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THE LAND OF OPPORTUNITY from CABBAGES AND KINGS by Dale Freeman Arkansas is a lovely place. I say that because, as an adult, I have walked the Ozarks in the early fall, my senses stirred by a place where seemingly a rainbow had exploded, dripping colors in a thousand delicate shades on every tree and shrub. It seems strange to me now that for the first few years of my life I associated the place with Hell. It might have been in a sermon, with the preacher warning about the eternal abyss where noone would want to know. Or it might be a curse, exhailed beneath the breath of one of dad’s “cronies” as they discussed the poor crop or a boss who had somehow done them wrong. It didn’t matter. Arkansas and Hell were synonyms. Arkansas was where my paternal grandparents lived. It was our sworn duty to visit them annually, and it seemed to be my parents intent to make that journey as miserable as humanly possible. It was almost like they held a secret summit sometime after Christmas, hovering over a calendar they had gotten at Newland’s Pharmacy and the wrinkled map from the glove compartment of the Nash. “What week are we after?” I imagined my father asking. “It was a little cooler last time. Maybe a week later?” While they occasionally missed it, more often than not, they got us there on the hottest and most humid week of the year. And getting there wouldn’t be a picnic either. They, for whatever reason, seemed to have an aversion to motels. “Three days and night,” my dad would shrug. “I think we can make it in three days and nights if we push it.” “With a stop at Little America!” I would interject. I had learned that while my parents were intent on keeping the wheels turning pretty consistently for 56 hours, they would normally relent and allow a brief respite in that sprawling manmade oasis in the desolate heart of Wyoming. I must admit that anything would look good there. But Little America was like a ray of sunshine in a week of rain. Giant sized signs along the road began promising the glories of the place infinite miles before your arrival. Not little Burma Shave type signs, but big ones, with a cool penguin, spreading his arms in welcome as he told of the hundreds of gas pumps, air conditioned cafe, and clean restrooms that were there to enjoy. They also featured a strong of motel rooms, but those would remain unclaimed. I would be content to count the gas pumps, sip a Coke, and rummage through the pregnant shelves in search of the perfect figurine, table thermometer or funny plaque to add to my growing collection at home. Finally, we would see the sign. “WELCOME TO ARKANSAS.” You could almost smell the brimstone. “THE LAND OF OPPORTUNITY.” (I was the only one who could read the additional caption. “Abandon all hope, all ye who enter here.” It was the bold brave statement after the welcome that always captivated me. The first time we went, my mother had to read the sign to me. Later, as I learned to read, I read it to myself and then I began to even learn what the words actually meant. “Opportunity.” What type of opportunity were they promising? Was it the splendid chance to nestle your head in a wet pillow, while covered with damp, slimy sheets that stuck to your body like a clammy shroud? Or was it a chance to frolic in the lawn where a thousand exotic dangers lay in wait. “Drop your pants,” my dad would say everytime I entered the house. “Gotta check for ticks.” Ticks. Those devilish creatures whose only known job description was to drill into your flesh to gorge on rich red blood. It seemed inevitable that you’d have three or four if you’d been out for more than five minutes. I often wondered if this caused any consternation at social functions, a welcoming host insistent on having people drop their drawers before heading for the food laden table. “Don’t want to leave the heads in,” mom would warn. I was never sure why. I supposed that she meant that it would be uncool to spend the rest of your life walking around with old rotting bug heads embedded in your legs and ‘private’ areas. Although, if they had been left, I would have had something to show for the trip. I could have proudly displayed them back at school. Not officially, like Show and Tell, but secretly, perhaps even charging a nickle to see a leg that had become a walking graveyard for the remains of vampiric wildlife. To get them out, head and all, it was necessary to touch their back end with a glowing match. This I understood. If you ever wanted to get my head out of a place, setting my rear on fire would certainly do it. Ticks were a treat compared to chiggars. These infinitely tiny red bugs could hardly be seen. The only way to know that you had them was to itch. Chiggars seemed to come in nests. You never got just one. You got thousands. I would sometimes amuse myself by trying to figure out how many chiggars could dance on the head of a pin. Later, I learned that some people did the same with angels. I knew nothing of angels in Arkansas. It was chiggars, and I scratched them until my skin was red and raw. Every insect held more venom than their Northwestern cousins. I had been stung by wasps and yellowjackets at home, but in Arkansas the wound swelled until you could barely get your shirt sleeve over it. For months after I returned home, I would cringe at every buzzing sound, afraid that some errant wind had swept an Arkansas insect across the nation, intent on tracking me down and adding to my life just one final “opportunity.” And then there were the reptiles. Not the garter snakes and king snakes of the orchards. Venomous snakes with scary names like Cottonmouth and Water Mocassin. And the Black Racer, a creature that would supposedly chase you for miles, unwilling to let any errant tourist escape without feeling the wrath of his sharpened fangs. Land of opportunity. My grandmother was a cherubic short woman, with a broad smile, a soft whispery voice, and a joyful laugh that seemed to bubble up from the very depth of her soul. Every time she saw us coming, she spread her arms wide and screamed, running to envelope us in her loving embrace. She seemed oblivous that she lived in Hell, although she possessed enough self awareness of her surroundings to lecture me often on staying out of the grass, and away from rocks, and to drop my pants when coming into the house. It was my grandfather, however, who captivated the senses of a boy. He was unlike anyone that I had ever known. Actually, he was unlike anyone...period. Grandpap to me and Wally to others, he was one of the last of the old time blacksmiths. His shop sat afew feet from their house on main street, covered with circus posters and blackened by the smoky fires that always glowed within its dark interior. He would work there for hours, his muscular leathery arms raising and falling in union with the clang of the heavy hammer upon the anvil. Sparks would fly, red hot metal would be plunged into hissing water, and creations shaped like horseshoes and plow shears would emerge. Sometimes he would suspend a swing in the middle of the shop, and I would spend hours watching in awe as this backwoods Prometius created fire and then used it for the good of man. People would come from miles around, broken tools and instruments in their hands, seeking his healing touch. “Can you fix this, Wally?” They would ask. He’d roll it around in his weathered hands for a moment, and then squint up at some invisible clock in the cosmos. “Around 2:00,” he’d say. “About four bits.” Four bits. I broke the code early, and realized that he meant fifty cents. Fifty cents? More like six bits or a dollar! Maybe this was why he didn’t ever get any indoor plumbing. Not that I wanted any. It was my job to accompany him several times a day to the well in the yard. He’d take the tall slender tube and drop it into the hole, allowing it to sink in the water. Then, he’d pull it up, releasing the cool water into the bucket he had brought along for the occasion. “Well bucket...hit bottom...boom! Glub, glub, glub!” He taught those words to me like a mantra, calling upon me to recite them for anyone who might wander through the door. He’d slap his knee and laught at each recitation, as if he had never heard it before. The guests would smile politely, a hint of sorrow behind their eyes, as if wondering how long it would be before Wally’s grandson would have to return to the home. My grandmother wanted running water. She dreamed nights of filling a coffee pot without leaving the house and taking a bath without having to collect rain water in barrels. Sometimes she expressed this desire, and grandpap would look at her like she had landed from some distant planet. Once he took my father aside, a look of deep concern spread across his face. “I’m worried about your mother,” he confided. “She keeps talking about having water in the house. Even an indoor toilet.” I suspected that my grandmother wasn’t the only one wishing that he’d move it indoors. If you drove down the main street of Yellville, there were three obvious structures sitting in a row. Going one direction, you would pass the Super Market, my grandpap’s outhouse, and the Church of Christ. Going the other direction, you’d pass the Church of Christ, my grandpap’s outhouse, and the Super Market. I often remained constipated during our visits. The malady was more psychological than anatomical. There was something inately unnerving around walking out to the street to use the toilet. Sometimes you’d have to greet shoppers, their arms laden with sacks filled with cereal, canned vegetables and milk. Or, you might be confronted with church goers, dressed in their Sunday best. Either way, you’d smile, wave slightly, and then disappear into the weathered little cubicle with the two seats. I’ve never really understood two seated privies. I understand the necessity of having a place for nature to work, but I’ve never really seen it as a social event. The idea of sitting beside someone else at such a moment is...well...unnerving. I don’t know what you’d say. You’d just have to stare at the outhouse door, thumb through the old catalogues left there to take the place of Charmin, and pray that a meteor would smash into the structure before it came time to use it. If they ran out of catalogues, they used corn cobbs. I didn’t, but others did. I sometimes tried to imagine using one for that purpose, but was never able to complete the thought. To this day I have a great respect and admiration for anyone who was able to complete that task and then go forth and actually admit it. Sometimes I would sit in Grandpap’s outhouse, my ear pressed against the splintery wall, listening to the singing congregation at the Church of Christ. No instruments, just voices blended in songs of the faith. Then, they would pause, and I would strain, trying to catch the words of their prayers. I’m sure that they prayed for many things. For people with broken arms, and the fate of the nation, and for friends and neighbors who needed to know the Lord. And, I imagined, they also shared another heartfelt request with the Lord. “Please Lord. Please don’t let the wind shift before the service is over.” We always arrived in Arkansas bearing gifts. For my grandmother, it was usually a ornate little bottle of perfume. She always smelled nice, and it seemed that my parents wanted to keep it that way. For Grandpap, we would always stop along the road, preferable in some state where such things were, for whatever reason, less expensive, and purchase a whole carton of Camel cigarettes. Grandpap was a “chawer” and an occasional smoker. He refused to buy his own, relegating such expenditures to his long list of excesses to be avoided. Somewhere just above plumbing. My parents were intent on making sure that he smoked only the best while we were there. That, no doubt, was because of his habit of shredding chewing tobacco into a frying pan and cooking it on the stove early each morning. The helicopter commander in Stanley’s Kubrick’s film Apocalypse Now cooly surveyed the destruction surrounding him and observed. “There’s nothing like the smell of napalm in the morning.” He had obviously never awakened to the smell of Red Man sizzling in the pan. My grandmother would glower as he stirred the stinking weed, finally dipping it out to wrap tightly in a small piece of newspaper. He’d adjust it, twist it, lick it good, and then light it. The newspaper would burst into flame, pungent black smoke swirling into the hot thick air. “Why don’t you smoke a Camel?” My dad would implore. “We brought you a whole carton.” Grandpap would pause, stare at the smoking newspaper wrapped tobacco in his yellowed fingers, and take another deep draw. “Not now, Gale.” He’d smile. “I’m saving them.” We ultimately ate our breaskfast outside on the porch, came inside, and dropped our pants for inspection when we were through. CONTINUED PAGE TWO |
Copyright ©2001 Dale Freeman. All rights reserved.