by Doreen Orion
By now, between the magic of Disney and voodoo, we were feeling pretty darn lucky. But, of course, neither magic could last; it had been way too long without a disaster. The drive from New Orleans to Van Buren, Arkansas, was uneventful. It was the parking that nearly did us in. The front lawn next to Bob’s house had become even muddier this rainy season and, of course, the bus got stuck. It took Cousin JT and his tractor (yes, that Cousin JT and that tractor) most of a day to pull us out. I, of course, took multiple pictures of the entire process to post on my blog, prompting Tim to assert that he was going to have to get his own blog in rebuttal and call it “I Am Not an Idiot.”
Tim had wanted to return to Van Buren ever since meeting his long-lost cousin in Myrtle Beach. He realized that while he now knew more about his family’s roots, he still didn’t know a whole lot about his father. Back on Bob’s farm, they discussed what the other Justice in Myrtle had said. Bob was aware of some of the family history, and talking about it spurred him to share a bit of his own.
He revealed that when he was a kid, his own dad came to visit kin a quarter mile from where Bob lived with his mother, stayed for two weeks, and never once tried to see him.
Now Tim finally understood: We all gotta come from somewhere.
Since he was a child, Tim had struggled to make a connection to his father. Now he could only imagine Bob’s struggle having no connection to his own father at all. When considered in that context, Tim realized he and Bob had actually done OK. Still, going forward, he hoped they could do better and finally softened toward the older man.
He also discovered that a couple of brothers in Bob’s family had a similar relationship to what Tim had always had with one of his. One day, while Project Nerd and Project Nerd Senior (Ret.) were puttering about on the farm, Frances mentioned to me that Cousin Dana and Cousin John hadn’t spoken for nearly a decade. In fact, Dana hadn’t even wanted John at his funeral a couple years back. When I told Tim about it later, he was shocked.
“I didn’t know it had gotten that bad,” he said. “My dad never mentioned anything, even that time he and I went to see Dana and then went right over to John’s.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But you never saw them together.”
“You mean…” he asked, all innocent and wide-eyed, “they’re the same person?” I slapped him.
Since we’d last been in Arkansas on our meltdown cruise, the Clinton library had opened in Little Rock. No matter what you think of the man, you have to admire his intellect, zeal, and energy. It’s not hard to argue he accomplished a lot, whether you like what he accomplished or not. I wanted to see the building as much for the history as the edifice itself. I’d heard it was a stunning display of technology and modern architecture, although some had nevertheless likened it to a double-wide (perhaps some future prez will be fortunate enough to have his library likened to a bus) settin’ on a river. Bob and Frances gamely said they’d come along, so we headed out for the over-two-hour trip in style, in Frances’s Lincoln Town Car. (Men in these here parts drive the pickup trucks. Women drive the city cars.)
No one discussed politics the entire time—we all seemed to know better.
We did, though, discuss the weird nomenclature in this part of the country. As Tim and I traveled in the central U.S. through Oklahoma, Arkansas, and Tennessee, it seemed as if these states were having some sort of identity crisis, what with names of towns such as Arkola, Texarkana, and Arkadelphia. Now, when we passed Toad Suck Park outside Little Rock, we all wondered if the name reflected disgust with the amphibians or the park itself.
The Clinton library did not disappoint. Here the exhibits truly were interactive, without even one penny more exacted above this seven-dollar admission. Above and beyond the take on pivotal points in history, what we found most interesting were the mundane, day-to-day activities that rarely get reported. All the president’s appointment books for his entire eight years are on display. It amazed us how much one human being could pack into one twenty-four-hour period, all while appearing as interested in heads of state as in Boy Scouts. No wonder, unlike almost every other little kid, I’d never wanted to be president.
Back in Van Buren, we needed a wee bit of bus repair. (One of the air bags in the suspension system had busted during the whole dolphining/porpoising thing, causing the bus to lean precipitously.) Tim found a mechanic in nearby Fort Smith (that’s the big town near Van Buren. It has a Red Lobster). Bob wanted to ride along, so I stayed with Frances in the house. Tim told me later that as was her recent custom, the moment he started the ignition, Shula hustled up front in her resplendent fur, aiming for her rightful place on the buddy seat. Only this time, Bob was sitting in it. Shula stopped dead in her tracks and scrutinized him. As Tim edged the bus off the lawn, her sense of proprietorship quickly outweighed her entrenched misanthropy and she leapt up to her spot. She and Bob gave each other puzzled looks, sized each other up (he’s as much of a cat person as she is a person cat), realized neither had a whole lot of choice in the matter, and settled in for the ride.
On Friday night we went “bluegrassin’,” just across the Oklahoma border in tiny Roland. The sign out front of a former tire store said: “Bluegrass show-jam Friday night 7 pm until.” Bob and Frances explained there’d be four invitation-only bands over three hours, none of whom were paid (although audience members were encouraged to put a dollar in the bucket by the door for electricity). The musicians did it for the practice and the joy of performing, December through April every year, until the official bluegrass season (who knew?) began and they headed out on the circuit.
My in-laws, obviously regulars, said hello to almost everyone in the small room, where we sat on folding metal chairs. Unfortunately, they also knew the ten-year-old little girl who, whenever the spirit moved her and encouraged by her relations, leapt up onstage to start clogging.
Clogging actually has origins in various parts of the world. In England, it began during the Industrial Revolution. Men in factories would tap their hard-soled shoes on the ground to the cadence of their machines, warming their feet. During breaks, they’d have competitions to see who could stomp out the best rhythms. Although there are many styles of clogging (all emphasizing beats of music with fervent foot stomping), we were apparently witnessing an entirely new breed. She sure had the fervor down. And the stomping. Actually, she was making quite the racket, just not in sync with any of the music. The girl had no rhythm.
I could only imagine how distracting it was for the musicians to essentially have a percussion section backing them up to the beat of its own drummer—one that couldn’t keep time. The bands gamely referred to her as their “go-go dancer—she just keeps goin’ and goin’.” The folks in them there parts sure are polite. I would have thrown vegetables from Frances’s garden up on that stage or, at the very least, clobbered that little girl on the head with a Dobro.
While we were staying with Bob and Frances, Aunt Virginia died. I was never able to discern if she was anybody in particular’s aunt, so much as she seemed to be an aunt to everybody. I’d never met her, and although everyone said what a wonderful person she was, I really, really did not want to go to her funeral. I’d never been to an open casket one before. Of course, as a doctor, I’d seen my share of dead people, but not all prettied up. The thought was kind of freakish. (Jews don’t embalm or do open caskets. We just box ’em and drop ’em.) But as one of the younger generation to attend (and therefore still able to shoulder the weight), Tim was pegged as a pallbearer. If he had to go, I had to go (so said he).
The room for the viewing at the funeral home was tiny, so even though I tried not to look at Aunt Virginia, I really had no choice. We walked in and there she was. On the one hand, it seemed so intrusive. No one likes to be looked at while he or she is sleeping, yet here was Aunt Virginia, taking her Big Sleep with everyone taking a peek. It just seemed to me that death should be more private. On the other hand, she was the proverbial elephant in the room—this was her party, she was righ
t there, yet no one was talking to her. It’s not like they were totally ignoring her, though, as everyone was heard to comment, “She sure looks purty.” Well, of course she does. So does waxed fruit.
It wasn’t until we were on our way home and Bob and Frances discussed how much better Aunt Virginia looked than she had in years that I understood that an open casket is a way for relatives to supplant bad memories with better ones. The realization actually made me feel more comfortable about the whole thing. Geez. Somebody could’ve told me.
On our next-to-last day in Van Buren, Frances took me to see her brother and his goat farm. There must have been a hundred goats, all bleating at the top of their lungs. (OK. Here’s another one. Goat stays goat on your plate—not that I would eat it, either.) As we walked around the hill, he pointed out a few, including babies with their mothers. I was sure not to make the same mistake with the adorable creatures I’d made years before, when visiting Tim’s brother Mike in Grass Valley, California. Mike had a few large pens on his property where he kept a couple of pigs, sheep, and some chickens. (OK. Last time. Pig becomes pork—at least that makes some alliterative sense; sheep becomes lamb—a kind of warped, age-reversal process that even our beauty-obsessed culture wouldn’t want to emulate; then there’s that chicken thing again.) For some reason, I was particularly taken with one of the pigs and asked, “What’s his name?” Mike gave me a strange look.
“Ah…we don’t name them,” he said, trying to conceal his laughter.
“But how can you have a pet and not name him?” I insisted.
“Ah…they’re not pets,” Mike replied. I didn’t get it until Tim took me aside later to explain. Oh.
As pleasant as it was to spend time with Bob and Frances, after two and a half weeks, I was itchin’ to get back on the road. While I could appreciate the kinship of a rural community like Van Buren, it was all just a little too social for me. Maybe it’s that I’m an only child, but I like having alone time. It would drive me crazy to have people stopping by the house every day and, even worse, expecting me to get dressed and stop by theirs. Tim, too, found himself struggling with liking the sense of community versus not having much else around but community to like. Finally, he seemed to settle it for himself as he mused, “I’d like living here if I didn’t know any better.”
After such a long time stationary, getting back on the road seemed unfamiliar. My usual “pre-flight” routine wasn’t routine anymore. I even forgot to secure a few things before we took off and they went flying, causing a mess but no real damage. Then there was all the truck traffic on I-40. We’d never seen so many big rigs. And since the dreaded Jersey barriers lined the highway due to road work, I kept imagining that if we had to stop suddenly for, say, a moose, we would swerve right into the median and tip over—just like that bus in Jacksonville. The fact that moose had never been seen in the area (as Tim informed me) was of no comfort.
By the time our five-and-a-half-hour trip to Marion, Arkansas (just outside Memphis), was over, my hands were shaking. As soon as Tim stopped the bus in front of the campground office, rather than go out and check us in, I made myself a martini. I didn’t stop to name it. Eyeing my glass, Tim asked, “Have you figured out which rehab you want me to drop you off at yet?”
I knew this entire area of the country was quite different from what I was used to. What I hadn’t considered was that I’m quite different from what the people here are used to, as well. That first night, in search of provisions, we took the Jeep to a relatively upscale supermarket. I wore my usual bus winter attire, a pink velour Baby Phat tracksuit…and felt overdressed. Judging by the stares I got in the frozen food aisle, that sentiment—and more—was duly returned.
We went to Memphis specifically to see Graceland, something we’d both always wanted to do. We’re not the only ones; it’s the second most visited residence in the U.S. (The White House is number one.) The fourteen-acre, 17,000-square-foot estate turned out to be a colossal disappointment. I thought it would be far more grand. Maybe it’s just that, as a museum left exactly as it had been when the King died, it can’t help being a fashion victim of the ’70s. But really. One of the richest men in the country, a cultural icon no less, and he had Formica countertops?
As much as Graceland was a letdown, Memphis did provide us with an eye-opening visit to a stop along the Underground Railroad.
At its height in the first half of the eighteenth century, tens of thousands of slaves escaped through this extensive network of safe houses and secret routes, mainly to free states and Canada, but also to Mexico and overseas. “Underground” refers to the secrecy required and “Railroad” to the code words, all taken from train terminology, used to direct the fugitives. “Passengers,” for example, would travel by foot or wagon at night, guided by “conductors” and stopping to rest at “stations” or “depots” in the homes of “stationmasters.” (Harriet Tubman, after escaping to freedom herself, became a conductor for seventy slaves over thirteen separate trips, largely in Maryland. She boasted she “never lost a passenger.”)
When German immigrant Jacob Burkle established the Memphis Stockyards two blocks from the Mississippi River, he built his house there, too, in 1849, complete with a cellar to hide escaping slaves. They would wait until a shipment of cattle arrived, then make their way to the river, hiding amongst the animals and hay. There they’d be transported over water to the free state of Illinois or even as far away as Canada. (Canada became a particularly desirable destination after 1850 when the Fugitive Slave Law was passed, allowing slave hunters to capture fleeing slaves from northern “free” states.) While Burkle hid his activities as a conductor on the Underground Railroad from his family for their own safety, slave catchers suspected him nonetheless, and at least once kicked in his door. Still, his activities did not cease until his death.
Today, Slave Haven Underground Railroad Museum resides in Burkle’s white clapboard house. A nonprofit surviving on admissions, gift shop sales, and donations, it was founded and run by Joan Nelson and Elaine Turner, sisters arguably Burkle’s equal in energy and vision. As Joan showed us around the Burkle Estate (quite the misnomer—we nearly passed it right by), seemingly ancient history slapped us right into the present.
It wasn’t just the old posters (including the original “Wanted: Dead or Alive. Reward $40” for Harriet Tubman), the whip hanging on a wall next to a picture of a slave’s ravaged back, the nine-foot burlap sack which had to be filled with cotton, then emptied, then repeated all over again several times each day, the flyers advertising “one hundred good negroes” for sale, or the quilt patterns with escape routes or other messages stitched into them (it was illegal for slaves to read or write). It was Joan’s sharing her own story of marching for civil rights in the 1960s with Martin Luther King, Jr., her arrest as a teenager, and her friendship with Emmett Till’s mother, which gave it all a tragic continuity, an unbroken time line of hate and prejudice that, as unbelievable as it seemed when surrounded by those very artifacts of hate and prejudice, continues to today.
As psychiatrists, we’ve always been connoisseurs of quirky. And up until this point in our travels, this attraction to oddities had resulted in our learning about many ill-conceived, obsessive quests. Joan, however, made us realize that there is such a thing as a grand obsession (as opposed to silly ones like building heavy, uncomfortable furniture out of dead sea creatures or believing Jules Verne insane because we’re already at the center of the earth), that there are some things worth developing a passion for and zealously pursuing. Meeting Joan, we wondered if either of us would ever find such a thing for ourselves. And more importantly, once found, if we’d possess this remarkable woman’s determination to see it through.
As we left Memphis on I-40 West, traffic started building up. While I hoped our seven-hour trip to Dallas wouldn’t be delayed too long, Tim for once was looking forward to driving in the dark—anything so that I would cease and desist my panic-stricken rant every time we passed one of the many c
onstruction signs along the way (not to mention the seemingly ever-present, and ever-dreaded, double Jersey barriers).
One particularly disturbing sign I’d never seen before had an arrow pointing up with the words “DANGER. POWER LINES.” Tim tried to reassure me that they were meant for large excavator rigs which extended far higher than our bus’s measly twelve feet six inches. He tried, really he did. Then all of a sudden, all oncoming traffic disappeared. Soon we saw why: A truck had jackknifed, a car apparently hit it, and both were incinerated. There was no way to tell if anyone was injured, as the accident was clearly hours old. A hazmat team was on the highway, cleaning up the oil and who knows what else. We checked the odometer and kept looking down in disbelief: Traffic was backed up for ten miles and the cleanup was nowhere near complete.
If driving the bus had given Tim road rage, my “traffic rage” had always been present, whether in car or bus, as driver or passenger. It didn’t even matter if I wasn’t directly affected. Just seeing a bumper-to-bumper mess threw me into a tizzy. And heaven forbid, if I was going to get stuck, I would much rather drive an hour out of my way than sit in traffic for five interminable minutes. Maybe I’m just jealous of all that idling around me.
So for this, the worst traffic pileup I had ever seen in my life, it became my mission to warn as many oncoming vehicles as possible. I turned on the CB radio for the very first time, almost exactly six months into our trip, fiddled with the instruments, and got mostly static.
“Turn it to channel nineteen,” Tim commanded. My hand hovered over the dial as I shot him a dubious look. He’d never owned a CB radio. But I changed the channel to 19 and, sure enough, truckers for miles around came in loud and clear.
“How the hell do you know this stuff?” I asked, incredulous. He just smiled and gave me a variation on his pat response, which always included a shrug and the word “everyone.”