that a man like Tim Ernst is around, daily taking photographs in the Ozark Mountains of Northern Arkansas.

I encourage others to visit his website and look around . . .